The battle inside the intestinal, rotting corridors of the Terminus Est instantly reached a fever pitch.
Paladin Gario didn't need to waste his breath on tactical deployments; this mortal army known as the Helldivers displayed a level of tactical acumen that even the Grey Knights found gratifying.
"High probability of flamers or heavy bolters ambushing around the corner ahead!" Over the comms channel, a player scout's voice sounded as calm as a weather forecast.
"I'll draw their fire. Squad Two, get ready to cover. Squad Three, hold your grenades!"
Without a shred of hesitation—not even a single second of mental preparation—three Helldiver soldiers clad in void armor activated their power boots and slid out from cover.
A split second later, Nurgle's damned biochemical acid rained down in a torrent. The three warriors were instantly swallowed by the corrosive venom, vaporizing into gas before they could even let out a scream. Yet, in that brief window of opportunity, their Brothers behind them precisely hurled several melta bombs into the enemy's blind spots.
BOOM!
Accompanied by a dull explosion, the bloated Nurgle heavy weapon gunners were blown to pieces.
"Threat neutralized! Sir, the left passage is clear. There are two Death Guard elites on the right—it'll take us too long to grind them down. Requesting support!"
The Nemesis force sword in Tempus's hand carved a silver afterimage through the air. He strode over the lingering toxic mist, moving like lightning as he instantly cut into the right flank. Before the two Plague Marines trying to suppress the players with their rotting bolters could even react, the psychically charged blade decapitated them.
The entire battle flowed with an efficient rhythm: the Helldivers acted like a swarm of tireless, fearless worker ants. They used their bodies to trigger traps, their lives to draw fire, and the most efficient methods possible to clear every dark corner that might hide an enemy.
They didn't care about racking up kills; they only sought to create even a fleeting moment of a perfect damage-dealing environment for the silver giants behind them.
Under such a high-intensity advance, even High Paladin Tempus—who was well-accustomed to sacrifice and death—couldn't help but give a slight nod beneath his visor, an indescribable shock surging in his heart.
If every mortal in the Imperium could be like them... Tempus thought silently as he watched a Helldiver soldier hug a cluster grenade to take down a Beast of Nurgle with him. If everyone could dedicate themselves to the Emperor without a trace of hesitation, the xenos and the heretics would have met their doom long ago.
To him, this pure spirit of sacrifice, devoid of any personal greed, was nothing short of the ultimate manifestation of faith.
However, if the player commander standing nearby—calmly directing the troops—could have heard the thoughts of this Grey Knight big shot, he would have rolled his eyes so hard they'd detach, and ranted furiously in his head: Look, even though the essence of war is figuring out how to get your troops to die efficiently and meaningfully, expecting a living, breathing person to throw their life away without a second thought is a bit too anti-human, alright?!
After all, to players, death was just part of the game—three seconds later, they'd be right back in action.
Still, amid such fierce fighting, neither side had the opportunity for a deep exchange of worldviews or philosophies of life.
The roar of bolters drowned out all stray thoughts.
"The core area is right ahead!" Gario's voice rang out over the comms, laced with grim lethality. "I sense an intensely concentrated Warp signature. The heretics have deployed heavy forces there."
Stepping over a floor slick with rotting flesh and pus, this iron tide composed of the Helldivers and the Grey Knights pushed inexorably toward the heart of the Terminus Est—the reactor and the main control room.
As they pressed deeper, the stench of decay in the air grew so thick it nearly liquefied into a dense green fog.
When the combined forces stepped into the final curved gallery leading to the power core, their offensive slammed violently into a wall forged of steel and rotting meat. Gurgoth had clearly stacked all of his absolute best elites here: several rusted Plagueburst Crawlers blockaded the intersection, unleashing direct fire as if ammunition cost nothing, while a massive contingent of Plague Marines set up heavy bolters, weaving an interlocking web of death.
Worse still, the mutated, overgrown tissue on the walls had formed thick fleshy cocoons, continuously hatching screeching Nurglings and bloated bio-beasts.
The combined forces' advance stalled here. The casualty rate among the Helldivers began to skyrocket, and one careless mistake could result in Grey Knight casualties as well.
Gario swung his force sword, deflecting an incoming artillery shell, but facing the near-total fire coverage ahead, even a Paladin had to temporarily hold back.
Just as the Venerable Dreadnought at the rear of the formation—the metal hull of that ancient hero already emitting a low engine roar—prepared to launch a desperate, suicidal assault charge, an urgent voice crackled over the Helldiver channel.
"Sir! Don't force a frontal assault! Give us three minutes—we're about to launch a surprise attack on the enemy's left flank!"
Hearing this, Tempus scanned the surroundings in confusion through his helmet's ocular lenses. Gurgoth had chosen an exceptionally vicious terrain: it was a dead end, flanked on both the left and right by thickened composite metal armor plating, which was further coated in several meters of Nurgle's mutated flesh growths.
"The left? That is a sealed bulkhead." Tempus's voice remained calm. "How do you intend to breach several meters of solid armor and mutated flesh?"
In his understanding, unless they used the Venerable Dreadnought's heavy melta cannon for sustained bombardment, or executed a precise close-range boarding teleportation, flanking from the side was completely impossible.
Yet, the Helldiver commander merely replied, "Sir, you wouldn't believe me even if I told you right now. Just trust us, we have a way. Please get ready—the moment we give the signal from over there, you have to coordinate with us and launch an all-out charge!"
Under normal circumstances, Tempus would never have entertained such an absurd tactical suggestion. However, having just witnessed these mortals' unflinching sacrifice and professional execution, the High Paladin fell silent for a moment before finally issuing an order over the comms: "All units, hold the assault. Check psychic shields. Await the mortals' signal."
Every passing second felt agonizingly long inside the corridor choked with corrosive toxic gas.
Tempus stood with his sword drawn behind a hastily erected psychic barrier, where the ripples of bolter rounds and biochemical acid impacting the shield never ceased. The Nurgle defensive line ahead was like a malignant tumor constantly proliferating, growing thicker and more fortified with every breath.
