Accompanied by a grating sound of metal grinding and a dull rumble, the battle's momentum shifted.
That was an unstoppable, filthy tide. The Death Guard First Company—an elite force composed entirely of ten-thousand-year veterans—led personally by Typhus, rammed into the first line of defense the Helldivers had just constructed like a bulldozer.
There were no fancy tactics, only pure violence and heavy brute force. The Plague Marines in corrupted Terminator armor ignored the dense laser fire; every swing of the bolters and power scythes in their hands claimed a swath of flesh and severed limbs.
In just a few minutes, the first line of defense of the main position was declared lost, as green toxic mist and swarms of flies instantly filled the trenches.
Muad'Dib, who had been circling in the air, noticed this scene immediately.
"Sure enough, it's exactly as Herbert predicted."
Muad'Dib's gaze narrowed slightly. Through golden psychic vision, he could clearly see that most dense, most evil cluster of dark-green psychic light—Typhus.
According to the Lord Inquisitor's deduction, Typhus was suspicious by nature yet extremely arrogant; he would not press his entire force forward before probing the truth, but he was certainly unwilling to return empty-handed. Therefore, this time he deployed his strongest surface power—the First Company elite—to conduct a "reconnaissance-by-fire." As for those trump cards hidden in the dark, or the cannon fodder unworthy of participating in such a high-end match, none of them were here at the moment.
"According to the strategic plan, I must engage immediately."
Muad'Dib took a deep breath and quickly ran through the script in his mind. "The performance can't be too strong—if I act like I can easily crush them, that old fox Typhus will definitely flee right away, which might even cause the subsequent plan to collapse. But it can't be too weak either, or Typhus will suspect I'm baiting him deeper..."
This was a true test of acting skills.
"Boom!"
Muad'Dib hesitated no longer. The golden wings of light behind his back snapped shut, and his entire body dropped from the sky like a golden meteorite with a howling wind, slamming heavily in front of the second line of defense that was on the verge of collapsing.
The moment he landed, a ring-shaped golden shockwave expanded outward.
"For Humanity! Defend Perditia!"
Muad'Dib roared at the top of his lungs. The psychic brilliance originally used only for healing and purification transformed in nature under his will. The golden light attached itself to the weapons held by every player, causing the ordinary laser guns and chainswords to burn with holy golden light.
As for why he didn't shout the most classic 'For the Emperor'—without knowing if it was just psychological, Muad'Dib always felt that shouting 'For Humanity' granted a slightly higher buff from the Emperor.
"Holy shit! Enchantment! All weapons enchanted!"
"Brothers, the Saint gave us a BUFF! These slashes deal true damage!"
The players, who had been retreating steadily under the assault, instantly held their ground. The laser beams buffed by the golden light were no longer just tickling the enemy; they could burn through ceramite and scorch the rotten flesh within.
Meanwhile, Muad'Dib himself charged straight toward that most terrifying group of enemies.
The power sword in his hand turned into a bolt of golden lightning, thrusting straight at Typhus, who was surrounded by numerous Terminators.
'Clang!'
A massive metallic impact echoed across the battlefield. Typhus swung that huge daemon weapon, steadily blocking Muad'Dib's attack.
Immediately after, more than a dozen Death Guard elites from the First Company closed in with incredible tacit understanding. Power axes and chainswords sealed off all of Muad'Dib's escape routes from every direction.
Encircled, Muad'Dib quickly realized that his previous worries seemed somewhat redundant.
There was no need to waste effort on acting at all!
This gang of veteran slippery foxes who had lived for tens of thousands of years coordinated seamlessly. Not only were they exquisitely equipped, but every single movement had been refined through countless killings. As Nurgle's Chosen, Typhus possessed unfathomable strength; every swing of that scythe carried a suffocating pressure, forcing even Muad'Dib to handle him with care.
"Is this the true weight of ten-thousand-year veterans..." Muad'Dib thought in surprise.
He realized that even if he went all out, he could at most kill a few dozen of these Terminators at the cost of being injured, and Typhus definitely had the capability to withdraw leisurely before Muad'Dib ran out of strength, or even bite back.
In that case, he might as well hold back a bit and maintain this situation that appeared precarious on the surface, but was actually evenly matched.
At the center of the battlefield, golden light and green mist clashed fiercely. Muad'Dib's figure darted nimbly among the lumbering Terminators. Every swing of his sword could force an enemy back, but that was all; he seemed to be firmly trapped.
After a stalemate lasting roughly an hour, Muad'Dib felt the act was almost done.
His eyes sharpened, and his defensive posture suddenly shifted. He erupted with a burst of dazzling psychic energy, forcibly repelling the three Terminators around him. His body advanced instead of retreating; risking a scratch from the scythe, he pressed close in front of Typhus.
"Ha!"
The golden blade-light flared, slicing across Typhus's waist at an extremely awkward angle.
'Chii!'
The rotten armor was slashed open, and filthy black blood gushed out. This sword strike left a bone-deep wound on Typhus's waist.
Typhus was startled, his massive body staggering. He hadn't expected the opponent to burst forth with such speed in this desperate, encircled situation.
However, he quickly stabilized himself as granulation tissue wriggled at the wound. Although the pain was intense, it was far from a fatal injury for a follower of Nurgle.
Typhus looked at the panting Muad'Dib before him and let out a contemptuous, cold laugh: "Is this the trump card you've hidden for so long? A desperate strike, and this is all you can achieve? Lapdog of the False Emperor!"
