The advance of the Death Guard remained heavy and unstoppable, but as they pushed deeper into the battleship, the assault that should have swept away all resistance unexpectedly slowed down.
These mortals' resistance did not collapse with rising casualties. On the contrary, they were like a spring being continuously compressed. The harder the Plague Marines pressed, the fiercer the rebounded firepower became. That suffocating resilience felt bottomless, making it impossible to tell where the limits of these mortals' willpower truly lay.
At a crucial junction leading to the engine room, a group of the Forlorn Hope was driven into a dead end with only a one-way exit.
The leading Death Guard waved to halt his subordinates' frontal assault, a smile appearing on the rotted face beneath the helmet. Since the prey was already in the cage, why rush to execute them? They decided to have some fun with these interesting mortals and test just how "enduring" they were.
"Go on. Bring them the Loving Father's gift."
---
Accompanied by sorcerous whispers, a large crowd of stumbling figures emerged from the shadows. They were not merely ordinary Nurgle walkers; among them were crew members who had just fallen in battle, and even a large number of resurrected bodies from the Forlorn Hope.
Their vocal cords had been deliberately preserved, and the pustules in their throats vibrated as they walked, letting out heartbreaking wails: "Officer, save me! It hurts so much—"
"Don't shoot! I'm Sergeant Gregory! Are you blind?! It's friendly fire!"
"I feel awful—I want to go home, Mom—"
These twisted monsters stumbled closer toward the Forlorn Hope's position, stretching out decaying arms as if begging for rescue. The Death Guard anticipated seeing wavering behind the defensive line, expecting hesitation driven by sympathy—the ultimate catalyst for a defensive collapse.
However, the other side of the barricade was dead silent.
No response, no gasps, not even the sound of a single gunshot.
One hundred meters, eighty meters, sixty meters—
The moment those wailing walkers crossed the fifty-meter absolute kill zone, the deathly silence was instantly shattered.
"Fire."
An order devoid of emotional fluctuation. The next second, dense webs of laser fire erupted from behind the previously silent bunker, all firing points bursting forth simultaneously as if through precise calculation.
Those walkers still shouting for "help" didn't even have time to lower their hands before their skulls were burned through by precise lasers, or their legs blown apart by bolter shells. The tactical execution of "letting them close before engaging" was carried out with such resolute firmness that it clearly ensured no enemy could slip through the firepower web. As for what those monsters were shouting, it seemed not to have reached the soldiers' ears at all.
"Iron-hearted mortals. Interesting."
The Death Guard were not angered; instead, they grew even more excited. They released a far deadlier concentrated toxic fog. This yellowish-brown mist not only possessed intense corrosive properties, but also contained a toxic irritant that made nerve endings acutely sensitive. Even a mere brush against it would cause pain akin to being skinned alive.
Simultaneously, thousands of Nurgle walkers were driven charging into the toxic mist, surging toward the dead end like a tide.
"Let me see how long you can endure in the agony of melting."
Time ticked by second by second.
One hour, two hours—until ten hours later.
Nearly all the Nurgle walkers on this battleship had been driven to exhaustion, and the Death Guard even had to ferry fresh corpses from nearby landing craft.
In front of the Forlorn Hope's position, shattered remains had piled up into a stinking hill, nearly blocking the once-wide corridor. The notorious poisonous fog continued to shroud the position. By all logic, even with fully sealed protective gear, this intensity of corrosion should have long since turned the flesh of these mortals and their equipment into pus.
Yet the gunfire from behind that position remained as steady, monotonous, and continuous as a mechanical metronome.
The cooling ports of the laser guns glowed blindingly bright even within the toxic fog, and heavy stubber barrels were swapped out one after another.
The Death Guard completely halted their advance. They even abandoned their original objective of seizing control of the battleship, standing nearby one by one to intently observe this company trapped in the dead end.
What they did not know was that those currently "suffering" in this toxic fog were not ordinary Imperial Guardsmen, but true veteran players.
Most members of this company had played "nuclear-infantry coordination" with Orks in the radiation hellscape of Perditia, where charging through environments that treated radiation like daily meals was routine. Afterwards, they had engaged in close-quarters melee combat against aliens in the city ruins of the Damocles Gulf while enduring biochemical poison gas.
For these veteran players, harsh environments? That was just immersion-boosting gameplay.