"We are wasting time, Tempus." The Venerable Dreadnought's deep voice, amplified through its vox-casters, betrayed obvious impatience as its massive power claws scraped restlessly against the metal floor, kicking up sparks. "The enemy's ritual is underway, and we are standing here waiting for a bunch of mortals to bang their heads against a wall? My melta cannon is starving for action."
Tempus tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping once more over the thick bulkhead to the left. His auspex readings showed several meters of adamantium armor plating behind it, reinforced with poured composite ceramite to strengthen the hull structure—not to mention the nauseating layer of Warp-mutated flesh covering the surface.
Logic told him this was pure fantasy. No conventional infantry could breach such an obstacle in a short amount of time, not even a full squad of Astartes Devastators.
"Give them a little more time, Ancient," Tempus said evenly. "These mortals... these Helldivers. Perhaps they truly do have a way."
"A way? Unless they dismantled the battleship's main cannon and stuffed it into their pockets." The Venerable Dreadnought snorted coldly, its servo-motors roaring as it clearly decided to initiate the charge itself. "The Emperor's wrath shall not be stayed. I will—"
At that critical juncture, the Helldiver commander's voice suddenly echoed over the comms, counting down with a bizarre sense of excitement.
"Counting down from three! Three, two, one—high-yield art is an explosion! Detonate!"
KABOOM!!!
The deafening blast drowned out all surrounding gunfire. The entire corridor felt as though it had been violently squeezed and released by an invisible giant hand.
The left bulkhead, which Tempus had deemed impenetrable, suffered unimaginable devastation in a single instant. Dozens of high-yield melta bombs had been detonated simultaneously.
Terrifying heat instantly vaporized the meters-thick metal plating along with the rotting tissue clinging to it. A blinding white flash plunged the gallery into temporary blindness, and the rolling wave of heat forced even the Grey Knights to take half a step back.
Immediately afterward, amidst a sky full of splattering molten iron and billowing thick smoke, a massive silhouette radiating an aura of destruction crashed violently through the remaining barrier.
Accompanied by the heavy whir of hydraulic actuators and the ear-splitting blare of a warhorn, a Knight mech—its paintwork scarred, yet exuding a chilling killing intent—burst straight out of the forcefully blasted breach like an iron behemoth breaking free from the depths of hell!
"For glory! For the Emperor! Taste my blade!"
The Knight mech's colossal chainsword spun wildly within the cramped space, whipping up a whirlwind of death. In an instant, it sliced two Plagueburst Crawlers on the flank into scrap metal before they could even swivel their turrets, and then, riding its momentum, stomped a group of terrified Nurgle mortal auxiliaries flat.
The scene was so staggering that even Tempus, who had been preparing to launch a suicidal charge, halted abruptly in his tracks. Beneath his helmet, his usually tranquil eyes widened instantly.
"By the Emperor..."
The Venerable Dreadnought—an ancient sage who had lived for millennia and seen countless grand spectacles, maintaining a demeanor of grim wrath until this very second—stared at the colossus that nearly filled the entire corridor, trampling Death Guard marines like bugs, and couldn't help but cry out in shock: "Where did a Knight mech come from?! This is the deep interior of a battleship! How did they transport it in here?! And how did they cram it inside the walls?!"
Tempus was completely dumbfounded as well; his tactical logic suffered a severe shock at that moment. He watched the Knight mech rampage through the narrow corridor. Although its massive frame made it look somewhat cramped in certain spots, scraping showers of sparks off the ceiling, these Helldivers had clearly planned this well in advance—they hadn't just blown open the wall; they had even performed controlled demolitions on the structural support beams along the way, brute-forcing a path of "reckless driving" through blood and steel for this iron giant.
Gurgoth's defensive line completely collapsed at that moment. Those Plague Marines never dreamed in a million years that inside their own battleship, they would get hit with a "flanking ambush" by a multi-ton Knight mech.
"Sir! Don't just stand there!" the Helldiver commander shouted excitedly over the comms. "The mech has entered the arena—hurry up and follow!"
Tempus took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the mix of absurdity and shock swirling in his chest, as his Nemesis force sword flared once more with devastating psychic light.
"Unbelievable though it may be... well done." Tempus's voice boomed like thunder across the comms channel. "All units, charge! Coordinate with the Knight mech and thoroughly purge this filth!"
Watching the Knight mech and the Venerable Dreadnought working in tandem within the narrow corridor—mowing down Beasts of Nurgle and Plague Marines like wheat—a look of sheer existential exhaustion, one that transcended mere despair, appeared on Gurgoth's ulcerated, deformed face.
Leaning on his scythe, his cloudy yellow eyes were filled with a hollow "I'm tired, just destroy everything" emptiness.
Last time, these lunatics had pulled an Imperial Baneblade out of thin air and drifted it across impossible terrain. This time, deep inside the core of a voidship—a place where even a Dreadnought struggled to maneuver—they had somehow crammed a ten-meter-tall Knight mech inside and pulled off a wall-breaching ambush!
Gurgoth felt as though his brain had simply shut down. He felt that if a subordinate came scrambling up to him the very next second to report that the Corpse-Emperor himself had teleported off the Golden Throne and was currently knocking on the front door with his flaming sword, he wouldn't feel the slightest bit of surprise; he might even politely ask, "Would you care for some tea?"
"This war... is impossible to fight."
Gurgoth let out a long sigh, even the toxic gas expelled from his lungs seeming utterly listless.
Just then, a massive shadow fell over him.
"Heretic! Die!"
Accompanied by the violent roar of servo-motors, the Venerable Dreadnought barreled through two Plague Marines like a runaway locomotive. Its massive alloy feet crushed the overgrown flesh on the floor as it charged straight at Gurgoth.
Since there was no escape, he might as well embrace the Grandfather's bosom. Resolved to die, Gurgoth didn't retreat; instead, he let out a furious roar and channelled his corrupt psychic energy. The plague scythe in his hands whipped up a storm of green venom as he slashed viciously at the Venerable Dreadnought's massive power claw.
