Standing upon the still-twitching, flesh-covered ground, Aggeman spoke through the loudspeaker in his helmet, his voice rolling across the grotesque garden like thunder.
"You wanted to lure us here. Well, here we are. Where are you now?"
His voice echoed far, cutting through the purple spore mist that filled the air. Then came silence, the kind of silence that suffocates.
Aggeman was now completely certain. This was a trap meticulously set by the Tyranids, a textbook lure-and-destroy scenario. But he had no intention of retreating.
Because the premise of such a trap... was that the enemy had to be capable of devouring the bait. And who were they facing?
Eleven hundred fully armed, battle-hardened Astartes! Three thousand Ogryns equipped with tower shields! Hundreds of thousands of fearless, unyielding Helldivers!
Aggeman believed that with their current strength, even if the Tyranids used up massive amounts of biomass to produce another Norn emissary, the result would still be the same, that monstrosity would be crushed beneath their unstoppable tide of steel and blood.
The silence didn't last long. The ominous atmosphere made every player and Space Marine tighten their grip on their weapons. Then, a shrill whistling sound came from above.
The human troops reacted instantly. The Ogryns raised their tower shields high, while the Helldivers scrambled for cover.
It was almost funny, after so many brutal battles, the people of Planditium no longer associated a Tyranid attack with the screeching of the swarm or the dark mass on the horizon, but rather with this sound, the whistling of bone spikes, spore shells, and all manner of organic projectiles tearing through the air.
And when the bombardment began, it didn't stop, just like the Helldivers' relentless assaults. In fact, compared to the Helldivers' occasional "battlefield surprises" of friendly fire, the hive mind's perfectly coordinated barrages were far more precise, with no such mistakes.
As Aggeman watched the rain of bone shards and acid pods fall from the sky, and the black tide of the swarm surging forward to devour everything in its path, he merely stared through his visor with a cold gaze, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smirk.
"Is that it?"
BOOM!
The Tyranid wave crashed into the assault formation like a storm slamming into a mountain. The first line of Tyranids exploded against the Ogryns' impenetrable shield wall, bones crunched, ichor splattered, and the sound was oddly satisfying, like stomping on an overripe melon.
From above, the formation looked like a reef jutting defiantly from the sea, a big middle finger of steel and muscle to the swarm below.
No matter how many waves of chittering horrors smashed into it, they were shredded, squashed, and sent back to the biomass blender. The reef didn't so much as flinch.
Even the mortal Helldivers, squishier than the Ogryns but far more dramatic, held their ground with commendable, if slightly suicidal, enthusiasm.
Then came an Executioner-beast the size of a main battle tank, roaring like a blender full of angry chainsaws. Its scythe-like claws hacked through the lines, spraying blood and body parts like a gore fountain at a rock concert.
But a few quick-thinking players rushed in, not to fight directly—oh no, they had style. They darted around it like matadors hopped up on too much caffeine, shouting,
"Come on, you overgrown lobster! Bet your mom's a Zergling!"
The Executioner, clearly offended, screeched and flailed in rage, trying to swat the taunting pests. Meanwhile, a second group of Helldivers pushed an autocannon right up to its face—so close that the barrel was practically booping its nose.
"Fire!"
The autocannon roared, spitting shells straight into the beast's skull. Its armor cracked like cheap pottery. A few more bursts, and half its body turned into Tyranid soup. With one last, dramatic death cry that sounded suspiciously like a dying modem, the creature toppled over in a smoking heap.
The Helldivers erupted into cheers and applause as if they'd just watched fireworks.
A new player, eyes wide with awe, turned to one of the survivors who had been distracting the monster. "Dude! That was sick! How'd you even do that?"
The veteran puffed out his chest. "Heh, basic skills, basic skills. Don't hype me too much," he said, wiping his gas mask like a man polishing his ego. "When you've been playing this game for ten years like me, you'll get the hang of it."
"Ten years? Damn, respect, bro!"
"I freaking worship you, man!"
"Ten years in-game? That's commitment!"
"Eh, that's only one year in real life," someone muttered, earning a few chuckles.