To him, after this strike, the Living Saint's strength was clearly beginning to wane, and that golden radiance had dimmed significantly.
Muad'Dib did not answer. He merely adjusted his breathing in silence, continuing to swing his power sword to parry the surrounding attacks.
What Typhus didn't know was that the golden light wasn't meant for killing enemies at all. It was a signal.
The Helldivers' command center, which had been paying close attention to the battle from the rear, naturally did not miss that fleeting golden flash and the wound on Typhus's waist.
"The signal is here!"
A player responsible for observation slammed his hand on the table, pointing at the holographic screen and shouting: "That's the pre-arranged retreat-cover signal! Our 'Best Actor' is done acting; it's our turn to step up and bail him out!"
Now that the signal was out, how to attack became the key.
The top commanders gathered around the sand table; they had actually argued for a long time over this brief window of intervention. It wasn't because the Desperate Corps was penniless and had nothing to offer—on the contrary, it was because they held too many cards in hand and didn't know which one to play first.
Excluding the Ultramarines Second Company, which was currently tying down enemy forces in other warzones and couldn't arrive in time, the Helldivers actually held three trump cards.
The first was the [Freedom Legion]; this Astartes force composed entirely of players was an absolute tip of the spear.
The second was the [Panacea Corps], which had repeatedly achieved miraculous feats before.
The third was the [Psychic Dominator], a device that didn't distinguish between friend or foe and would perform indiscriminate psychic bombardment once activated.
"Chaos Spawn are definitely out," Robert immediately vetoed. "Herbert is watching right beside us, and we've used them too much before. It's best if we don't mutate right in front of the Inquisition recently."
"The Psychic Dominator can't be used either," Joker shook his head. "The war is still going on. Once that thing turns on, I don't know if Typhus will die, but our fighters will probably all be blasted into idiots first."
"What about player Astartes?"
"Good steel should be used on the blade's edge. Typhus hasn't gone deep yet; showing our trump card now is too much of a loss."
After researching back and forth, the top commanders threw up their hands and arrived at an extremely unpretentious and mundane conclusion: "Let's send a few planes mounted with nuclear warheads, use manual guidance, and charge straight over to blow him to hell!"
Although high-altitude ballistic missiles couldn't be used due to the blockading Chaos fleet, low-altitude penetration aircraft still stood a chance. Since players weren't afraid of dying, this was equivalent to precision-guided cruise missiles with smart correction capabilities.
Orders were issued rapidly.
At a concealed temporary airfield in the rear, several bombers carrying tactical nuclear warheads roared as their engines spouted blue trail-flames, soaring straight into the sky.
In the comms channel, several ace pilot players who had snagged spots for this suicide mission were chatting excitedly.
"Hey, wanna place a bet? If mine detonates right on Typhus's face, can it blow him dead outright?" a pilot laughed loudly.
"Gimme a break, he's a story BOSS, he's definitely gotta die at the hands of someone with a proper name. Don't bother dreaming with a mere nuke," another player scoffed. "As long as I can blow up three Death Guards, I break even! What are we betting on? Whoever kills fewer buys late-night snacks offline!"
"Deal! For the Emperor, Banzai—!"
Several warplanes traced lethal arcs in the sky, diving rapidly toward the battle circle where Muad'Dib was located.
In the center of the battlefield, although Muad'Dib—who was struggling to hold on—seemed fully focused on the fight before him, his peripheral vision and the Living Saint's unique super-sensory perception had been locked onto the sky dozens of kilometers away.
Seeing those few small black dots carrying the breath of destruction appear, Muad'Dib felt reassured.
"They're here."
He silently calculated the distance and time, preparing to use a psychic burst to forcibly break away from the battlefield and flee a second before those mushroom clouds rose. Although nukes couldn't kill Typhus, they were enough to muddy the waters further and create a perfect exit opportunity for himself.
However, just as those planes were about to enter the final dive phase, emergency communications from command suddenly blasted in the ears of both the pilots and Muad'Dib: "Operation canceled! Repeat! Operation canceled! All aircraft pull up immediately and return to base! Don't bomb! Don't bomb!"
"Huh?!"
The pilots, who were preparing to crash into the enemy in the handsomest posture of their lives, were stunned on the spot. Pulling hard on the control sticks, their warplanes let out a groan of near-disintegration in midair, scraping past the edge of the toxic mist as they flew back into the high sky.
"What the hell? I've already taken off my pants and you tell me to put them back on?"
Not only were the pilots stunned, but Muad'Dib, who was doing the "tango" with Typhus on the ground, was also momentarily dazed.
That's not how the script was written!
However, he quickly understood the reason. The Living Saint's senses allowed him to sharply catch a tremor in the earth—it wasn't a rumble from the sky, but from the flank, from that dead wasteland that was supposed to be controlled by the Plague Legion.
Muad'Dib turned his head abruptly and shifted his attention in that direction.
On the horizon more than ten kilometers away, towering dust swept over like a sandstorm. Within that dust, accompanied by the crude, wild, and completely rhythm-less roar of engines, a green tide slammed into the unprepared flank of the Plague Legion at astonishing speed.
It consisted of hundreds of "Killa Kan" mechs cobbled together from scrap metal, belching black smoke and laden with rockets, as well as green-skinned Boyz riding heavy motorcycles and brandishing large choppas all over the hills.
"WAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!"