CLANG!
The deafening clash of metal sent shockwaves that popped nearby Nurglings like balloons. Gurgoth was a high-ranking Lord of Nurgle, after all; his desperate strike actually managed to parry the Venerable Dreadnought's offensive, and he even had enough spare capacity to spew a stream of potent acid from the giant maw in his abdomen, sizzling against the Dreadnought's armor plating.
Sensing his opponent's astonishing resilience and strength, a flash of red light glinted in the Venerable Dreadnought's fleshless electronic optics, and a voice filled with unexpected delight boomed from its vox-casters: "Well, well, he's even a Captain!"
The tone didn't sound like that of someone facing a mortal enemy, but rather like a seasoned hunter finally spotting a rare trophy worthy of mounting on the wall amidst a floor full of trash mobs—brimming with that "this boss is definitely going to drop good loot" excitement.
Several nearby Grey Knights were about to step forward to assist, when the Venerable Dreadnought violently swung its other arm, its charging melta cannon forcing even its allies to step back.
"Stay back, all of you! This guy is mine!" the Venerable Dreadnought roared like thunder, venting millennia of pent-up irritation from being locked inside a sarcophagus, mixed with a fierce possessiveness over a high-value target. "Nobody steal my kill! I'm going to tear him apart with my own hands and offer him to the Emperor!"
Gurgoth was met with a tempest of blows.
Abandoning ranged attacks, the Venerable Dreadnought kicked both of its massive mechanical arms into full overdrive. Its left power claw clamped tightly onto Gurgoth's plague scythe, while its right siege hammer crashed down into Gurgoth's chest with the force of ten thousand tons, pounding away like a pile driver.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Every strike was accompanied by the sound of shattering armor and splattering rotting flesh. The Terminator armor Gurgoth took such pride in, along with the hyper-regeneration bestowed upon him by Nurgle, proved utterly fragile before this ancient war machine.
"For the Emperor! Open up!"
With a final bellow from the Venerable Dreadnought, its power claw surged with strength. Amidst the teeth-grinding shriek of tearing metal, Gurgoth's defenses collapsed completely. The colossal mechanical hands seized the Nurgle Lord's upper and lower torso directly, the servo-motors whining under the strain.
"No... Grandfather—"
RIIIIIP!!!
Amidst a fountain of spraying green foul blood, Gurgoth was torn clean in half while still alive by the Venerable Dreadnought.
Even so, the two halves of his body continued to twitch on the floor as Nurgle's blessings attempted to stitch him back together. Clearly well-experienced, the Venerable Dreadnought refused to give him a single second to finish his resurrection cast bar.
"Trying to play dead? Dream on!"
The Venerable Dreadnought raised a multi-ton alloy war-boot and unleashed a furious stomping frenzy upon Gurgoth's mangled remains.
STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
Only after reducing the Nurgle Lord into an unrecognizable puddle of meat paste—and punching a massive crater into the deck plating beneath him—did the Venerable Dreadnought finally stop, still slightly unsatisfied, venting a blast of scorching exhaust steam.
"Hmph, decent tactile feedback," the old hero muttered, before turning around to look at the dumbfounded crowd. "What are you all staring at? Keep pushing! Clean up the rest of the trash!"
With Gurgoth stomped into paste, the remaining Nurgle defenders completely lost the will to resist and were swiftly wiped out by chainswords and psychic fire.
The massive doors to the battleship's engine room were now a scene of total devastation, the once-arrogant Plague Marines reduced to scattered limbs across the floor. The Regiment Commander wiped some foul blood off his visor and walked up to Tempus, who was inspecting the battlefield, speaking with undisguised admiration.
"Truly breathtaking combat prowess, my lord," the Commander praised sincerely, gesturing toward the Grey Knights finishing off the stragglers behind him. "Without you, we would have needed ten times the time and ten times the casualties just to achieve the same result. And in every single one of those extra seconds, who knows what other crazy stunts this damned battleship would have pulled."
His tone was relaxed—and rightly so. Avenging the humiliation of their first failed boarding action in such an effortless manner would put anyone in high spirits.
Tempus withdrew his gaze, his silver helmet reflecting the mortal commander's figure, his voice calm and devoid of ripples: "The same applies to us. Without your demolitions and that... unique Knight mech, we could not have decapitated the enemy leader so swiftly."
Though polite words were being exchanged, the atmosphere in the air was quietly shifting.
The other Grey Knights remained dead silent, even their breathing nearly inaudible. After eliminating the last of the enemies, they did not holster their weapons; instead, they shifted their positions in a manner that looked casual, yet was tactically precise.
A Terminator subtly took a step to the left, blocking the corridor leading to the escape pods; another Grey Knight slightly adjusted the angle of his storm bolter. A silent encirclement was rapidly taking shape, ensuring that every surviving Helldiver soldier was squarely within their lines of fire.
The chatty Helldiver Commander seemed completely oblivious to this, turning around to loudly direct his soldiers as they hauled crates of high-explosive munitions toward the engine core, shouting weird phrases like, "Add a little more payload, let's give old fatso Nurgle a grand fireworks show!"
Tempus's fingers lightly brushed the activation runes on his sword hilt, a flash of cold helplessness passing through his mind.
To these mortals, the battle had entered its final stage, meaning they were about to celebrate their victory. To the Grey Knights, however, the mission still had one final, dirtiest step remaining—the purge.
They had seen the Grey Knights, they had seen daemons, and they had witnessed the manifestation of the Warp. According to secrecy protocols and the ironclad law meant to prevent the spread of corruption, mortal troops exposed to such forbidden knowledge had to be "properly dealt with."
Though he had carried out this duty countless times over the past centuries, slaughtering innumerable loyal yet unfortunate Guardsmen with his own blade, this time—looking at these valiant warriors who had just fought shoulder-to-shoulder with them and even pulled off the miraculous feat of "wall-breaching with a Knight"—Tempus couldn't help feeling a rare pang of regret.
Such brave and resourceful warriors, destined to die at the hands of their own allies...