As the veteran basked in glory, the universe decided to remind him about karma. A sizzling glob of acid fell from the sky, landing squarely on his head.
Ssszzz!
In half a second, the proud veteran turned into a steaming skeleton and collapsed with all the grace of a wet noodle.
"Oh shit! The veteran's toast!"
The Helldivers scattered instantly, screaming, cursing, and sprinting off like a colony of startled cockroaches, leaving the smoking remains of their "legend" behind as they dove straight into the next wave of Tyranids.
In truth, if the veteran had stayed alert, he could have easily dodged that projectile. The others who fought beside him had managed to evade it, not wasting even a second on celebration or distraction.
A harsh lesson: never lose focus on the battlefield.
Aggeman stood firm at the front line, his boltgun barking death in a cold, precise rhythm. Every short burst blew apart a Tyranid warrior or a lurking Lictor, turning their heads into exploding chunks of flesh.
Calmly reloading his weapon, he activated his loudspeaker again, his booming voice dripping with mockery as it echoed across the battlefield: "Still the same faces, huh? No surprises at all. Even the training drones were more challenging than you! At this pace, we could do this all day!"
The Tyranids, of course, didn't respond.
The hive mind had no emotions. It cared nothing for casualties. The swarm kept surging forward, relentless and tireless, like a tide controlled by an unseen hand. One wave after another crashed against the living reef of Ogryns and Astartes.
Countless Tyranids were crushed to pieces upon impact, their filthy fluids and shattered carapaces flying everywhere. Yet their brethren simply trampled over the corpses, continuing their suicidal charge, shattering, reforming, surging again and again.
Soon, the ground before the line was piled high with mountains of Tyranid corpses, a grotesque ramp that only made it easier for the next waves to attack. The battle had become pure attrition, a contest of will against will.
Staring at the endless, churning meat grinder of flesh and steel before him, Aggeman sneered coldly.
Good. If these brainless xenos are so desperate to throw themselves against us, then let them come! Let them all crash and shatter until nothing remains!
And so, the human army fought ceaselessly for an entire day within the Tyranid flesh garden, battling an unending swarm without rest.
From any conventional military perspective, their actions were sheer madness, an isolated force, deep behind enemy lines, without logistics or a retreat route. For any normal army, such a situation would be the greatest of strategic taboos.
But they were not a normal army.
The Helldivers, able to gain merits by killing enemies and resurrect on the spot after death, needed no supplies or rest. As for the Astartes, they could fight for seven days and nights without sleep or pause.
A single day? They were only just getting warmed up.
Sure enough, when the human troops finally ran out of ammunition by the first Terran standard hour, the Astartes and Ogryns didn't hesitate for a second, they switched to melee combat. After all, Astartes didn't have access to convenient system shops, and Ogryns were born to smash things with big metal clubs.
The Helldivers who preferred ranged combat quickly split into two factions: the sensible ones and the lunatics.
The sensible ones used their merit points to buy more ammo. The lunatics? They decided bullets were overrated.
Blades came out, all shapes, sizes, and levels of questionable maintenance. The lucky few swung power swords crackling with disintegration fields, cutting through armor like hot knives through butter.
The standard fighters wielded regulation combat knives and entrenching tools, proving once again that a good shovel solves most problems.
The less fortunate grabbed their empty rifles by the barrel and started swinging like medieval peasants in a bugpocalypse.
At that moment, the Helldivers collectively redefined the saying: "Fight the enemy with whatever you've got."
If it fit in a hand, it was a weapon. If it didn't, well, if there's a will there's a way.
Of course, a few players decided regular fighting was for normies and went for something more... cinematic.
For example, new streamers started popping up.
"Yo, what's good chat? It's ya boy CaseOH!" bellowed one Helldiver, standing there with absolutely nothing in his hands but a terrifying amount of confidence. "Everyone in stream, don't scroll past, this one's going in the lore books, baby!"
He fiddled with his camera angle like a man about to make history or an obituary, then turned toward the chittering, flesh-mountain swarm ahead. His grin stretched ear to ear.
