Perditia Front, Hill 312.
This was one of the critical nodes for intercepting Nurgle's poxwalker horde. The air reeked of dense ozone and the burnt stench of scorched rotting flesh. The mud in the trenches was soaked with blood and pus, turning into a dark brown slush that squelched disgustingly with every step.
When the lead elements of the 117th Regiment, "Iron Vanguard," finally climbed out of the communication trench and onto the defensive position, the exhausted remaining defenders—who were in the middle of swapping lasgun magazines—visibly breathed a massive sigh of relief.
A player covered in mud, with a distinct scratch across his gas mask, walked up to greet them. Judging by his rank insignia, he was the highest-ranking officer left alive here, a company commander.
"You're finally here. The 117th Regiment, 'Iron Vanguard', right?" The captain's voice came through the crackling vox-channel, carrying a hint of relief at having survived the ordeal. "If you'd been any later and another wave hit us, we definitely wouldn't have held. That last wave of plague zombies pushed straight into the trench and fought us eye-to-eye."
The commander of the Iron Vanguard, whose ID was "Raiden," did not answer immediately. Instead, he scanned the devastated hilltop. Fewer than two hundred men stood scattered across the position, with severed limbs and broken bodies everywhere.
"There are so few of you left," he muttered, frowning. "Where is the main force of your regiment?"
"Don't get me started. Our regimental commander was right on the front lines and got sent back to spawn shortly after the fight began." The captain shrugged helplessly, pointing toward a distant area shrouded in green toxic mist.
"Honestly, no matter where you stand in this place, the chances of getting hit are about the same. It's just a choice between mortars or gas shells. He was just unlucky. The second he poked his head out to command, a stray bullet took him down before he could even leave a final word."
This was the norm on this battlefield. No protagonist armor, and everyone was equal in the face of death.
As the captain spoke, he began sizing up this newly arrived reinforcement unit. Slowly, he noticed something off.
Normally, when reinforcements arrived, the voice channels were an absolute mess. Players would vent about how hard the map was to navigate, complain about tripping over bodies, or yell asking where the densest monster spawns were to farm points. But this Iron Vanguard unit was different. They were unnervingly quiet.
Every player was silently checking weapons, reinforcing covers, and lugging ammo crates. Their movements were clean, precise, and carried a chilling aura of lethal discipline. No joking, no messing around.
"Speaking of which..." The captain watched Raiden observing enemy positions through his macrobinocular, then asked with some hesitation, "Are you guys... 'pros'?"
"Hmm?" Raiden lowered the macrobinocular in surprise and turned to look at him. "What makes you say that?"
The captain shrugged. "Isn't it obvious? The atmosphere and attitude of your regiment are way too serious compared to us casual players.
When you walked in just now, not a single person was spamming trash talk in the global channel. Your whole presence feels completely different from ours.
It's almost like... like you're actually treating this as a war you have to win, rather than playing a game."
Raiden went quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head, his voice low. "It really doesn't have anything to do with being professional. It's hard to explain in a sentence or two. If I had to say, maybe it's because we saw something earlier. We just don't want to lose."
The captain was thoroughly confused by the answer, but he did not probe further. Time was precious on the battlefield.
"Anyway, you should have received your new orders by now, right?" Raiden changed the subject.
"Yeah, the system just refreshed the quest. I'm taking the rest of my men to transfer to another hill on the flank. The pressure is lighter over there, making it a good spot to wait for our regimental commander to lead a fresh squad back and reorganize."
The captain slapped Raiden's shoulder, his tone relaxing significantly. "With you guys holding this place, I can rest easy. Looking at your setup, unless things get completely impossible—like Chaos Space Marines charging over—you're definitely not losing this position."
Both sides completed the handover of defensive duties quickly. The remaining defenders began their retreat, while the warriors of the Iron Vanguard rapidly filled into every firing position.
In a sheltered corner of the trench, a player with the ID Muad'Dib leaned against a row of sandbags. Instead of mounting his gun like the others, he sat with his head down, looking somewhat distracted as his fingers lightly touched a rough garland hanging around his neck.
It was an amulet woven from scrap tin and wild flowers, given to him by that little girl.
He carefully stroked those fragile petals, terrified that his carapace-armored fingers might crush them to pieces.
"Hey, Yuri," he nudged his nearby squadmate. "Do you think I should find a spot to hide this garland first? Or maybe dig a hole, bury it, and mark the spot?"