Yet he quickly suppressed that moment of weakness. This was for the Imperium, for the purity of humanity. He could only convince himself that this was a necessary sacrifice.
Just as Tempus was about to speak up to suggest a full withdrawal—planning to strike during the retreat—the Commander suddenly turned around, interrupting his thoughts.
"Sir, the bombs are almost set. You guys should hurry up and evacuate," the Commander said, pointing at the mountain of explosives behind him, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Oh, and please take that Knight mech with you on your way out—that thing is pretty pricey."
Tempus froze slightly, the psychic signal he had been preparing to transmit stalling mid-thought. He looked down at the mortal; the man seemed to have noticed something, yet at the same time seemed completely unaware.
Noticing Tempus's stare, the Commander shrugged and continued, "This is Nurgle's turf, after all, so electronic detonators aren't always reliable. Someone has to stay behind to make sure the demolition goes off without a hitch—manual detonation is the safest bet. Otherwise, heaven knows what kind of nonsense might happen here; what if this broken engine suddenly grows legs and runs away?
"There's no need for big shots like you to stick around for this kind of grunt work. Dying here wouldn't be an efficient move for you."
Tempus fell silent.
These mortals... did they realize what they were saying? Staying behind for a manual detonation meant certain death. Were they actively seeking death, or... had they seen right through the Grey Knights' intentions from the start and chosen a more dignified way out?
Tempus stared into those fearless eyes. After a long pause, he slowly loosened his grip on his sword hilt and gave a slight nod.
"Very well."
Those two simple words felt as though they had lifted a thousand-ton burden.
"Helldivers, is that what you are called?" Tempus said solemnly. "I will remember you."
Beside him, the Venerable Dreadnought also turned around, stepping its massive servo-driven frame away from the Knight mech. The ancient warrior looked down at the tiny mortals, a solemn rumble resonating from its vox-casters: "As will I... You are true warriors. May your souls return to the Golden Throne and find eternal rest at the Emperor's side."
Hearing this, the Commander didn't show any of the tragic solemnity expected of someone about to meet their doom; instead, he looked as though he had just heard an amusing joke. Waving his hand to gesture for the Grey Knights to hurry along, he smiled and said, "I appreciate the kind words, old-timer. However..."
His smile carried a level of confidence that Tempus couldn't quite comprehend: "We've still got plenty of work left to do. It's not time to go rest by the Golden Throne just yet."
**********
CLANG!!!
The massive scythe swept past, reeking of sickening decay, but was once again precisely parried by that cold-gleaming power sword. Cato Sicarius's figure, like a swift in a gale, utilized his power armor's jump pack to carve deadly arcs through the midair, leaving deep plasma-scorched marks on Typhus's heavy Terminator armor with every clash.
"Is that all the skill you have, traitor?" Sicarius's voice, brimming with arrogance and confidence, echoed through his vox-caster. "Your movements are as slow as a dead man's—oh, wait, I forgot you're already a rotting corpse!"
Typhus ignored this chattering blue blowfly. As he swung his massive scythe to force his opponent back, his long-stopped heart sank for an entirely different reason.
"Gurgoth! Answer me!" he roared over the private vox-channel. This was his thirty-seventh call.
Responding to him was only dead static noise, accompanied by the occasional chaotic shriek that seemed to originate from the depths of the Warp.
Typhus violently knocked aside one of Sicarius's thrusts, and taking advantage of the breathing room as he fell back, quickly swept his gaze across the overall battlefield.
The situation was even worse than he had anticipated.
The once-impregnable plague offensive was currently suffering a devastating blow. Perditia's forces, acting like a tireless battering ram in coordination with Space Marine elite shock assaults, had forcefully ripped a massive gap wide open through the Death Guard's formation.
Had they been ordinary mortal troops facing this intensity of counter-push, they would have suffered psychological collapses and fled in a routed, armor-dropping panic long ago. But the Plague Legion were, after all, Astartes—undying warriors blessed by the Grandfather; their morale and organization remained virtually constant. They did not run; they stubbornly continued to fire and hack in silence, using their bodies to plug the gaps along the shrinking defensive line.
Yet, this could not change the fact that they were falling back step by step.
The front lines continuously retreated; for every meter fallen back, countless rotting corpses were left behind. The loyalist advance was like a rising tide, slowly but unstoppably submerging the green reefs.
Typhus's mind raced frantically. He knew clearly that this "orderly retreat" could not continue indefinitely.
The enemy's numerical advantage and firepower density were forming a massive pincer movement. If they retreated any further, the main force of the Plague Legion would be split, encircled, and cut off from their escape routes.
Once an encirclement formed, it would be the true end. Even Nurgle's warriors could not win a war when chopped into tiny fragments.
"Must... must stop the losses immediately."
He had to find a way to temporarily halt the enemy's offensive—even if it meant buying just half an hour to regroup his forces and establish a second line of defense. Otherwise, all the effort he had poured into this planet, every bit of spoils accumulated from the landing until now, would be utterly reduced to nothing in this counterattack.
The best method, naturally, would be for the orbital fleet to immediately launch a devastating bombardment, blanketing the frontlines indiscriminately, using a scorched-earth policy to forcibly interrupt the loyalists' charging momentum.
But now, looking at the vox-channel that remained stubbornly silent, Typhus held no further expectations for Gurgoth. That idiot was either dead or had flown the battleship straight down a Warp toilet; in short, depending on support from above was impossible.
Then, he could only resort to the second-best method.
And also the most cruel method—sacrificing the arm to save the body.
Typhus's gaze grew cold and hollow. He needed a suicide squad—a force that could be hammered into place and refuse to take a single step back even if blasted to atoms, firmly dragging down the loyalists' pace and buying time for the main army's reorganization.
This wasn't merely a delaying action; this was sending them to their deaths. A one-way trip with absolute certainty of no return.
How many Death Guard would he have to feed into this grinder?
One hundred men? No, that was a drop in the bucket; they would be instantly overwhelmed by that pack of crazed Helldiver and Space Marines.
