The hybrid genestealer's crimson eyes were fixed on the battlefield before him, his bloodshot eyeballs, strained from excessive fatigue and anger, appeared exceptionally ferocious in the dim firelight.
The air was thick with the rich smell of blood, char, and the foul stench of burning flesh. Whether it was the torn and pierced genestealers, or the unrecognizable, armor-shattered Astra Militarum, their bodies were piled up like mountains, layer upon layer, covering the entire central reception hall.
Blood had now completely stained the ground, converging into winding streams that slowly seeped between twisted metal wreckage and shattered wall bricks.
The furious firepower from both sides—the roar of autoguns, the hiss of lasguns, and the boom of grenade explosions—had utterly destroyed the room.
The once spacious and bright reception hall was now an unrecognizable ruin, with exposed rebar like struggling bones, and charred walls covered in bullet holes and the hideous scars left by explosions.
No one could discern its original appearance; even its designer, if present, could only face this shocking mess, fruitlessly searching their memory for a trace of its former self.
The battle had only lasted a short hour. Within this hour, the total number of enemies never exceeded thirty, but strangely, it never dropped below twenty either.
Batch after batch of Astra Militarum poured in like a flowing stream, filling the fallen gaps one after another. Logically, this extremely foolish attrition tactic would only cause these Human soldiers to suffer more firepower and greater casualties, eventually collapsing in despair.
However, the cruel reality was that his side was the first to falter! The number of genestealers who had died in the front half of the first floor, including the central reception hall, had already reached five hundred, which was almost half of his available forces!
Every fallen kinsman sounded an alarm deep within him. His forces were nearing a dangerous tipping point; if this continued, he feared the entire first floor would be lost.
"Retreat!" The hybrid could no longer endure this attrition. His crimson eyes trembled violently as he made up his mind. Through the psychic link, sharp and urgent commands instantly reached the depths of every genestealers' mind: evacuate this location, completely abandon the central reception hall!
In response to the enemy's retreat, the players' first reaction was not hesitation, but like enraged beasts, they immediately pursued relentlessly. The muzzles of boltguns smoked, the red light of lasguns flickered, and as soon as the enemy was out of sight, they advanced without hesitation, their steps urgent and firm.
This was clearly the instinct of the Helldivers—a fanaticism that disregarded everything, solely to tear the enemy to shreds. For players, being "aggrieved" was absolutely unacceptable; if the enemy dared to attack, they had to immediately retaliate, returning it twofold.
The moment the central reception hall was abandoned, the flames of war, like a tide, quickly spread to the rear half of the first floor. However, the players soon discovered that the hybrid genestealer's belief that he could hold out for another hour was not unfounded; in fact, he had been conservative.
Firstly, the area of the rear half was nearly three times larger than the simple central reception hall and was divided into several rooms.
These areas were not flat and open, but had numerous facilities obstructing the players' advance: collapsed metal cabinets, scattered Abandoned pipes, and various mechanical remnants of unknown purpose, all intertwined, forming natural barriers.
Manual clearing was necessary to pass, and during this time, genestealers would undoubtedly dart out from the shadows like ghosts, harassing and interfering, forcing players to divert their attention.
High-explosive ordnance could, of course, clear these obstacles, but most players, when encountering situations that could be cleared manually rather than needing explosives like load-bearing walls, would not easily use precious explosives.
After all, exp were not free; every merit represented the fruit of their desperate struggle on the battlefield. Many players cherished their exp, hoping to save them to buy a cool weapon in the shop, such as an extremely sharp power sword or a powerful heavy bolter.
Before buying these "favorites," they clearly did not intend to casually squander their exp.
And the hybrid keenly noticed this. He saw the occasional hesitation of those Human soldiers when clearing obstacles, and their reluctance to easily use explosives.
He certainly couldn't understand things like "exp" or "shop" in this context, but based on instinct and experience, he made a self-righteous guess: these Astra Militarum didn't have enough high-explosive ordnance!
A flash of unexpected brilliance flickered in his crimson eyes, his tense nerves suddenly relaxed, and he fell into a brief and fervent surprise. At this moment, he felt he could do it again! Perhaps these Humans weren't so difficult to deal with; they still had a chance!
However, this somewhat naive fantasy was quickly shattered by cruel reality—because for players acting as combat soldiers, this back-and-forth, step-by-step urban warfare might be thrilling, full of tactical fun and adrenaline-pumping excitement, but for the two squad leaders in the rear, they were bored to tears... no, to the point of their balls splitting.
The two looked at each other, one idly picking his nails, the other starting to check his lasgun for dust, occasionally muttering impatiently.
"If it weren't for the exp received from squad members' resurrections even while lying here, I definitely wouldn't do this; it's too damn boring!"
But they absolutely could not go to the dangerous front lines. As grassroots commanders, their lives were far more "valuable" than those of ordinary players; once they died unexpectedly in battle, they would immediately respawn with the next higher-ranking company commander, which meant with Robert, who was in a safer position further out.
At that point, not only would their subordinate players definitely be dissatisfied, but they would also hinder the progress of the entire battle strategy. If it really aroused public anger, punishing an "unqualified" squad leader would not require any official operation like reporting; the players themselves could solve it internally:
Shoot the person who aroused public anger, and then the higher-up—for current players, that would be Company Commander Robert—would not acknowledge their ability to inherit their previous identity, making the executed player directly join the Helldivers queue as a newcomer, with all previously accumulated exp reset to zero.
However, speaking of the source of exp, players also had an interesting cognitive error, or rather, Terrabyte had intentionally misled them in various ways. He made them naturally believe that these were Imperial rewards they received for killing enemies of Humanity.
But in reality, the essence of exp was not like that. Their distribution was entirely calculated based on how much dynamic information their war actions created, and Terrabyte then awarded exp to players based on how much stronger he became after obtaining this dynamic information.
From beginning to end, this actually had nothing to do with the Imperium of Man; Terrabyte merely changed the numbers on the players' panels… One could even say that if Terrabyte didn't want to keep enough Humans as "nutrients" or "test subjects" for efficient dynamic information output, waiting for internal Human conflicts to shift from secondary to primary after external enemies were cleared, then for a large-scale civil war to erupt, allowing him to simply feast on information without doing anything, then the exp players would gain from fighting Humans would be the highest tier—because that would generate the most complex, most dynamic, and most valuable information flow.
Of course, even if the exp gained from fighting Humans were truly the highest tier, most players probably wouldn't choose to cooperate with xenos to turn and fight Humans, but would simply quit the game—after all, this game wasn't mandatory. If the developers disgusted them in such a way, forcing them to be traitors, couldn't they just not play?
If they encountered a game with a pay to win game, but upon entering, found they could only play as a puppet army, would players still hold their noses and play?
No, they would, of course, choose to harshly criticize the development team, sending every relative in their entire family tree to the crematorium. Ultimately, players are normal humans of the 21st century, not psychopaths infected with the Bloodcross.
They will understand the game content and make choices consistent with their own beliefs based on that content—in a sense, this is also a manifestation of players defying authority; within the game, they will only do things that align with their own thoughts.
Even if they can be guided, it's fundamentally because the guidance aligns with their beliefs, and players choose to accept it. And if the guidance differs from their beliefs, or is even completely opposite, then players will choose to reject or even attack it—one could say that in the Warhammer universe, they are the unparalleled, unprecedented Sons of Liberty.