"Why are you asking me about this?" Yuri was busy hooking an ammunition belt into a heavy bolter, not even bothering to turn around. "If you really want my opinion, don't bury it in the dirt. You know what this battle is going to look like. If an artillery barrage plows through here later, the terrain itself will change. Where are you going to find it then?"
"No, it's just..." Muad'Dib protected the garland nervously. "I'm worried that once the fighting starts, my movements will be too rough and ruin it.
The little girl gave this to me, saying it was blessed by the Emperor. If it breaks... it feels like bad luck, and I'd feel terrible facing her."
Yuri couldn't take it anymore and said flatly, "Didn't that little girl give you this garland so you'd wear it while killing enemies? It's the thought that counts, so it's best to wear it. Think about it: a warrior heading off to battle carrying the blessings of his people back home. That's how you get the real immersion."
Muad'Dib stopped what he was doing and looked at the fragile petals, still hesitant. "But if it breaks, how do I explain it to her? If this thing had a durability stat, it'd probably be 1. It crumbles if you touch it." He scratched his helmet in frustration, looking troubled.
"You idiot," Yuri smacked his helmet in exasperation. "When the time comes, you just tell her this garland protected you, intercepted a fatal bullet or something, and saved your life.
You think she'd be happier about that or about the garland staying intact? That's called a 'miracle.' Ever heard of story flavor?"
Seeing Muad'Dib still staring blankly, Yuri continued feeding him absurd logic. "Besides, even if the garland fails to protect you and you end up dying, it still doesn't matter. You were wearing a gas mask back then, wrapped up tight like a dumpling just like the rest of us.
In other words, that little girl doesn't even know which specific person she gave it to. She only knows it was a 'heroic uncle going off to die.'"
Yuri pointed toward their respawn point—their squad leader, who looked over in confusion. "So even with the game mechanics, when you respawn and go tell her you didn't die, it works out the exact same way."
Hearing this explanation, Muad'Dib experienced a sudden wave of realization. He slapped his thigh directly. "You really do have a way with words! That's a complete logical loop!"
Having resolved his internal dilemma, Muad'Dib hesitated no longer and began preparing for battle in earnest.
In the grey, dreary monotony of the trench, that modest splash of color stood out conspicuously, yet felt remarkably sacred.
"Alright, stop slacking off. Get up here and mount the gun, I'll feed the ammo belt," Yuri urged, his eyes fixed on the rolling green mist ahead. "The zombie horde is here."
Muad'Dib took a deep breath, pure killing intent surging in his eyes behind the gas mask. He tapped the garland on his shoulder gently and muttered under his breath, "Watch closely, little girl. I am about to show you my swordfighting skills."
The next second, the piercing blare of a bugle echoed across the entire position.
"Enemy attack! All units, open fire!"
The initial phase of the battle proceeded just as smoothly as the players had anticipated. The Helldivers formed three overlapping lines of fire. With every synchronized volley, hundreds of las-beams swept across the vanguard of the poxwalker horde like a massive, glowing-red scythe.
The shambling plague zombies dropped like wheat before a blade, completely unable to close within thirty meters of the trench.
"Hold the line! Keep the rhythm steady! First row reload, second row step up!"
Standing on a raised lip of the trench, the Third Company Captain waved his chainsword, directing the defense with high spirits. The previous overwhelming despair of being swallowed by the horde was gone, replaced by the thrilling high of controlling the battlefield.
"Looks like we've got this locked down!" the Third Company Captain shouted into the vox-channel. He even found time to make an exaggerated forward-slashing gesture toward the thickest green mist in the distance. "Heavy weapons team, put a heavy round right into that elite monster over there!"
Before his words could land, a deep, brutal roar ripped through the air.
No warning. No whistling sound. A heavy-caliber bolt shell struck the Third Company Captain's chest in an instant.
Under the watchful eyes of the surrounding players, the captain who had been giving orders just a second ago was torn apart; his upper body exploded like a sealed pressure cooker detonating from within, turning into a cloud of blood mist and bone fragments. Only a pair of legs remained standing blankly in place before collapsing limply into the mud.
"Sniper?! No, that's a bolt round!"
"Over there! There's something in the green mist!"
The toxic fog, which had previously served as mere background scenery, violently churned. Accompanied by heavy, earth-shaking footsteps, several massive, bloated silhouettes slowly stepped into view.
It was a nightmare made manifest. They wore rusted, rotting power armor oozing with pus, twisted horns sprouting from their helmets, surrounded by swarms of flies like black storm clouds. The bolters in their hands were thicker than a normal human's thigh, their muzzles trailing wisps of pale green smoke.