"Aight listen—ain't nobody on Earth doin' what I'm about to do! You're about to see me throw hands with a Tyranid Warrior. No gear. No backup. Just raw muscle, baby!"
He cracked his knuckles, squared his stance, and shouted into the storm of spores, "LET. ME. SOLO. THEM!"
The chat exploded instantly.
[BRO WHAT?!]
[This guy's lost it!]
[How is bro not an ogryn?!]
[Finally, some good shit.]
[Just sit on them bro and they will die instantly!]
[BRO don't do it you'll provide the tyranids with enought biomass for a whole new fleet!]
Someone even typed:
[Place your bets, everyone. 100 bucks he doesn't last five seconds.]
The Helldiver cracked his knuckles dramatically.
"Aight, bugs! Let's make this go viral!" CaseOH yelled, rolling his shoulders like he was about to fight God in a Walmart parking lot. "Mom, if you're watchin'—this one's for you! Time to make you proud, baby!"
He pointed dramatically at the incoming Tyranid swarm, camera shaking from the sheer confidence radiating off him. "Clip it, chat! CLIP. IT.
We goin' full Ohio mode tonight!"
Before he finished speaking, he jabbed every combat stim in his armor's injector system into his body at once.
The violent concoction surged through his veins, making them bulge beneath his skin like ropes ready to burst. But he didn't care. Without unleashing his full potential, he couldn't even scratch the Warrior's carapace.
Roaring, he charged straight toward a Tyranid Warrior that had just torn two Helldivers apart.
The creature sensed danger. Its cold, alien instincts reacted instantly. It swung one of its massive scythe-like claws at the tiny human rushing toward it, faster than lightning.
Shunk!
A wet sound. The glinting bone blade pierced straight through the Helldiver's abdomen, bursting out of his lower back, skewering him like a chunk of meat on a spit.
Agonizing pain flooded his body, enough to make any normal person black out instantly. But the overdosed combat drugs suppressed his pain receptors, twisting that torment into a signal of exhilaration. He didn't even glance down at the weapon impaling him, instead, he grinned like a madman.
Being impaled meant there was no more distance between him and the Warrior.
"Hayaaaaaaaaaa!"
He screamed, swinging his fists with every ounce of strength he had left, ignoring the gaping wound spilling his guts. His first punch slammed into the Warrior's armored face with a sound like striking granite. The force shattered his knuckles instantly, but he didn't stop.
One punch. Another. And another!
He poured every last drop of power into his fists. The dull thuds turned into sickening cracks as the Warrior's chitin began to split. Green ichor splattered everywhere, mixing with shards of armor, coating his face and body.
The Tyranid Warrior, utterly confused by this suicidal human, tried to fling him off. But the Helldiver locked his legs tightly around its torso, tearing his own wound wider as he refused to let go.
Finally, after a flurry of reckless, bone-breaking blows, the Warrior's many-eyed head was reduced to a pulp of brains, ichor, and shattered bone, utterly unrecognizable.
The massive alien collapsed with a thunderous crash. The Helldiver, having paid a horrific price, slumped onto the corpse, gasping for air. His hands were no longer hands, the skin and muscle had been shredded to ribbons, the bones exposed, some twisted and broken at impossible angles. He had, quite literally, smashed the enemy to death with his own flesh and bone.
As he knelt there, panting atop the dead Warrior, a brilliant explosion of light burst across his livestream feed, accompanied by a resounding boom.
He looked up, eyes lighting with delight. "Hell yeah! Thanks to Brother Bronie for the 50 gifted subs! You're the best!!"
The donor, Brother Bronie, left a highlighted message on the screen.
[You took down a Warrior, how about going one step further? Try a Lictor next?]
"Bare-handed against a Lictor?" The player winced, his whole body twitching from the stims' aftereffects. "Isn't that a bit much bro "
[Please do it, I want to see it! I'll give you some more subs!]
"Deal! Don't back out, yeah?!" The Helldiver's exhaustion vanished instantly. He leapt to his feet, intestines dragging behind him as he scanned the battlefield. "Alright then, time to find me a Lictor!
[Awesome!]
[DO NOT EAT THE LICTOR BRO!]