The deafening war cry even drowned out the gunfire of the battlefield.
This group of war maniacs, who paid no mind to logic whatsoever, was like a rusty yet heavy saw blade, stabbing viciously into the rotten flank of Nurgle's army.
Muad'Dib even clearly saw that on a giant mech charging at the very front, a massive, muscle-bound Warboss jumped down from the vehicle while laughing wildly.
That green-skinned boss completely ignored the surrounding toxic gas and bolter rounds; a massive power klaw reached out abruptly, directly grabbing a Death Guard Plague Marine who was standing in a daze.
"Die for me! Humie!"
With a spine-chilling tearing sound, that Space Marine with a superhuman physique was actually torn in two by the green-skinned monster. Foul, rotting viscera and black blood splattered all over the Warboss, which only made him roar even more excitedly.
The corner of Muad'Dib's mouth twitched.
Well, now things were truly a mess.
In the center of the battlefield, Muad'Dib—who had originally prepared to flee—was left completely stunned.
The power sword in his hand was still parrying Typhus's onslaught, but his eyes involuntarily drifted toward the chaotic flank.
Although "luring the Greenskins to attack to relieve frontal pressure" was indeed a plan written into the Desperate Command's memorandum long ago, no one expected this gang of meatheads to coordinate so flawlessly.
This was practically a textbook flank assault!
The timing of the Greenskins' entry was precise to the extreme—right at the critical moment when Typhus had committed his main forces, when his old momentum was spent before new strength could gather, and when his formation had grown overly dense just to surround and kill him, the Living Saint.
If Typhus didn't immediately split his forces to plug that massive gap, the green-skinned lunatics swarming the hills could puncture the Plague Legion's flank directly and encircle them. But the moment Typhus made a move to deploy troops, the original fatal encirclement around Muad'Dib would instantly reveal a flaw.
This meant that the Helldivers not only saved a nuclear bomb, but didn't even need to reveal their trump cards. They gained the full strategic results of the plan for free, and could even watch two groups of heretics engage in a dog-eat-dog fight along the way.
'What kind of luck is this? Did the Emperor manifest?' Muad'Dib muttered to himself internally. 'Or did some player infiltrate the Greenskins? But I haven't heard anything about that.'
In reality, this was naturally no coincidence, nor had any player infiltrated them.
The Greenskin warlord who launched this charge, "Ironfang" Gurg, was a Greenskin, but he was no fool. On the contrary, as a boss who had thrived on this planet and survived over a century of clashing with the Helldivers, he possessed a cunning unique to the Orks.
Gurg's original calculation had been sharp: those "Black Humies" (the Helldivers) wearing dark coats and those "Green Humies" (the Death Guard) rotting and oozing pus all over were both tough nuts to crack. Rather than rushing up to be cannon fodder now, it was better to wait until these two war monsters fought to the death and exhausted themselves. Then, he would lead the Boyz in a grand entrance to smash whatever remained into pieces, securing his status as the greatest WAAAGH! boss on this planet in one fell swoop.
So, just this morning, while distant artillery roared, Gurg was still fast asleep inside his luxurious big tent modified from a scrapped tank chassis.
Before sleeping, he had grabbed a few Nobz by the neck and instructed them with spittle flying: "Nobody takes the Boyz to join the mess! If your hands itch, fight each other! If that fails, come challenge me one-on-one! Anyone who dares provoke those Humies, I'll stuff 'em right up a Squig's arse!"
However, not long after Gurg fell into deep sleep, his consciousness was suddenly dragged into a strange realm.
There was no scrap metal or fungus wine there, only countless surging, clashing streams of data and energy vortexes. Just as Gurg was scratching his bald green head, pondering where he was, an immeasurably massive green figure appeared before him.
That figure towered like a mountain, exuding a violent aura that made Gurg want to bow down and worship—it was Gork.
Of course, the real Gork was currently brawling with something else deep within the Immaterium. The one appearing here was Bit, the deity who held authority over information.
For Bit, masquerading as the god of a little Greenskin whose mind was simple, unguarded against the Warp, and had existed for barely a century was easier than modifying a single line of code.
The giant "Gork" looked down at the trembling Gurg, his voice detonating like thunder: "You squishy git! Why haven't you taken the Boyz to fight yet?!"
Gurg shuddered in terror, but he plucked up the courage and stammered to explain his "grand strategy": "G... Gork above! I don't think now's a good time! Those Humies are at their peak right now. I reckon we wait 'til they're tired out before jumping in. That's called... that's called what d'you call it... bein' cunning!"
Gurg felt he was a sheer genius, having grasped the very essence of Mork.
However, in the next second.
Without a word, Bit's disguised "Gork" raised that massive foot and delivered a brutal kick straight to Gurg's crotch.
'Thump!'
"Ooooh, eeeee, eeeee!" The excruciating pain made Gurg grab his crotch with both hands instantly. His entire green face flushed purple-red as he dropped to his knees in agony, tears and snot streaming down his face.
"Gork" retracted his massive foot, crossed his arms, and asked coldly: "Did you guess I was gonna kick you right there?"
Gurg gasped in pain, shaking his head frantically: "N... No, I didn't..."
"That's right!"
"Gork" bent down, his massive face closing in on Gurg, revealing a mouth full of fangs: "You didn't guess it, and those stinky Humies won't guess it either! That's the most cunning kind of cunning! Hit 'em hard right when nobody's expectin' it! 'That's' cunning! D'you get it now?!"