Five hundred men? Still too few; it would be utterly impossible to form sufficient blocking density across the wide frontal battlefield.
Typhus looked at the enemies surging forward like a tide, rapidly calculating the casualty ratio and firepower density between both sides.
To completely curb this offensive, they would need a near one-to-one numerical parity with the loyalist Space Marines they faced.
Which meant... at least one thousand Death Guard.
One thousand Astartes. One thousand battle-hardened, blessed veterans.
Even as cold-hearted as Typhus was, at this moment he was chilled to the marrow by this number.
These weren't disposable plague zombies or cultist cannon fodder; these were the elite of the Death Guard, the bone and blood of the Legion.
One thousand Space Marines annihilated as an organized formation...
Typhus's memory drifted for a split second. How long ago was it since the Death Guard last suffered such an agonizing, near-annihilation level of casualties?
Just as Typhus was about to issue that heart-bleeding rearguard order, preparing to sacrifice a thousand Death Guard to buy an opportunity to retreat—
Bzzzt... bzzzt...
Within that vox-channel that seemed destined for eternal silence, a burst of static from a connecting current suddenly sounded. Immediately following that, the indicator light representing the orbital fleet's command link miraculously turned from red to green!
Communications were restored!
Typhus's rotting, withered heart gave a violent beat, and a surge of wild elation instantly flooded his mind. He hadn't expected that at this critical, life-or-death juncture, Gurgoth had actually wrestled back control!
"I knew it!" Typhus roared inwardly. Though that fat tub usually seemed sluggish, he was, after all, a high-ranking Lord of Nurgle. Gurgoth must have completely suppressed those ignorant Helldivers!
Yes, it had to be. No matter how cunning those mortals were, and even if they pulled another Imperial Baneblade or some other heavy vehicle out of thin air, it was impossible for them to truly breach a capital ship in such a short amount of time—let alone when it was the mighty Terminus Est!
That was a mobile fortress blessed by Nurgle!
Typhus didn't even have time to parry one of Sicarius's feints, letting the opponent's blade spark across his pauldron as he hurriedly shouted into the vox-channel, his voice carrying an unmasked urgency and expectation: "Gurgoth! Gurgoth! This is Typhus! Answer me immediately! Can you hear me? Respond! We need orbital bombardment right now! Immediately!"
However, the other end of the comms did not immediately yield Gurgoth's signature gurgling tone, as if his throat were stuffed with thick phlegm.
After repeatedly calling out several times, to the point where Typhus was starting to think it was an auditory hallucination caused by equipment malfunction, an echo finally came from the other side.
"This is the Helldivers, Lord Typhus. Would you like to surrender?"
The battlefield seemed to freeze in that exact instant.
Typhus froze, his breath reeking of decay stalling in his throat.
Crack!
He abruptly cut the communication.
"ROAR!!!"
Typhus let out an unhuman roar, his heavy scythe seeming to multiply in weight several times over at that moment. Carrying terrifying kinetic energy capable of cleaving tank armor, he crazily smashed it toward the enemy before him.
Sicarius, who had been clashing with Typhus and even attempting to press his advantage, was startled badly by this sudden development.
"What is he playing at?"
Arrogant though Sicarius was, his combat instincts were exceptionally sharp. He didn't quite understand why this guy had suddenly gone mad—just a moment ago he had been full of gloomy calculations, and now he had suddenly turned into a berserker? Faced with this dog-eat-dog, defense-ignoring fighting style, Sicarius had no choice but to pull back his originally fierce sword stance, turning more conservative and utilizing his agile footwork to temporarily avoid the brunt of the assault.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The massive scythe smashed repeatedly into the ground and ruins, kicking up flying gravel and dust all around. Sicarius soon realized that Typhus's heavy, swinging motions were less about trying to kill him to win the battle and more about pure, unadulterated venting of anger.
And soon, not only Sicarius, but everyone on the battlefield learned the reason behind Typhus's sudden transformation.
Dawn broke.
A blinding, glaring light pierced through the planet's dim, turbid atmosphere, as if a second sun had been ignited in the firmament. Following right behind it was a dull yet world-shaking roar—the dying wail of a massive capital ship undergoing sympathetic detonation in low orbit.
Everyone looked up to see that colossal warship—the Terminus Est, which had forever loomed like a shadow over the battlefield—now engulfed in a gorgeous yet terrifying explosion.
Although its massive keel structure ensured it didn't completely disintegrate and crash, the flames gushing from its midsection and the continuous peeling of its armor plates proclaimed its doom. The massive engine assembly was blasted to smithereens, and countless burning fragments, trailing long tails of black smoke like a meteor shower, plummeted hideously toward the ground battlefield.
Clearly, for a very long time to come, this battleship would completely lose its combat capability, reduced to a piece of scrap metal floating in orbit.
Watching the "fire rain" falling all across the sky, Sicarius was stunned for a moment before realizing what had caused Typhus's madness just now.
"Hahahaha!" Sicarius couldn't help but burst into unbridled laughter, his laughter echoing across the battlefield through his vox-caster, brimming with mockery toward the enemy: "Looks like your nest has been cleaned out, traitor! That is the price of betraying the Emperor!"
Rumble— Massive battleship fragments began bombarding the ground, triggering violent earthquakes and shockwaves. Under such conditions, neither Sicarius nor Typhus, nor the Helldiver or the Plague Legion, could possibly maintain their front lines to continue fighting.
The chaotic falling debris became the best smoke screen.
Typhus stopped his movements. Though he could disengage through the chaos without sacrificing a thousand Space Marines, preserving his army's active forces, he couldn't feel happy in the slightest.
Losing the Terminus Est's fire support and orbital control meant he had lost his ultimate trump card in this campaign. What was originally just meant to stabilize the defense line had now turned into a genuine survival crisis.
He realized there was a real possibility he might lose this war.
The fire illuminating the sky reflected upon Typhus's pale, bloated face. He slowly put away his scythe, looking at the laughing Sicarius; his eyes lacked even their usual venom, leaving behind only a dead, chilling cold.
