Covered by the rearguard position, composed of tens of thousands of volunteer martyrs, as indestructible as a reef of steel, the assault squad led by Aggeman successfully retreated back to the human-controlled area.
The deafening sounds of slaughter and the tyranid screams faded away behind them, finally swallowed by the quiet beyond the defensive line, but the tragic atmosphere seemed to still linger on the power armor of every single Space Marine.
The moment Aggeman returned to the temporary command post, before he could even remove his helmet, EGO came up to him.
The overall commander of the Helldivers on Planditium urgently asked: "How was it? Did the assault yield any useful information?"
At this moment, Aggeman's thoughts were still immersed in the tens of thousands of mortal warriors who had willingly become a wall of flesh and blood to buy them time for withdrawal.
Hearing EGO's purely results-oriented question, he was slightly stunned, but quickly reacted and composed himself.
"Yes, we did gain quite a bit of information," Aggeman's voice was a little hoarse, "But whether it's useful is another matter."
Aggeman then recounted the observations from the assault from start to finish. This naturally included the unfortunate battle-brother who died in an accident, and the strange black flesh-blossom found on the body of the fallen warrior at the end.
EGO listened intently, folded his arms across his chest, and fell into a long period of contemplation.
After a while, baffled, he said: "Based on what you've described, I get the feeling, that the tyranids are trying to put down roots on Planditium?"
EGO brought up the planetary strategic situation map on the holographic sandbox. Countless red dots representing tyranid biomass and blue dots representing human defense lines intertwined, forming a jagged stalemate.
He mused curiously: "Strange, this war keeps getting stranger and stranger, shouldn't the tyranids be nomadic raiders who consume a planet and move on? Why have they become stationary squatters now? Their bizarre way of polluting the land and corpses seems like they are terraforming the ecosystem, rather than simply devouring."
EGO finally gave up on this line of thought that exceeded his understanding.
He waved his hand, as if shooing away bothersome thoughts, and muttered: "Forget it. If they want to fight this way, we'll fight them this way. Our manpower is infinite anyway; we can keep this attrition going until the heat death of the universe, and it still wouldn't be-"
At this, Aggeman could no longer hold back. He interrupted EGO's somewhat frivolous thought process: "Are you not concerned about the warriors under your command?"
"What?" EGO hadn't immediately understood Aggeman's question.
He looked at the holographic sandbox, thinking Aggeman was referring to the overall situation of the defense circles clashing with the tyranids.
"All the Helldivers have already reacted; the front lines are locked in combat with the advancing tyranids, and the strategy is in a state of stalemate. You don't need to worry about the massive loss of defensive positions caused by a surprise attack like before."
"No, I'm not talking about that!" Aggeman shook his head and intensified his tone.
"I'm talking about the tens of thousands of Helldivers who accompanied our assault squad! Not one of them returned after covering us. Are you not even going to ask about them?"
Only then did EGO realize.
For players like them, death was just a screen blackout, followed by a few seconds of waiting to respawn. Let alone tens of thousands, even if millions died, it was merely a fluctuating number on the battle report; there was no true sense of 'loss of living forces.'
But to an indigenous person of this world, a Space Marine Captain, EGO's indifferent attitude appeared somewhat horrifying.
That was tens of thousands of living Imperial Guard soldiers!
Even in a regime that treated human life as worthless grass, losing such a colossal force at once should prompt the commanding officer to at least ask for a detailed battle damage assessment, shouldn't it?
Tens of thousands of worthless blades of grass piled up together make a noticeable small mountain!
Immediately, EGO's acting skills came online. The casualness on his face instantly vanished, replaced by solemnity and gravity.
He gazed at Aggeman, and in a tone that sounded like he was reciting an epic of heroes, he said seriously: "Dying in a life-and-death struggle against the Xenos, they have died a worthy death. I am glad for them, and I strive to ensure that all the Helldivers die even more purposefully than this."
Aggeman watched him in silence, his power armor helmet's red ocular lenses betraying no emotion.
After a moment, he sighed softly: "Perhaps I was being a little sentimental. Let's change the topic. What should the assault squad do now? I don't want to stay here being idle."
Seeing that he had successfully bluffed his way through, EGO smiled: "That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. You don't need to worry about the positions that are in a stalemate or where we have the advantage. I'll compile a list of the defensive positions that are currently at a disadvantage and on the verge of collapsing and send it to you. You lead the assault squad to act as a fire brigade and lend them a hand."
And outside the meat grinder of Planditium, in the distant deep space, the scales of the war were decisively tipping due to this long stalemate.
Macragge.
The Homeworld of the Ultramarines, the heart of the Ultramar Sector, the brightest beacon in the Eastern Fringe of the Imperium of Man.
At this moment, the solemn and tranquil order over the planet's azure orbit had been broken. Hundreds of massive shadows were slowly gliding out of the synchronized orbital docks, like a flock of ancient behemoths awoken from slumber.
Battlecruisers, Attack Cruisers, Frigates, Destroyers, a fleet so vast it would strike fear into the heart of any enemy was gathering.
Their hulls were painted with the sacred U-shaped insignia, shining brightly against the backdrop of deep space, like a nebula composed of steel.
And at the forefront of this nebula, leading the entire fleet, was the legendary Gloriana-class Battleship, the Maccrage's Glory.
The colossal ship itself was a Fortress-Monastery flying through the void, its prow like a sword pointed at the darkness, and the array of macro-cannons and lance batteries along its hull resembled the armaments of a god.
It was once the flagship of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman and remains the symbol of the Ultramarines Chapter's supreme glory.
Planditium's persistence over such a long duration had bought Macragge enough precious time, a period sufficient to mobilize the entire sector's defensive strength.
The Ultramarines fully utilized this time, bought with the lives of countless warriors. They recalled patrol fleets scattered across various star systems, summoned combat companies returning from missions, and gathered hundreds of successor Chapters that had come to defend the Primarch, winding up every gear of the war machine.
They drew back their fist, assumed their stance, and prepared to unleash their full power, dealing the tyranids the strongest, most fatal blow.
On the bridge of Maccrage's Glory, Chapter Master Calgar stood before the command throne, gazing through the massive armored viewport at the colossal, ready fleet below.
A torrent of data constantly refreshed on his tactical helmet display, every light point representing a warship laden with pure fury.
The defenders of Planditium had secured them a window of opportunity. Now, it was their turn to end this war.