"It's the Death Guard! Chaos Space Marines!"
The situation inverted instantly. The previously impenetrable las-line proved pale and useless against these true engines of war. Standard lasgun fire striking those Nurgle-blessed ceramite plates could produce nothing more than harmless, fleeting sparks.
In contrast, every round of enemy fire resulted in a player being blown to pieces alongside their cover.
"Raiden," the regimental commander of the Iron Vanguard, lay flat behind the trench line, staring fixedly at the approaching green giants. He realized they had walked into a nightmare scenario right as they stepped onto the battlefield—the Plague Fleet wasn't merely harassing this point; they were dead set on taking this hill.
"Comms officer!" Raiden snapped his head around and roared, "Request artillery fire support from the rear immediately! I'm sending you the coordinates—call for a full-grid barrage! Fire everything!"
"Commander!" A nearby adjutant grabbed the comms officer's hand, his face pale as he looked at Raiden. "We've run into Space Marines, so artillery support will definitely be approved. But if we send out a high-frequency signal right now, our position will be completely exposed!"
The adjutant pointed toward the distant Death Guard warriors. "Right now, at least we're the only ones who know where they are. Once we send the signal and broadcast our coordinates, they'll know exactly where our command post is! This bare hilltop will turn into a absolute death trap!"
Several surrounding officers turned to look at Raiden, their eyes filled with hesitation. In past gaming experience, revealing a command post's coordinates to the enemy—especially when air superiority remained uncertain—was practically equivalent to a team wipe.
"You're right. If we call in the artillery, we might die," Raiden shoved the adjutant's hand aside, pointing at the Death Guard currently slaughtering the front line, his voice cold as iron. "But if we don't call it, we will definitely die!"
"Those are Astartes! Nurgle Astartes! We can't scratch them with lasguns and grenades! If we don't suppress them with heavy fire, our heavy weapons teams will get picked off one by one like sitting ducks!"
Raiden grabbed the vox-unit and jammed it directly into the comms officer's hands. "Once our defensive nodes are taken step by step and all our heavy firepower goes silent, that's when real hopelessness sets in! They'll flood the trench with the poxwalker horde, and we won't even get the chance to use self-detonations to take a Space Marine down with us!"
"We are the Helldivers. Dying to artillery or dying to a bolt shell makes no difference! But this hill..." Raiden turned around, resting his lasgun on a sandbag as he peered through the sight toward the endless horde in the mist.
"Nurgle's plague will not step past this hill! They shall not pass! Send the signal!"
Artillery support from the rear arrived swiftly and fiercely.
Accompanied by the shrieking tear of the atmosphere, a dense salvo of Basilisk shells rained down upon the front edge of the hill. The earth-shattering explosions and shockwaves temporarily checked the frenzy of the horde, reducing countless poxwalkers to ash within the destructive flashes.
However, for the Death Guard encased in corrupted power armor, a barrage of this scale was little more than an inconvenience.
Shrapnel clattered against their thick, bloated ceramite plates with sharp metallic rings, incapable of breaching the resilient outer shells blessed by Nurgle. They trudged forward through the artillery fire like dark jagged rocks standing firm against a violent storm. Whenever they steadied their footing, the bolters in their hands spewed precise, lethal flames.
"Three o'clock, heavy stubber. Eliminate."
A Death Guard muttered coldly, followed by a heavy bolt round punching clean through the sandbag bunker. Following the explosion, that firing position fell instantly silent.
They acted like precise, unfeeling surgical scalpels, systematically stripping away the heavy firepower nodes that the Helldivers relied on to survive.
And without heavy fire suppression, the poxwalker horde that had been halted by the artillery flooded forward once more like a burst dam, pouring through the breach opened by the Death Guard and washing over the first line of defense.
The defense was collapsing.
Looking at the red warnings multiplying across his field of view and watching the Death Guard pushing their muzzles almost directly against the players' heads to fire, Raiden knew conventional tactics were no longer an option.
"Commander! The flank has fallen! They're pushing up!"
Raiden didn't answer. He calmly picked up the vox-unit and switched to the artillery channel. His voice sounded remarkably clear and resolute amid the deafening noise of the explosions.
"Calling artillery battery. Coordinate correction."
He rattled off a string of coordinates.
The player operating the artillery on the other end froze. "Those are your own positions!"