Though Gurg's brain had gone blank from the pain, hearing these words, he actually thought... 'That makes so much damn sense!'
Hitting someone when no one expects it hurts the most—his own crotch just now was the best proof!
"Now, get out there and go fight right now!"
With a roar from "Gork," Gurg snapped awake from reality.
"AH!!!"
He let out a loud shout and bounced up from his tattered mattress, instinctively bending over to clutch his groin tightly. Though he was uninjured in reality, the phantom pain originating from the depths of his soul made him break out in a cold sweat.
"Boss? What's wrong, Boss?"
Several Boyz woken by the noise poked their heads into the tent.
It took Gurg several seconds to recover from the phantom pain. He chewed over "Gork's" teachings from the dream, finding them more and more profound the more he thought about them.
That's right, this was the most cunning timing of all!
"Pass down me orders! All Boyz, fire up the bikes! Get the Killa Kans out! WAAAGH!!!" Gurg bellowed, grabbing his power klaw.
A clueless Ork scratched his head and asked in confusion: "But Boss, before you went to sleep, didn't you say you'd stuff anyone who went to fight up a Squig's arse? Aren't we s'posed to wait—"
'Smack!'
Gurg sent the big-mouthed Ork flying right out of the tent with a single slap. Then he raised both arms, a fanatical and holy expression spreading across his face: "Shut it! That was before! Just now, I got a divine revelation from Gork himself in me dream!"
"Gork told me that right now is the most cunning, most krumpin' time! Whoever doesn't go is disrespectin' Gork's face!"
Hearing the words "Gork's Divine Revelation," the Boyz who were previously still dazed widened their eyes, their gazes instantly filling with worship and awe.
The Boss can actually talk on the phone with Gork! That's too awesome!
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!"
A few minutes later, the quiet Greenskin camp erupted into a full boil. Countless engine roars merged into an iron stream, sweeping toward the unprepared flank of the Plague Legion.
Facing the sudden surge of Orks on his flank and the massive gap that had instantly torn through his previously perfect encirclement, Typhus's face—hidden beneath his decayed helm—showed not the slightest trace of shock or fury.
In fact, he was unnaturally calm.
This was not only due to the composure expected of Nurgle's Herald, but even more so because his expectations for this war had long since shifted.
First of all, he had never expected this exploratory assault to completely slay the so-called "Living Saint" before him. In the eyes of an entity like Typhus, who had witnessed the true nature of the Immaterium, a Living Saint was, plain and simple, just a "Greater Daemon" created by the Corpse-Emperor sitting on the Golden Throne.
Greater Daemons could not truly be killed—this was common knowledge in the Warp. As long as the False Emperor endured and faith remained, these glowing puppets would merely re-emerge after a brief respawn period, even if hacked to pieces. Slaying him here would naturally be a welcome surprise that severely dented enemy morale, but failing to do so was hardly a strategic miscalculation.
Furthermore—
Typhus turned his neck slightly, making a dry, cracking sound of grinding bones.
He had grown used to it. Every time he felt on the verge of securing a glorious, clever victory, all manner of absurd, baffling accidents would invariably occur.
He was thoroughly numb to this state of "plans failing to keep up with changes." He had long abandoned the arrogant notion of seizing the entire territory through a single swift decapitation strike.
This was a war—a comprehensive war of attrition testing resolve, spirit, industry, and resources. And that, as it happened, was precisely the specialty of the Death Guard.
"First Company, to the flank."
Typhus issued the order through the comms channel, his voice as flat as if he were merely telling a servant to pour a glass of water.
At his command, the Deathshroud and Blightlords of the elite First Company in Terminator armor surrounding Muad'Dib turned without a moment's hesitation, sweeping toward the boisterous Orks on the flank.
The previously air-tight encirclement instantly left a wide-open void.
Watching this, Muad'Dib twirled the power sword in his hand, breathed a slight sigh of relief, and asked tentatively, "Calling it a day?"
He meant that since your main force had been redirected, there was no need for them to fight to the death here. You fight your Orks, and I'll take my squad to reclaim the positions you just took. Everyone goes back to their own bases and fights another day.
However, Typhus merely glared at him coldly as a dense cloud of yellow-green toxic gas vented from his helm's breathing grille.
"Continue."
The moment those two brief words left his mouth, Muad'Dib felt a staggering sense of oppression rush from directly above.
He instinctively looked up, his pupils contracting sharply.
Across the originally dim sky, the atmosphere was crudely torn open as nearly a thousand meteors burning with green fell-fire rained down with thunderous momentum!
Those were no ordinary meteorites—they were the Death Guard's signature drop pods, styled like swollen masses of meat fused with iron, alongside even larger landing craft.
'Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!'
The earth groaned.
The crash sites of those thousand "meteors" were not confined to the Ork battlefield; instead, like an indiscriminate downpour, they carpeted the entire warzone!
Some slammed into the Orks, blowing the newly charging beasts off their feet; others, carrying piercing shrieks, crashed violently into the Desperate Corps' positions. Several massive drop pods even thundered into the ground right beside Muad'Dib, sending shockwaves wrapped in toxic dust blasting outward.
Seeing Muad'Dib's previously relaxed expression instantly turn grave, Typhus let out a low, wheezing laugh like a broken bellows.
"Heh... Surprised, are you?"