"I'll fight you next time."
He dropped those words coldly, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Sicarius put away his smile, pointing his long sword straight at his opponent to offer one final provocation: "Running away again, traitor? Like a stray dog?"
Normally, Typhus would have returned the most vicious curses or even risked injury to leave some mark upon this blue-armored tin can. But right now, looking at the orbital direction still burning and exploding, he didn't even have the heart to exchange harsh words.
Typhus didn't look back; he simply turned and walked into the dust and fire rain filling the sky.
High above, the grand wreckage of the Terminus Est was tearing through the atmosphere. Those massive metal fragments burned from fierce friction with the air, dragging orange-red tails miles long, illuminating the dim battlefield as bright as day.
This destructive calamity, enough to make a mortal army feel the arrival of doomsday, appeared to the Orks on the other side of the battlefield as the most generous gift bestowed by the gods.
"Look! It's da shiny stuff Gork dropped!"
The Ork Warboss Gulgur waved his massive power claw, kicked away a boy whose head had been smashed open by a meteorite because he was staring blankly, and let out a heaven-shaking roar: "Lads! Our chance to go up is here! Attack! Grab the junk falling from the sky! The more scrap metal you grab, the higher our chances of getting up into the sky! We're gonna build a bigger ship and go up there to beat up those hairless gits!"
"Waaagh!!!"
Instead of hiding from the crater-sized massive explosions, the Orks charged like maniacs directly toward the direction where the debris was falling.
The shockwaves generated when those giant metal wrecks slammed into the ground were treated by the Orks as mere "rockin' background music."
Dodging debris capable of flattening a tank, they simultaneously launched a fierce assault against the retreating Death Guard defense line.
Typhus was walking along a muddy, fog-choked retreat route. He didn't want to think about anything right now, but contrary to his wishes, battle reports poured in under these conditions—the Orks, despite being bombarded by orbital debris, hadn't routed at all; instead, their combat effectiveness had doubled out of a desire to "grab scrap metal," and they had even started assaulting his flank. His already numb face twitched violently.
He was so angry he laughed.
"Maniacs—every last one of them is a lunatic."
Typhus stood atop a raised rock, watching the distance where a horde of Orks ran frantically through the fire rain, letting out weird shrieks.
At this moment, the Chaos Lord of Nurgle felt an unprecedented sense of exhaustion. On this planet called Perditia, he felt as though he had fallen into a colossal lunatic asylum.
On one side were religious fanatics who didn't value their lives at all and even regarded dying as an honor; on the other side were savage Orks whose thought processes completely defied logic, treating a doomsday cataclysm like a playground.
"On this planet... is there not even a single normal sentient lifeform?" Typhus cursed under his breath.
Normally, given Typhus's temperament, he would have ordered the Plague Marines to immediately pivot their guns and show these Orks what the Grandfather's wrath meant through the most harrowing toxic gas and plagues. He would have turned every single Ork daring to approach into rotting fertilizer.
But the situation had changed now.
The breakthrough from zero to one is always the hardest. In that devastating blow just now, his front line against the loyalists had suffered a complete collapse, and his strategic "invincible armor" had been shattered. Since an orderly strategic retreat had already begun, losing a few more patches of territory when facing this bunch of incomprehensible Orks didn't seem so hard to accept anymore.
Rather than wasting precious Space Marines in such meaningless "scrap-grabbing" battles, it was better to preserve his strength.
"Pass down the order," Typhus commanded in a hoarse voice through his command link, his tone saturated with deep exhaustion. "Abandon those valueless badlands, abandon those outposts smashed flat by debris. Do not entangle with those Orks; let them pick over that glowing hot garbage."
"The whole army retreats to easily defensible areas, regrouping under the reliance of plague bastions and fortified lines."
Typhus cast one final glance at the still-fracturing Terminus Est in the sky, then turned and plunged into the deeper, heavier green toxic fog.
"Wait, endure... I will settle this score, down to the very last drop."
The rain of fire, which had seemed capable of burning through the very sky, finally ceased.
As the dust settled over the wreckage of the Terminus Est, the nature of the war on the surface of Perditia quietly underwent a drastic shift. What had once been sweeping maneuver warfare and rapid frontline advances gradually solidified into a brutal war of attrition across the scarred wastelands.
Both the Loyalist coalition of Perditia and the Plague Legions under Typhus were now forced to confront a harsh reality: both sides had stretched their supply lines to the absolute limit, leaving them equally strained. After enduring that apocalyptic bombardment of orbital debris, both forces tacitly began relying on the terrain to establish defensive networks.
Nurgle's corrupted gardens festered inside the artillery craters, where barbed fungi and gas-spewing spore sacs formed natural minefields.
Meanwhile, the Loyalists piled concrete, plasteel plates, and corpses to build makeshift trenches and bunkers. Over time, these improvised lines grew increasingly fortified, gradually transforming into permanent bastions.
The war had now entered an extraordinarily awkward and dangerous phase—the defender's advantage was magnified to the extreme. Whichever side launched a large-scale offensive first would pay a catastrophic price in the enemy's pre-established crossfires and traps.
By normal military logic, this should have been a period of standoff, with both sides licking their wounds and gathering their strength.
But logic was something that had never existed for the Helldivers.
Even though attacking meant staggering casualty ratios, and every single step forward cost dozens of lives, these gas-mask-wearing lunatics still launched offensives every single day. After all, to them, death wasn't the end—it was merely a daily consumable.
"Bzzzz—" A newly arrived player lay flat on his back in the irradiated dirt, a piercing ringing filling his ears as a dim, spinning sky swam in his vision. Seconds ago, a mortar shell had landed nearby, and the massive shockwave had blown him clean off his feet.
He felt like a fish tossed onto dry land, wanting to struggle yet unable to control his limbs. Intense vertigo left him unable to tell up from down, or left from right.
Just then, a hand clad in a heavy leather glove reached out. Instead of pulling him up, it delivered a sharp, merciless slap right across his helmet.