In fact, they often proactively manufactured such harsh environments just to disgust the enemy. The irritating toxic gas before them was, to their already numbed nervous systems, at worst a bit spicy on the eyes.
"Holy shit, farming these mobs is so satisfying! It's almost relaxing!"
"Don't stop, don't stop! My merit points are about to cap out man! I'mma be rich!"
"The plague boys on the other side are such good guys. They've been feeding kills for ten hours straight—why aren't the mobs running out yet?"
What the Death Guard perceived as a tragic, desperate defense testing the limits of humanity was, inside the voice chat channel behind the gas masks, a joyous feast of score-farming. Endless streams of Nurgle walkers were not terrifying monsters in their eyes, but walking merit points and home-delivered takeout.
As long as the gun barrels didn't burst and ammunition held out, they could farm right here until the server shut down.
It was just that such a good thing obviously could not last forever. Finally, the spawn of Nurgle decided to end this game called "observation" and personally step into the field to harvest these ripe crops.
When the Death Guard truly began to exert themselves, that suffocating sense of oppression instantly shattered the players' score-farming joy.
The roar of bolter guns grew denser and more rhythmic, and power scythes stained with corrosive rust sliced through steel and flesh.
Though the veterans desperately poured out firepower and some even charged forward with cluster grenades, in the face of the Astartes' absolute strength, the position that had held firm for over ten hours rapidly plunged into dead silence.
Minutes later, nothing remained in the dead end except limbs and broken armor scattered across the floor, alongside the last breathing member of the Forlorn Hope.
The leading Death Guard champion strode across the pile of corpses, its heavy footsteps crushing skulls beneathfoot. It reached out a massive hand covered in rotting flesh and proliferating bone spurs, lifting the Forlorn Hope soldier—whose legs had been blown off and whose chest continued to ooze blood—into midair.
Through the shattered gas mask, the Death Guard encountered a pair of eyes that remained fierce and devoid of any fear.
"Stunning willpower."
A trace of genuine appreciation flickered in the Death Guard champion's clouded single eye. It was in no rush to crush the mortal's neck, instead speaking with a wet voice seemingly rising from the depths of a swamp, carrying a preacher-like seductive tone.
"You have a chance. A chance to resurrect all your comrades and erase pain and torment. The Loving Father's love is forgiving. As long as you nod, I can guarantee you will no longer be trapped within this fragile shell. I hope you consider it carefully—"
"Click."
A crisp sound of a metal spring snapping shut abruptly interrupted the Death Guard's sermon.
It was the hand the Forlorn Hope soldier had concealed behind his back, pulling the pin on a suicide grenade—specifically, a bundle of modified high-explosive fragmentation charges.
The Death Guard's reaction was astonishingly fast. The moment it heard the sound, its previously somewhat sluggish massive body violently executed an evasive maneuver while attempting to fling the mortal in its hand far away.
"Boom—!!"
A violent explosion whipped up a storm of blood and gore within the narrow corridor.
Despite its quick reaction, the distance was simply too close. The explosive shockwave mixed with high-heat shrapnel instantly swallowed its right side. When the smoke and dust cleared, the Death Guard champion staggered back a couple of steps before steadying itself. Its thick right arm was gone, leaving only jagged stumps where black pus gushed continuously from the wound, sizzling as it dripped onto the floor.
The surrounding Plague Marines raised their weapons, seemingly angered by the sudden counterattack.
Yet this champion, missing its right arm, merely waved its remaining left hand, signaling its subordinates to lower their weapons. It looked down at its empty right side; there was no pain, only a numb emptiness. The rotting flesh around the wound was already rapidly scabbing and writhing under the repair of Nurgle daemons.
It felt no anger. Instead, a profound sense of pity and regret surfaced on its ulcerated face, as if it had just watched an exquisite piece of art accidentally damaged before its eyes.
"What a... pity," it sighed, its voice carrying a strange gentleness, "this indifference to pain, this madness that still craves destruction even in a desperate situation—they were born to belong to the Loving Father."
It turned around, looked at the group of Death Guard similarly puzzled by this, and gave a deep command: "Tell the brothers to pause for a moment. Do not slaughter them casually as if they were waste."
It paused, its gaze piercing through the dim corridor as if looking toward the mortals still stubbornly resisting deeper within the battleship.
"I am going to report this situation to Lord Typhus... I believe these mortals are qualified to enter the Loving Father's garden, and they are very well-suited to become one of us. Even if by force, we ought to grant them this honor."