Typhus tapped his Manreaper lightly against the ground, pointing toward the drop pods raining across the sky. His tone carried a trace of cat-and-mouse mockery: "Curious as to how many Space Marines I brought with me this time? Feel free to take a guess."
Watching the dense throngs of Plague Marines emerging from the drop pods, Muad'Dib indeed felt ten thousand curses fly through his mind for a brief second, but he quickly composed himself.
"Nothing to guess," Muad'Dib took a deep breath, fixing his burning gaze on Typhus. "Around seven thousand."
Typhus's laughter paused slightly.
Muad'Dib continued, his tone absolute: "Seven hundred is too few—it doesn't fit the grandeur of a lord of your stature launching a sector-level war. As for seventy thousand... Hmph, currently in the entire galaxy, the Ultramarines are the only ones who could pull out that many Astartes with matching gene-seed at once."
"And as far as I know, ever since the defeat at the Siege of Terra, even after ten thousand years of recuperation, all the Death Guard in the galaxy combined come to around thirty thousand at best. The maximum you could mobilize wouldn't exceed this number."
"Considering Nurgle's fondness for the number '7', along with your determined stance this time, seven thousand is an extremely logical figure."
A moment of dead silence fell over the battlefield.
Typhus's mockingly cold gaze gradually turned icy, before transforming into a deeper, more profound intent to kill.
"Clever indeed," Typhus did not deny it; instead, he nodded openly, though he was still slightly surprised that Muad'Dib could state the exact number.
He slowly raised his scythe. Behind him, the newly landed Plague Marines were rapidly filling the gaps left by the First Company's departure, forming a new and far larger encirclement.
"Since you know so well, you should also have a clear understanding of the combat power represented by the term 'ten-thousand-year veteran'."
Typhus's voice tolled like a death knell: "Seven thousand battle-hardened, blessed Death Guard. This is not merely a number; it is a force capable of crushing an entire sector. So, no matter how you mortals resist, no matter how many tricks you deploy, before absolute quality and fortitude—"
"You will ultimately fail to escape the fate of being crushed."
Muad'Dib offered no empty words, delivering a response that was simple and direct.
'Hum!'
The power sword in his hand surged with a blazing blade-light several meters long—a condensation of pure psychic fire. No opening stance, no roaring, only a radiant golden beam of sword-light so brilliant it seemed ready to split the toxic sky in two.
That was his answer.
This strike was fast as thunder and hit at an exceptionally awkward angle, aiming straight for the rusty gap at the neck of Typhus's helm.
'CLANG!!!'
The deafening clash of metal exploded instantly, drowning out even the distant artillery fire.
Typhus's reaction was equally terrifyingly fast. The massive scythe crossed before his body as if teleporting, blocking the lethal blow with absolute precision.
Golden psychic fire and decayed Nurgle gas collided violently at the point of contact, producing a shockwave that stripped a layer of soil from the ground within dozens of meters.
Even though Typhus wore heavy Terminator power armor and possessed the superhuman strength bestowed by Nurgle, his feet were still plowed deep into two trenches in the ground under the burst of that single strike, forcing his massive body backward.
Leveraging the massive recoil force of the blow, Muad'Dib had zero intention of prolonging the fight: "Farewell."
He uttered the two words, his entire body launching like a golden meteor heading upstream. Before the newly landed Plague Marines could even raise their weapons to aim, he instantly widened the distance from Typhus and dashed at full speed toward his own positions.
Stabilizing his footing, Typhus watched the rapidly receding golden figure without choosing to give chase immediately.
He merely swung his scythe gently, dispersing the lingering psychic sparks before him as an indecipherable cold snort came from beneath his helm.
"Flee then, little mouse," Typhus looked toward the Ork battlefield where the Death Guard were locked in a bloody brawl, and then toward the hive city still standing in the distance. "But this planet is like a giant petri dish. No matter where you run, you will ultimately become nourishment for Grandfather's garden."
Accompanied by dull impacts and the trembling of the earth, nearly a thousand drop pods bearing Nurgle's mark slammed deep into Perditia's surface like venomous fangs.
Pod doors burst open amid a grating noise of twisted metal, sending thick, toxic gas of decay spreading outward alongside the Death Guard warriors stepping out onto the soil. According to the experience of Typhus and these ten-thousand-year veterans, an orbital drop strike of this scale was more than enough to plunge any alien army lacking discipline into chaos. Though Orks were brave and harbored no fear of death, mindless bravery in the face of the Death Guard typically meant dying all the faster.
However, when the smoke and toxic mist cleared slightly, the scene that unfolded before the Death Guard left even these plague warriors—who had long abandoned emotion—momentarily dumbfounded.
The Orks hadn't collapsed.
Not only had they not collapsed, but in the very first second, they had executed tactical evasion maneuvers that could be described as textbook: while those thousand meteors were still drawing trails of fire across the sky, the Orks on the ground had already instinctively sought cover, dispersed their formations, or simply held the nearest Grotz above their heads as shields.
This was not because these Orks were particularly brilliant or had undergone rigorous training, but purely because... they were used to it.
On this planet named Perditia, throughout those long years of clashing back and forth with the humans known as the "Helldivers," the Orks had witnessed far too much destruction raining from the sky.
Whether it was Imperial Guard artillery blanket-fire, Astartes drop-pod assaults, or even those human kamikaze attack teams flying shuttles packed with explosives straight down into them—to the Orks here, things falling on their heads was as natural as breathing.