"Wake up! Quit sleeping! The objective is still two kilometers from here!"
Immediately afterward, the hand deftly pressed a switch on his carapace armor. Accompanied by a faint hiss of air pressure, a stream of ice-cold stimulant injected directly into his jugular vein through an interface port.
Like an electric current shooting up his spine, the nauseating dizziness vanished in an instant, replaced by an adrenaline-fueled surge of exhilaration and clarity. Strength flooded back into his body, and he bolted upright.
"What the—," the rookie shook his head, complaining muffledly through his gas mask. "Didn't you guys say the system was tuned so it wouldn't hurt much? That hit just now almost sent me packing."
The squad leader standing beside him, who was busy swapping out the heatsink on his lasgun, glanced over at the words and asked back in a flat tone:
"Did you actually feel any pain just now?"
The rookie froze. Subconsciously, he felt his ribs and his bruised back, carefully recalling the sensation from a moment ago.
It seemed... that really was the case.
In that instant, his brain had been flooded with an indescribable sense of shock, weightlessness, and an utter, uncontrollable weakness and dizziness—like a receiver whose signal had been cut off. But as for agonizing, gut-wrenching pain, there really hadn't been much at all.
"Seems like... it really didn't hurt much. Just made me dizzy enough to puke," the rookie admitted honestly.
"Alright then, we've all been through it," the squad leader patted him on the shoulder with the practiced ease of someone tapping a well-worn tool. "Die a few more times and you'll get used to it. Everyone makes a fuss their first time."
The rookie took a deep breath. Although his air filtration system was working at full capacity, a faint, lingering stench still crept into his nostrils. The smell snapped him fully awake, reminding him of what he was facing.
It was the sickly-sweet odor of fermenting, severely rotted flesh, mixed with the scent of stale machine oil.
Just moments earlier, he had been terrified of those shambling, disemboweled Poxwalkers charging at them with rusted weapons. Those things defied every natural law of life; just looking at them made his Sanity meter plummet.
At first, he had thought he was definitely going to have nightmares tonight, even worrying that the hyper-realistic tactile feedback would leave him with psychological trauma.
Yet when he had violently smashed in the skulls of a few lunging Poxwalkers with his rifle butt just moments ago—watching putrid brain matter splatter everywhere while he remained completely unscathed—that fear had inexplicably vanished.
In its place was a rush of violent catharsis.
"Feeling much better," the rookie tightened his grip on his rifle. "At least even if I do have nightmares, I can probably smash these zombies' heads in there, too."
"Good lad, keep that mindset," the squad leader waved a hand. "Keep pushing forward. There's a firing position up ahead."
The squad moved through the ruins. Suddenly, peering through the thin toxic mist, the rookie caught sight of a massive silhouette lurking in the shadows of the rubble ahead.
It was a giant clad in dark-green power armor, the plate covered in rust and festering sores, carrying a bolter dripping with an unidentifiable fluid.
A true Death Guard—a fallen Space Marine.
The squad leader in front had clearly spotted him as well. His body tensed instantly, and he immediately flashed the hand signals for Take Cover and Flank Around. Against an elite mob of this caliber, a standard infantry squad charging head-on was pure suicide; they needed to call in heavy weapons support or sneak around for an ambush.
However, the rookie clearly hadn't noticed the squad leader's signals—or rather, the massive surge of confidence from smashing in Poxwalker skulls moments ago had given him a dangerous delusion.
If even those terrifying-looking zombies are nothing special, then no matter how tough this big guy is, can he really withstand concentrated fire?
With adrenaline still burning in his veins, the rookie saw only a golden opportunity to challenge an elite boss and snag a First Kill achievement.
He lunged out from behind cover, raising his rifle high.
"Glory to the first man to die!"
He roared a slogan he had just made up on the spot, his voice shrill with excitement: "Brothers, char—"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three dull, rhythmic gunshots cut his heroic declaration short.
It was the unmistakable roar of a bolter.
The squad leader didn't even get the chance to curse, nor did the rest of the team have time to react. The Death Guard merely raised his arm with utter nonchalance, pulling the trigger as casually as if swatting a few flies.
Three pinpoint bolt rounds carved lethal trajectories through the air.
The first shot obliterated the rookie's upper torso, turning both him and his battle cry into an exploding mist of blood.
The next two rounds immediately blanketed the cover directly behind him.
Before the rest of the squad could even utter a scream, they were completely shredded by the precise, brutal burst, reduced to scattered chunks of meat across the wasteland.
Beneath the dim firmament of Perditia, Typhus stood atop a small mound piled high with corpses and corroded rock. The iconic Destroyer Hive swarmed in and out of the crevices in his armor, emitting a maddening, incessant drone. His eyes, filled with a murky yellow glow, peered through his heavy Terminator helmet, overlooking the sprawling positions of the Plague Legions below.
Thick toxic mist flowed through the trenches as Nurgle's blessings took root across the land, transforming what had once been a barren wasteland into a twisted, blasphemous garden.
A bloated Champion of the Death Guard trudged laboriously up the hill, stopping behind Typhus and bowing his head respectfully.
"Lord Typhus," the subordinate's voice rasped through his wet vox-grille, carrying a nauseating gurgle. "I bring good news. The greenskins' offensive has been thoroughly crushed. Those savage Orks failed to shake our glorious defensive line in the slightest."
In truth, what had actually happened was that halfway through their charge, the greenskins realized that scavenging the burning warship debris falling from the sky was far more entertaining than chewing on tough tin cans that spewed poison gas. Consequently, the Ork horde had voluntarily retreated amidst inexplicable cheers, showing very little actual fighting spirit.
Naturally, the subordinate wasn't going to phrase it like that. At a juncture like this, telling an already furious Typhus that "the enemy left because they found us boring" was sheer suicide.
"Hmm." Typhus gave a slight nod, the heavy motion accompanied by the whine of his servo-motors. "Those foolish xenos thought they could loot amidst the chaos, yet the Plague Legions are not a force they can afford to provoke. The Grandfather's garden shall not be defiled."
