The Thunderhawk gunships hovered twenty meters off the ground, their assault ramps slamming open. Figures plummeted straight down from the sky.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!!
Heavy thuds rang out one after another, cratering the prairie grass with shallow impact zones.
The first to touch down were five hundred Astartes. Their armor sported a chaotic mix of liveries: Imperial Fists, Ultramarines, Iron Warriors, Raven Guard... Clutched in their grips were bolters, their power armor gleaming with a metallic sheen under the sun, the legion insignias on their pauldrons crisp and clear.
Next came thirty warriors clad in silver-grey power armor—Grey Knights, their helmet visors shaped into that classic, terrifying skull motif, the disruption fields of their Nemesis force halberds buzzing with lethal energy.
Following them were twenty-five Contemptor Dreadnoughts. Four-and-a-half-meter-tall behemoths of iron, their twin-linked assault cannons slowly spinning up, power claws opening and closing. The hiss of their hydraulics sounded like the breathing of colossal beasts.
The last to land were a group of figures swathed in skin-tight optical camouflage suits, moving as silently as ghosts—Eversor Assassins, their executioner pistols already loaded and leveled.
A full seven hundred transcendent units deployed into a combat formation right in front of sixteen thousand utterly naked, level-zero players.
The entire field descended into a deathly silence. The new players stood petrified, their brains completely short-circuiting.
And then...
"OH! MY! GOD!" [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] screamed in the regional chat, echoing the collective soul of every player present. "Imperial Fists! Ultramarines! Grey Knights! Dreadnoughts! This is fucking Warhammer 40K?! Where are the mechs?! What happened to Epoch 40K: Mecha?!"
[Optimus Lemme Pilot You Real Hard]: "Wait... above their heads... do they have IDs?"
Above the heads of every veteran player—Tax Bro, White Scars, Have You Been Loyal Today?, G Bro, and the rest of their vanguard—floated a bright crimson ID.
[Have You Been Loyal Today?]
[The Emperor's Tax Must Be Paid Even if the World Ends]
[I'm Not the Regent I'm Just Passing By Guilliman]
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work]
[Execute Old Man the War Criminal]
...
"P... Players?!" [You Ashe I Soraka]'s voice trembled. "They... they're players?! How is that even possible?!"
"We're naked level-zero noobs! We haven't even unlocked the shop yet!" [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] complained loudly. "How the hell are they already rocking god-tier gear?! Where's the game balance?! Is there no justice in this world?! Are there no rules?!"
Right at that moment, the Astartes wearing the Imperial Fists livery took two steps forward. His power armor crushed the grass beneath his boots, emitting a heavy, menacing crunch. He strode right up to the mob of new players, looking down his nose at this flock of five-foot-nine manlets.
The faceplate hissed open, revealing the face of an man around thirty years old, wearing a roguish smirk.
"You lot," Tax Bro spoke, his voice booming like thunder through the power armor's external vox-casters, "chose the Door of Dawn?"
The new players exchanged nervous glances. Finally, [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] bit the bullet and stepped forward. "Y... Yeah! Bro, what's up with the Imperial Fists cosplay? Weren't we supposed to be playing Epoch 40K: Mecha? Where are the mechs?"
Tax Bro broke into a wide grin, flashing a row of white teeth. "As long as you're in the right place." He raised a gauntlet and signaled his troops. "Brothers..."
In perfect synchronization, all the veteran players raised their weapons. Bolters were racked, force halberds flared to life, and the assault cannons of the Dreadnoughts began to spool up.
The new players' faces instantly drained of color.
"Bag 'em up!" Tax Bro roared with laughter. "Take 'em all back to base first! Hahaha!"
"Holy shit!"
"No way!"
"Step-bro, what are you doing?!"
The crowd of new players immediately turned and scrambled to flee, but how could two meat-legs outrun jump packs?
The Astartes in the White Scars livery ignited his jump pack. He launched himself like a living artillery shell, tracing a violent arc through the air before slamming into the earth directly in the path of the fleeing mob.
He crossed his arms, his voice dripping with amusement from behind his faceplate. "Where do you think you're going, rookies?"
In less than three minutes, thousands of new players had been completely subdued... dangling from the grips of the veteran players like helpless chicks. The regional chat was flooded with wailing and relentless complaining.
[How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice]: "Holy shit, what are you doing? Step-bro, no!"
[You Ashe I Soraka]: "What happened to camaraderie?! Aren't we in the same faction?!"
[Optimus Lemme Pilot You Real Hard]: "I just want to know... did you guys get this gear from microtransactions or a gacha pull?"
Tax Bro replied in the regional chat.
[The Emperor's Tax Must Be Paid Even if the World Ends]: "Little ones, you're trapped now!"
The new players: "..."
Soon enough, they accepted their fate and simply gave up trying to run... not that they could anyway. Tax Bro finally dropped the teasing expression and sealed his faceplate, his voice now booming through the external vox-casters. He stepped in front of the crowd, his power armor reflecting a dark golden sheen in the sunlight. "Alright, jokes aside. Welcome to the Warhammer Universe, and welcome to the Crimson Dawn faction.."
The new players sank into a full ten seconds of stunned silence.
"???"
"???"
Over sixteen thousand new players spammed question marks in the regional chat, as if they had just heard the most unbelievable string of words.
Dangling from Tax Bro's grip, [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] craned his neck to look up at him. "Bro, what did you just say? This is the Warhammer universe?!"
[I'm Not the Regent I'm Just Passing By Guilliman] strolled over. The faceplate of the Ultramarines-liveried Astartes slid open, revealing a smiling face. "I know it's hard to believe, but try not to freak out. Just follow us back to the hive city first, and we'll explain everything on the way. You see those aircraft over there? Thunderhawk gunships, the standard Imperial drop vehicle, fully capable of both void and atmospheric combat. And those transports are what we redeemed from the System shop."
"The Warhammer universe..." [You Ashe I Soraka] muttered to himself. "So Epoch 40K: Mecha was just a bait-and-switch? This is actually a Warhammer game?"
White Scars slowly walked over and chimed in, emphasizing his point. "To be more precise, this is a one hundred percent true-to-life, fully immersive simulation of the Warhammer 30K universe. The devs slapped a knock-off name on it to dodge copyright issues. Of course, that's just the official story. As for the actual truth... wait until you meet Paul. He'll explain everything."
The sixteen-thousand-plus new players exchanged wary glances. But looking at the heavily armed veteran players with crimson IDs floating above their heads... Looking at the Thunderhawk gunships, Astartes, Grey Knights, and Dreadnoughts that you could only see in official Warhammer media... They chose to believe it, because they didn't really have a choice. Any one of these seven hundred max-level chads could instantly obliterate their squishy, level-one asses.
"Let's go," Tax Bro said, patting [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] on the shoulder. He pulled his punches well, but the sheer force still made the rookie stumble. "We're going to show you exactly what we've built this planet into."
The blast doors of the transports opened, and the boarding ramps were lowered. Driven by a mix of apprehension, curiosity, shock, and a lingering sense of unreality, the new players filed onto the ships. Soon, the roar of engines filled the air as the fifty Thunderhawk gunships took off first, forming an escort vanguard. The one hundred and fifty transport ships followed closely behind. The formation banked, altering course toward Kent Hive.
Peering down through the viewports, the players watched the Plains of Crimson Dawn unfurl beneath them—a tapestry of vibrant green prairies and winding rivers... and in the distance, a colossal hive city towering like a mountain of steel.
Pressing his face against the glass, [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] muttered to himself, "The Warhammer universe... Crimson Dawn... This starting zone... is actually kind of sick?"
--
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