How to survive such an abrupt, destructive strike and instantly grab a choppa to retaliate in the next second was no longer a tactic; it had been successfully etched directly into the DNA of every Perditian Ork spore.
"WAAAGH!!!"
With a roar that echoed across the entire battlefield, the seemingly chaotic Ork army reorganized itself in an extremely short span of time. That roar seemed to carry complex yet clear instructions, as the Orks actually adopted an assault formation resembling infantry-armor coordination.
At the very front were rows of "Killa Kan" mechs spouting black smoke and brandishing massive hydraulic klaws and buzzsaws, alongside Bikergrotz and Motorboyz riding heavy bikes assembled from scrap iron. They formed a primary iron tide, ignoring the airborne poison gas capable of corroding lungs, howling insanely as they launched a counter-charge against the newly landed Death Guard.
Behind these mobile iron barriers came waves of surging Ork infantry. They didn't rush forward in a mindless pack; instead, they cleverly used the Killa Kans as moving cover, while the shootas in their hands never ceased firing.
What astonished the Death Guard even more were the skies and the rear.
Overhead, countless Stormboyz strapped to crude rocket packs dove down like locusts. Unconcerned with aiming, they frantically hurled bombs into the Plague Legion's lines, with many even crashing directly into the drop pods to trigger secondary explosions.
At the absolute rear of the Ork lines, crude, heavy-caliber artillery produced a deafening roar.
Shells rained down with sharp screeches, landing with terrifying accuracy—they exploded almost flush against the leading edge of the charging Ork line!
This was an insanely reckless "creeping barrage" tactic. Artillery continuously plowed the earth dozens of meters in front of the Killa Kans. Though a few shells occasionally landed straight inside their own ranks due to accuracy issues, blasting a few unlucky Boyz into the sky, the remaining Orks paid it no mind, even cheering for the massive explosions.
Just like that, stepping over their comrades' shredded flesh and braving the indiscriminate artillery fire from behind, they slammed violently into the lines the Death Guard had barely managed to establish.
"For Gork! For Mork! Krump these stinky humie-kans!"
A Death Guard had barely raised his bolter before being sent flying by a speeding Ork bike. Immediately after, a Killa Kan's massive pincer clamped around his waist, shearing through his power armor along with the rotten flesh inside amid a grating sound of crushing metal.
Although that Killa Kan was subsequently blasted into scrap metal by another Plague Marine, this was merely a microcosm of the entire battlefield.
Along this chaotic front line, a battle-hardened Death Guard Company Commander looked at the scene before him with a trace of hesitation.
He saw the Orks skillfully using bomb craters to advance, he saw Stormboyz accurately diving into firing blind spots, and he saw that relentless artillery support that operated with complete disregard for casualties yet proved remarkably effective.
He kicked away a Squig attempting to cling to his leg and detonate, his power axe splitting an Ork's head open. Yet, in the helmet's comms channel, his voice was filled with confusion and bewilderment: "This... these are Orks?"
This was entirely different from those disorderly beasts in his memory who knew nothing but howling and charging aimlessly. Though these gits remained mad, they seemed to have walked a path completely distinct from their kin—giving up their sheer numerical advantage and war-of-attrition tactics to crush enemies, and instead attempting to elevate their technical tactics and combined-arms maneuvers.
These Orks were practically monsters that had been forcibly "trained" into shape by an enemy just as crazy as they were!
'Zzzt— Zzzzt—'
Just as the Company Commander cleaved open a Killa Kan trying to snip off his thigh with hydraulic shears, an uncomfortable buzzing noise—resembling the fluttering wings of ten thousand flies—echoed through the comms channel.
It was the voice of the Master of the Hive of Damnation, Typhus.
"Gargos," Typhus's voice cut through the clamor of the battlefield, cold and direct. "Do not become entangled with these beasts. Locate the largest alien boss and sever its head. Once that Warboss is dead, the remaining Orks are nothing more than loose sand; they will collapse on their own."
This was the most classic and effective tactic against Orks—a decapitation strike, a tactical dogma etched into every Astartes' bones.
However, the commander named Gargos hesitated.
He raised his head, his murky eyes scanning the battlefield. The Ork offensive came wave after wave like an endless tide—an unrelenting, suffocatingly frantic tempo.
"My Lord," Gargos's voice betrayed a rare hint of caution. As he directed the surrounding Plague Marines to form a shield wall against the self-sacrificing impacts of the Stormboyz, he replied, "I fear... it is not that simple."
"These aliens... they are insane, or rather, they are accustomed to high-intensity meat-grinder battles of this nature. Relying solely on my current strength and the First Company, attempting to breach their main force under such firepower density and rout them... I fear it is insufficient."
Gargos was not shying away from battle. As a Death Guard Company Commander, he had seen more hells than most people had nightmares. But the scene before him was simply too abnormal—this infantry-artillery coordination, this fearless line-filling tactic made him feel as though he were facing not a horde of savage aliens, but a mortal legion clad in green skins. In such a scenario, recklessly charging straight into the enemy's main force against their firepower was undoubtedly a foolish choice.
The other end of the comms line fell into a brief silence.
Only the buzzing of flies echoed through the static, signifying that Nurgle's Chosen was in thought.
A few seconds later, Typhus's voice sounded once more. This time, it held less of an urgent command and more of a profound resolve.
"In that case, change tactics."