"The enemy is already on top of us," Raiden replied, watching a Plague Marine rip through one of his soldiers. "Open fire on us! Repeat, fire a full-coverage salvo on this hill! Don't save ammunition—level this place to the ground!"
At the exact moment Raiden issued the suicidal command, on the other side of the trench line...
Muad'Dib felt a violent wave of vertigo. Sharp ringing filled his ears, as if a thousand cicadas were screaming inside his head. He forced himself to shake his head, his vision gradually clearing from blurry blotches of red and black.
The first thing that caught his eye was Yuri—this time, he truly was just "Yuri." The shockwave from that point-blank explosion hadn't just knocked Muad'Dib unconscious; it had shredded Yuri's upper body entirely. His veteran teammate now slouched motionlessly against a ruined sandbag, dead.
Muad'Dib wiped the bloodstains off his gas mask with a trembling hand, sub-consciously glancing down at the garland around his neck. Miraculously, it was still intact. Those golden wild flowers remained vibrant and undamaged—a true miracle.
But now was not the time to marvel at it. Muad'Dib shifted his gaze to the twin-linked heavy bolter mounting before him. The barrel was still smoking. He hazily recalled the last frame he saw before losing consciousness: a bolt shell hitting the feed mechanism directly, a flash of fire, and then endless darkness.
By all logic, after taking a direct hit of that magnitude, its internal components should have melted, deformed, and turned into a useless pile of scrap iron.
Muad'Dib focused his gaze. Right now, a group of plague giants was striding past their defensive line with total impunity. Perhaps assuming no one remained alive here, a Death Guard happened to expose the side of his heavy, rust-caked power armor right in front of this weapon station, barely ten-odd meters away.
"Screw it..."
There was no time to care about details!
Muad'Dib gritted his teeth and endured the agonizing pain of his shattered bones, lunging forward onto the mount. Even if it was a pile of scrap iron, he was going to make it roar one last time! He grabbed the handles with a vice grip and slammed down on the trigger. He didn't hold much hope in his heart, aiming only to draw some aggro with a loud click.
Yet, beyond all his expectations—clack-zzzt!
The mechanical structure that should have been jammed and destroyed turned once more with a grating, metallic grind. After a brief flicker, the indicator light on the gun body stubbornly lit up green.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!!!
A roaring tongue of fire struck without warning from behind. At point-blank range, heavy bolt rounds punched violently through the unprepared Death Guard's nape and side helmet.
Ceramite shattered, spraying foul brain matter and black blood everywhere. Before the arrogant Chaos Space Marine could even turn around, his head exploded like a rotten watermelon, and his massive body crashed heavily to the ground.
"Holy shit! So this is what +80% reliability actually means! I can still mess you up even without Yuri!" Operating this revived killing machine, Muad'Dib laughed maniacally amid the deafening gunfire. "Who said you could pass?! Die, you bastards!"
This sudden turn of events immediately drew the attention of another Death Guard. The giant turned, the eye-lenses of his helmet flashing with eerie green light. Letting out an angry roar, he raised his power sword and charged forward with massive strides.
"Come at me, you bastard!"
Muad'Dib slammed the trigger down, cranking the handle frantically in a desperate attempt to track the enemy's terrifying speed.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Three bolt rounds struck the charging Death Guard dead in the chest. The massive kinetic force brought the tank-like body to a sudden halt, bursting three gaping holes in his chest plate and spraying pus everywhere.
But that was all.
The supernatural resilience granted by Nurgle allowed them to push through such damage. The next second, a stench-laden gust of wind hit his face.
The Death Guard had closed the distance. With a flick of his right wrist, the longsword flew forward with a howling wind.
CRACK!
The twin-linked heavy bolter that had brought about a miracle was shattered completely by the blade, along with Muad'Dib operating behind it. The power sword thrown by the Plague Marine impaled Muad'Dib straight through the chest, pinning him together with his armor against the muddy wall of the trench.
Blood gushed from his mouth as the light in Muad'Dib's eyes faded rapidly. Yet, his hands remained clamped tight around the blade's edge, as if he still wanted to pull the power sword out.
"Hmph."
The Death Guard scoffed coldly, looking down at the fragile mortal without rushing to finish him off.
Based on his long experience across endless wars, a mortal pierced by his blade—no matter how resolute their willpower—would be converted by Nurgle's love within seconds.
This mortal would soon twist and mutate in extreme agony, rising as a new poxwalker to join the Grandfather's great family.
He looked forward to witnessing that scene of despair and fall.
BOOM! BOOM!