Seeing that Typhus seemed to be in a decent mood, the subordinate gathered his courage and continued, "Additionally, a small-scale infiltration operation just launched by those mortals known as the Helldivers was also successfully thwarted. We laid lethal viral traps along the western line. After leaving behind roughly ten thousand corpses, the remaining rabble could only flee back to their own fortifications in a panic—"
The subordinate had expected this to earn a word of praise, or perhaps a sneer at the mortals' reckless disregard for their own lives. Instead, the air suddenly froze.
"What's the point of killing them now?!"
Typhus spun around abruptly, his terrifying Manreaper scythe carving a shrill arc through the air. Though he didn't actually swing it down, the sheer aura of erupting fury made the subordinate tremble uncontrollably.
"Ten thousand corpses? What difference would it make even if you killed a hundred thousand?!" Typhus's voice cracked into a hoarse roar from sheer agitation. "They'll just come back tomorrow! Those lunatics don't care about death at all! They're like the fungi on this damned planet—cut down one crop, and another grows right back!"
The subordinate wisely chose to clamp his mouth shut, suppressing even his breathing to the absolute limit.
Over this past stretch of time, all the high-ranking commanders had realized that their leader—the once cold, calculating, and venomous First Captain—had been pushed to the very brink of mental collapse by a string of completely illogical, devastating blows.
At times like this, the best choice was to remain silent, acting like a moss-covered stone and waiting for the storm to pass.
Sure enough, after venting his rage at the empty air and standing in silence with his head bowed for a long moment, the manic aura gradually receded from Typhus, replaced by an even deeper, heavier gloom.
The Destroyer swarm retreated back inside his armor, and Typhus's voice returned to a stagnant, dead calm, as though his outburst had never happened.
"Pass down the order: all positions are to remain on high alert at all times." He turned his gaze back toward the flickering Loyalist lights in the distance. "Do not assume you can rest easy just because you repelled a single assault. The moment we let our guard down—even for an instant—those Helldivers will launch an all-out offensive like flies catching the scent of blood."
"Furthermore," Typhus paused, a thread of murderous intent seeping into his tone, "the instant there is any word regarding Loyalist Space Marines, report it to me immediately."
"Yes, my lord." As if granted a royal pardon, the subordinate hurriedly saluted, backed away, and vanished swiftly into the foul-smelling fog.
Compared to the Plague Legions' side of the front, which seemed perpetually shrouded in gloom and wrath, the atmosphere over on the Perditia defensive line was infinitely better. The mood here could even be described as jubilant; the air was no longer thick with the stench of despair, but rather the long-awaited scent of victory and hope.
Inside the makeshift Supreme Command post, the lights burned bright.
"Come, drink!"
Accompanied by a boisterous shout, four wildly different drinking vessels clinked heavily together in mid-air.
The four cups held entirely different liquids, reflecting the distinct personalities and origins of the four commanders. Cato Sicarius's goblet held crystal-clear, high-grade white wine from Macragge. Chapter Master Gabriel Seth of the Flesh Tearers held a chalice of deep, blood-red wine that clung to the glass as he swirled it, looking much like flowing gore. Krom Dragongaze of the Space Wolves clutched a massive tankard of Fenrisian mjod, radiating a potent aroma of sweet honey and raw alcohol.
Meanwhile, Robert, being a mere mortal, held nothing more than an ordinary enamel mug filled with steaming, strong recaf.
Among the four, none was more uninhibited than Krom, the barbarian hailing from a frozen death world.
"Gulp, gulp—hah!"
Krom threw his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he downed the entire tankard of mjod—a brew strong enough to knock out a mammoth—in a single breath. He slammed the mug heavily onto the tactical table and wiped his liquor-stained beard.
"Hahaha! Exhilarating!" Krom's single eye gleamed with excitement. "I arrive just in time to catch a thoroughly satisfying major victory! This place might stink a bit, but the fighting is damn well worth it!"
Robert smiled, blowing gently at the liquid floating on the surface of his mug before taking a small sip, letting the warm liquid slide down his throat.
"Mm," Robert said sincerely, a rare look of relaxation crossing his face. "Today is the happiest day yet!"
To him and the Helldivers not only surviving in this brutal universe known as Warhammer, but actually driving the arrogant Typhus into such a corner, brought an incomparable sense of achievement.
Sicarius elegantly set down his stemmed goblet, his resolute face wearing the signature confidence and pride of the Ultramarines. Looking at the markers on the tactical map indicating the Plague Legions' retreat, he gave a firm nod.
"The strategic plan is already more than halfway to success," Sicarius said, his voice steady and powerful. "We have severed their offensive momentum and destroyed their aerial supremacy. What follows is a virtually guaranteed defensive battle. As long as we hold the line and await reinforcements, this massive plague that has ravaged the galaxy for ten millennia will meet its end right here on Perditia."
Speaking to this point, the Second Company Captain straightened his spine, his eyes blazing. "And every single one of us will earn supreme glory for it. This will be a brilliant, defining chapter in the history of the Imperium."
Off to the side, Seth silently swirled his wine glass without speaking, though his perpetually furrowed brow had noticeably relaxed.
Just then, Robert set down his enamel mug and tapped his fingers lightly against the tabletop, the crisp sound drawing everyone's attention back to him.
"Still, we need to guard against arrogance."
Looking at these superhuman Astartes, Robert's tone was calm, yet his words were dead serious. "We must take seriously the reality that the Plague Legions still possess substantial combat-effective forces. Although Typhus has suffered a setback, the sheer number of Death Guard and Plague Zombies under his command remains massive, and they hold advantageous terrain. A cornered beast is always at its most dangerous."
He swept his gaze around the table, finally letting his eyes rest on the green contamination zone marked on the map. "If we aren't careful and let things devolve into 'an arrogant army is destined to fall,' that would be downright laughable. We paid too high a price to achieve this advantage—we cannot afford to throw it away through a moment of carelessness."
Hearing this, Krom's hearty laughter subsided into a sober nod, while Sicarius also inclined his head slightly in agreement.