"Have your company pull in toward the First Company. You do not need to rout them. Simply coordinate with one another and drive yourselves like a nail firmly into the ground, holding the line and drawing these aliens' firepower."
Gargos breathed a sigh of relief. Defensive counter-attacks were precisely the Death Guard's specialty: "As you command, My Lord. We shall become a quagmire, trapping them deep within. But... what happens after?"
"After?" Typhus let out a cold laugh. "Afterward, I shall personally show this planet the meaning of true despair."
"Notify all companies remaining in orbit to prepare for a full-scale drop. Since the mice and beasts on this planet love to struggle so much, I will no longer play this game of piecemeal reinforcement with them."
"All seven thousand Death Guard will descend upon the surface."
Hearing this order, even Gargos—whose expression was virtually nonexistent due to nerve necrosis—could not help but widen his eyes beneath his decayed helm.
"All of them?!"
His voice turned somewhat dry from shock: "My Lord, that is our entire force! If all seven thousand are committed to ground combat... what about the orbital fleet? That leaves a mere seven hundred left to guard it!"
This was sheer madness.
Even during the Great Crusade, rarely did any Legion commit to such a high-stakes, all-out drop. Should the fleet suffer an attack, or the ground war become bogged down making extraction impossible, this expeditionary force would be utterly finished.
"My mind is set, Gargos," Typhus's voice did not waver in the slightest, instead exuding a chilling firmness. "This planet's will to resist exceeds expectations—that so-called 'Living Saint,' and these Orks... Continuing to hold back and feed troops in piecemeal will only grant them more room to breathe."
"What we must do is strike with thunderous momentum, crushing their spine through absolute quality and sheer numbers."
"As for the fleet—" Typhus looked up at the murky sky above, as if gazing through the atmosphere at the massive 'Terminus Est', "In the short term, the Helldivers will lack the capacity to engage us in naval warfare."
"Execute the order. When seven thousand Death Guard array themselves upon the earth, the fate of this planet shall be sealed."
---
The communication disconnected.
Gargos looked at the darkened communicator in his hand, falling silent for a moment. Then, turning abruptly, his power axe swung a pale-green arc, severing two leaping Orks at the waist.
"All units, hear my command!" He bellowed into the open channel, his voice carrying a surge of feverish excitement at being about to witness devastation. "Pull in toward the First Company! Construct defensive positions! No need to attack, just hold the line! Let these Orks come and throw their lives away!"
"Because... the true apocalypse is about to arrive."
Behind Perditia's defensive lines, inside a freshly reinforced trench bunker.
A dozen mud-splattered and oil-stained Helldivers huddled together, seizing a rare break in the barrage to catch their breath. The air reeked of Nurgle's distinct sickly sweet odor of decay, which even the filtration units in their helmets couldn't entirely block out.
Outside, the thunder of artillery continued to rumble, but these players' minds were focused on a much more practical question—how much longer could their precarious position actually hold?
"I think this terrain is pretty good. There's high ground right behind us. As long as our ammo holds out, holding for seven days shouldn't be a problem," a player who had just logged on not long ago said optimistically while wiping down his lasgun.
"Seven days? You're dreaming," an older player beside him shook his head. "Who's on the other side? That's the Death Guard! And look at the intensity of that toxic gas—my gas mask's filter durability is dropping fast. The way I see it, even holding for three days would require Comrade Living Saint to come over here and throw some BUFFs on us."
"Even three days is dicey," a player in charge of heavy weapons sighed pessimistically from the corner. "Didn't you guys see earlier? Pinched between an endless horde of corpses and elite Astartes, if we can hold out for one day, this mission is already an overachievement."
The atmosphere turned somewhat solemn for a moment. Though everyone knew they could respawn after dying, this was a massive faction campaign, and watching a position they had painstakingly dug out get drowned by rotting monsters didn't feel great.
Just then, the company commander in charge of this platoon walked over. He glanced around, his eyes finally landing on a figure leaning against the trench wall, staring blankly up at the dim sky.
"'Pyro," the company commander nudged the player's boot with his toe. "You're a veteran here; everyone respects you. Give us a straight answer—based on your experience, how long do you think we can hold out?"
The player called 'Pyro snapped out of his trance, pulling his gaze away from the trails of drop pods continually falling from the sky.
After the previous Battle of Plantim ended, he had tried playing as an officer a few more times, commanding company-level or even battalion-level battles. But he quickly realized he was truly terrible at managing the big picture—staring at dense tactical maps gave him headaches, not to mention dealing with that maddening pile of personnel reassignments.
So, he decisively applied to the Military Council for a demotion, going back to being a happy grunt and enjoying the pure thrill of not having to use his brain—just pulling the trigger.
"Ah?" 'Pyro blinked, as if he had only just heard the question, before nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders. "Hey, what's there to guess? We'll hold out for as long as the mission requires! Besides, what kind of big scene is this supposed to be?"
He pointed at the sky: "Back when I was on Plantim, you guys didn't see that scale. I was involved in battles with tens of thousands of Astartes, where the sky-covering Tyranids literally blocked out the sun. Compared to that, what is this? Just a few thousand Astartes—no sweat at all."
The surrounding players were left stunned, but someone quickly reacted.
"Boss, those are two totally different concepts," a player couldn't help but complain. "Plantim was a clash of gods, while on our side... on our side, we barely have a few Astartes at all! And the enemies are all ten-thousand-year veterans from the Legion era, hard as iron blocks. Ever since the fight started, our front line has been retreating—this is a real, solid disadvantage."