The exact second the Death Guard scoffed, delayed destruction rained down upon them.
Heavy-caliber howitzers descended with shrill screeches, blanketing the hill in indiscriminate carpet bombardment. Earth torn up by the explosions soared into the air like a tidal wave, its shockwaves sweeping clean across everything in sight.
Even an warrior clad in Terminator armor wouldn't dare take a direct salvo of Basilisk artillery of this density, let alone those in standard power armor. The Death Guard was forced to abandon watching the mortal's conversion instantly, throwing himself into the blind spot of a freshly blasted crater and relying on his heavy pauldrons to withstand the flying shrapnel and shockwaves.
Rolling clouds of smoke obscured the sky and blocked the sun, swallowing all vision in a haze of greyish-yellow dust within seconds.
Hiding behind cover, a rare sting of annoyance surfaced in the Death Guard's heart. It wasn't because of the artillery barrage—mortal fire of this scale couldn't take his life—but because of his sword.
That mortal must have been blown into a pulp by now, he cursed inwardly. Under a barrage like that, a fragile body pinned to an earthen wall had zero chance of survival.
His concern was that his plague sword would be thrown to some unknown corner by the blast or buried beneath tons of dirt. That was a weapon blessed by the Grandfather; losing even one would be a supreme sacrilege.
Just as he was calculating how he would search for his weapon once the bombardment slackened, a strange sensation suddenly washed over his mind.
Darkness. Endless, bottomless darkness.
Muad'Dib felt his consciousness sinking rapidly, as though falling into an abyss woven from coldness and rot.
Is it over just like this? This life didn't even manage to trade one-for-one...
Right as his consciousness was on the brink of dissipating, he suddenly felt a vicious kick land squarely on his rear!
The force behind that kick was astonishing, bearing an indisputable wrath and majesty that kicked him straight out of that viscous darkness!
"Cough, cough, cough!"
Muad'Dib snapped his eyes open, coughing violently as air mixed with the tang of gunpowder rushed back into his lungs.
He found himself still impaled against the trench wall, surrounded by deafening explosions. Strangely, the shrapnel tearing past right beside him seemed to intentionally veer off to miss him.
The searing pain in his chest brought him back to his senses, and he looked down at the longsword running through him.
"Damn it... it hurts so bad..."
Gritting his teeth, he clamped both hands onto the hilt. A sudden, unexplainable surge of power welled up in hands that should have been weak and lifeless.
"Get... OUT!"
Pfft!
With a sickening squelch of tearing flesh and grinding bone, Muad'Dib actually pulled that broad power sword straight out of his chest!
The instant the blade left his body, a wondrous sight unfolded.
The heavy coat of rust, pus, and unknown green mold clinging to the blade began to crack and slough off like snow meeting a raging inferno. In the blink of an eye, the wicked weapon corrupted by Nurgle shed all its filth, revealing a gleaming adamantine blade as white as snow beneath.
Hummmm...
A crisp, steady hum of energy resonated through the air. The disruption field generator, which should have been broken long ago, inexplicably repaired itself and fired back up at max power. Crackling blue and white arcs of electricity danced joyfully along the blade's edge.
[Critical host condition detected... Injecting combat stimulants...]
[Adrenaline injected... Painkiller injected... Stimulant injected...]
The carapace armor's built-in life-support system went haywire, pumping every drop of stored medication straight into Muad'Dib's bloodstream. His veins bulged, his heart hammered like a war drum, and the world slowed to a crawl before his eyes.
At the exact same time, a grand, majestic voice filled with overwhelming power erupted inside his head: "You have been empowered! Charge!"
"ROARGHHHH!"
Muad'Dib let out an inhuman roar. Following an instinct that had just been imprinted into him, his legs drove into the mud, launching him out of the dust cloud like a golden artillery shell!
Over by the crater, the Death Guard turned his head at the noise, only for his eye-lenses to reflect a sight that filled him with sheer terror.
The mortal who should have been reduced to a pile of mashed meat or turned into a poxwalker was now sprinting toward him with a freshly purified power sword, moving at a speed that even an Astartes's dynamic vision could barely track!
And around that mortal's neck, a garland of pure psychic energy made of golden laurel leaves radiated a soft, warm light that burned Chaos to its core.
"This is impossible—" The Death Guard couldn't even finish his sentence before a brilliant streak of silver light sliced cleanly through the heavy smoke.
Fast. Impossibly fast.
That was not a sword stroke any mortal could deliver; it surpassed even an Astartes clad in power armor!