"Yeah, even though we can respawn, the stat gap is just too big. How are we supposed to take on Death Guard Terminators head-on?"
Seeing everyone starting to lose heart again, 'Pyro rolled his eyes, jammed his hellgun into the ground, and said seriously: "Who said we have to rely entirely on ourselves to hold out head-on? We have reinforcements!"
"We need to learn how to call in backup! Get it?"
'Pyro held up his fingers, counting them off one by one like listing prized treasures: "Let me count them for you—these are all big bosses who have explicitly stated on the forums or in official announcements that they're coming to support us, and are currently rushing over."
"First, the anti-daemon experts, the all-psyker Grey Knights; then the Flesh Tearers, who fight even crazier than Orks; and the Lamenters, who have terrible luck but kind hearts; plus the well-equipped, aura farming Astral Claws; and of course, there's no way the Ultramarines are missing out!"
The more 'Pyro spoke, the more excited he got, spittle flying everywhere: "Besides these Astartes Chapters, a good number of elite mortal regiments are also rushing toward us."
He waved his hand abruptly, as if he could already see the picture: "Brothers, look at the big picture! Once those loyalist Astartes heavenly troops arrive, we can sound the horn for a counter-offensive immediately! What does this little bit of frustration right now even count for?!"
"When the time comes, five or even six Chapters will gather on this battlefield! Combined with the Death Guard on the other side, that'll be a massive scene with over ten thousand—or even twenty thousand—Astartes tearing each other apart!"
'Pyro grinned, looking at the surrounding players whose eyes were gradually lighting up: "An epic battle like that—just thinking about it gives you goosebumps. When the time comes, don't go wetting your pants and forgetting to press the screenshot key!"
The trench fell quiet for a few seconds.
Then, an indescribable agitation began to spread through the crowd.
The players looked at each other, the same image involuntarily surfacing in their minds: gold, red, silver, blue—thousands upon thousands of demigod-like giants colliding on the earth...
"Holy shit—a battle royal of twenty thousand Astartes?"
"That's way too hyped!"
"Damn it, hearing that gets my blood pumping! If I'm not here for that, how am I gonna brag to players of other games in the future?"
The atmosphere was instantly ignited by this stimulant known as an "epic scale."
"Then what are we waiting for?" The previously pessimistic veteran now had a red-flushed face as he viciously racked his gun bolt. "Hold! We must hold! Just to watch this big show, forget one day—even if it's a hundred days, I'm gonna nail myself to this position!"
Before the lingering echo of 'Pyro's blood-pumping speech had even faded, the tarpaulin at the trench entrance was suddenly jerked open.
A mud-caked, panting player scrambled inside. It was clear his spirits were soaring, his eyes shining astonishingly bright. Before he could even stand firm, he shouted at the top of his lungs: "Good news! Brothers, good news! Reinforcements are here!"
Everyone in the trench perked up instantly—they hadn't expected that right after dreaming about the future, reinforcements would actually arrive!
"Who came to our sector?" A player immediately crowded forward, asking eagerly, "Which Chapter is it? Quick, tell us—maybe I've even stayed in that Chapter before!"
The reporting player caught a big breath of air, but shook his head with a somewhat strange expression: "No... it's not players."
"Not players?"
The moment those two words came out, the previously noisy trench instantly fell silent, leaving only the dull sound of artillery outside.
Immediately after, everyone involuntarily gasped, and a few even turned green in the face.
"Oh damn..." The veteran who had previously complained about the battle being tough spoke with a trembling voice, "If it's not players, could it be that the Ultramarines Second Company has arrived?"
At these words, the surrounding players felt a chill run down their spines. After all, given the current situation, the arrival of the Second Company wouldn't relieve their combat pressure at all—instead, it would mean a sharp rise in the war's intensity.
"Then we're done for," 'Pyro swallowed hard too, his previous swagger instantly shrinking quite a bit. "If it's really that group of overachieving blue smurfs arriving, I don't know if this position can be held in the coming battle, but everyone sitting here is definitely gonna die dozens of times."
Seeing everyone's expressions as if facing a terrifying enemy—looking like they were about to be sacrificed by friendly forces the next second—the reporting player hurriedly waved his hands and caught his breath: "No, no! Don't guess wildly! It's not the blue smurfs!"
He paused, an excited expression surfacing on his face: "It's the Sisters of Battle! Those sister chicks from the Ecclesiarchy!"
"I ran into their vanguard unit on my way back just now. Tsk tsk, that power armor, those bolters, and that leader—her aura is absolute perfection."
"Sisters?!"
Everyone's expressions instantly turned from dread to pleasant surprise, with even a bit of anticipation.
"Holy shit, this is awesome! This is great!"
"Oho, there are even white-haired chicks to see here? That's insane."
The reporting player pointed toward the rear: "Anyway, they look super fierce. They told me to pass along a message, hoping the Helldivers could send a representative over to coordinate our upcoming tactical cooperation."
Hearing this, everyone's eyes swiveled in unison toward the company commander, before shifting with tacit understanding to 'Pyro beside him.
"What are you looking at me for?" Pyro shrank his neck.
"You're a veteran here!" The company commander grabbed Pyro's arm, his face plastered with a wide smile. "A high-end task like dealing with friendly NPCs—especially such powerful friendly units—is meant for nobody but you! Hurry up and go, don't keep the Sisters waiting!"