Bzzt-crack!
That was the sound of a disruption field shearing clean through ceramite.
The Death Guard felt his vision spin upside down, and then he caught sight of a familiar headless body still standing in place—his own body.
Muad'Dib didn't pause for even a microsecond. After taking off one head, his body pivoted mid-air with impossible agility, rushing straight toward the other Death Guard who had just poked their heads out from the bombardment.
"Enemy attack! It's a psiker! Not a puppet of the False Emperor?!"
The remaining three Death Guard raised their bolters in a panic, but that golden figure darted like a bolt of lightning, weaving effortlessly through the dense storm of bolt shells.
"Die! All of you, die!"
Muad'Dib's eyes were completely blank, filled with nothing but pure, unadulterated rage. He felt that as long as he swung the sword, the blade would find the enemy's weak points all on its own.
One slash severed the arm raising a gun.
Two slashes punched clean through thick chest armor.
Three slashes cleaved a Plague Marine trying to strike back in half, chainsword and all.
In a mere ten seconds.
When the artillery fire finally thinned out, not a single Death Guard remained standing on the hill.
Muad'Dib leaned on the sword, gasping for air in heavy ragged breaths, the golden garland around his neck glowing ever more vibrant. At his feet, a strange flame began to ignite on the fallen corpses of the Death Guard.
It wasn't ordinary fire; it was a liquid-like, flowing golden flame.
The fire burned quietly, producing no black smoke or foul stench, but instead wafting a faint, holy incense aroma into the air. At the severed wounds, the writhing Nurgle maggots were instantly reduced to nothingness within the golden flames.
Though the fire seemed modest and almost gentle, it steadfastly devoured the cursed flesh. Even the immortal bodies granted by Nurgle could do nothing but melt away slowly like wax under this golden blaze.
Even if it took an hour or two to burn out, the corpses of these Astartes were ultimately destined to turn into piles of pure ash, completely robbing them of any chance to resurrect or mutate.
A dead silence fell over the trench.
The surrounding Helldivers—who had been fighting to the death or preparing to meet their end—were all completely dumbfounded. Holding unpinned grenades or smoking lasguns, they froze in place like statues, their eyes shifting back and forth between the corpses burning with golden flames and Muad'Dib standing in the center.
This game can be played like this?!
"Holy shit..." Someone finally broke the silence, uttering a dry, awestruck gasp.
Yuri, who had just respawned, swallowed hard and cautiously crept forward. He looked at the transformed power sword in Muad'Dib's hand, then glanced at the golden garland around his neck, his mind racing.
As a veteran Warhammer fan, he knew exactly what a sudden power-up meant in this universe: either Big E himself had pulled off a miracle, or one of the Chaos Gods was messing around.
He squatted down, poked Muad'Dib's shoulder with a finger, and asked tentatively, "Bro... are you... are you still my bro? Is there any weird voice in your head right now telling you to slice off my head and offer it to someone?"
Muad'Dib looked at the guy, held it in for a long time, and finally squeezed out a sentence through his teeth: "Screw you man! I just pulled off such a sick play, and that's the first thing you say?!"
Hearing that familiar cursing and fiery tone, Yuri's suspended heart instantly settled back into his chest. That flavor was spot on—definitely not possessed by a Warp daemon!
Yuri stood up in delight and turned around to announce loudly to all the dazed players around them, his voice brimming with pride: "We're good! He's one of us!"
That single shout acted like a spark in a powder keg, causing the dead silent trench to explode instantly into noise.
"HOLY SHIT!!!"
Every player erupted into deafening cheers. Completely ignoring whether there were still poxwalkers outside, they swarmed forward like a hive of bees, surrounding Muad'Dib in a tight circle.
"You're insane, bro! Holy crap, a living Living Saint! This is my first time seeing a real one!"
"That was too damn cool! Those two slashes earlier looked like a Primarch possessed you! I recorded the whole thing—posting this on the forums is a guaranteed pin!"
"Bro, how did you get the Emperor's blessing? Is there some hidden questline? Can you teach me?"
"Let me touch the sword!"
"Wait!" Muad'Dib suddenly raised his left hand high and shouted, "There's one more thing!"
The scene fell silent instantly. Everyone stared at Muad'Dib, waiting to hear what he would say next.
Muad'Dib said with absolute gravity, "Almost forgot—I've gotta hurry up and slice these traitor corpses into eighteen pieces before the fire burns them to ash! You guys aren't gonna aggro my exp!"