Seth pushed all his complex emotions back into the depths of his heart. Now was not the time to agonize over such things. With war looming, he decided to return to the field he knew best—war and slaughter.
The eyes hidden deep within Seth's helmet grew sharp and cold once more. He swept a gaze over White and the players behind him, resuming his usual tone. "Fine. I permit you to station here. But in this war, you must follow our instructions to the letter. Do not deviate in the slightest, or even I cannot guarantee what might happen."
"Understood! Sir!" Hearing Seth finally "soften," White's face immediately erupted into a brilliant smile. He agreed excitedly, nodding vigorously as if he had just completed a critical quest.
Led by White, the Helldivers marched gallantly into the deeper reaches of the nuclear power plant. The air was thick with a mixture of industrial exhaust and metallic scents, punctuated by the low, distant rumble of operating machinery. The corridors were narrow and complex, a labyrinth of crisscrossing pipes and wires where dim lights cast mottled shadows against the walls.
A Flesh Tearer was busy in an area piled high with ammunition crates and maintenance tools. Dust clung to his blood-red power armor as his massive palms carefully inspected the feeding mechanism of a heavy bolter.
Just then, a dozen Helldivers clad in carapace armor suddenly burst from around a corner, their footsteps sounding jarringly loud in the silent corridor. They spotted the busy Flesh Tearer instantly, their eyes flashing with that peculiar excitement unique to players "discovering an NPC."
"Hey! Sir!" the Squad Leader shouted first. His followers immediately swarmed forward, surrounding the Flesh Tearer. "Does the Sir need any help with anything?"
"We hope the Sir will command us as he pleases!"
"We're strong! Moving stuff is absolutely no problem!"
"Sir, you must be exhausted working all by yourself for so long. Do you want us to give you a shoulder rub?" One player even reached out, making a move to thump the Flesh Tearer's hardened power armor pauldrons.
The Flesh Tearer was completely stunned by this sudden cacophony and mortal enthusiasm. His movements checking the bolter froze instantly. His once-focused gaze trembled violently inside his helmet; faced with a dozen passionate mortal faces and a barrage of questions, he felt as though his nerves were being pricked by countless tiny needles.
A surge of rage and a sense of violated personal space rushed to his head. He slammed the bolter onto the ground with a resounding clang, his massive power armor taking a heavy step forward that made the very floor shudder.
"BEGONE!" he roared, his voice carrying a metallic rasp that echoed through the narrow passage, making the Helldivers' eardrums ache.
The shout caused the Helldivers to pause in unison, their words choked back. They looked at one another.
"I think we were a bit too pushy. Big bro told us to scram—" one player whispered, his face a picture of innocence.
"What do we do now? We haven't even picked up a single quest yet," another player muttered, scratching his head in frustration.
"I think it's a favorability issue," one Helldiver analyzed, pushing up non-existent glasses with an air of feigned profundity. "We just met, so we obviously have no favorability. Generally speaking, grinding favor with Astartes is simple—it'll slowly go up during combat."
"Ugh, does that mean we won't get any quests before then? Is there a way to speed-level it?" a player asked anxiously, clearly unwilling to waste precious gaming time.
"For speed-leveling..." The analytical player pondered for a moment. "How about we try giving some gifts?"
"Uh, do we even have anything we can give an Astartes?" a player asked in confusion. Aside from weapons, ammo, and basic supplies, they couldn't think of a single thing worth offering that could possibly impress a Space Marine.
"You lot are idiots!" a Helldiver scolded, exasperated. He stepped forward, standing before the others, staring intently at the still-fuming Flesh Tearer. Without hesitation, he drew a tactical knife from his belt. In the dim light, the blade gleamed coldly. He made a move as if to slit his own wrist, his tone sincere: "Sir, are you thirsty? Why don't you have some of my blood?"
The other players were struck by a sudden epiphany! Of course! Aren't the Astartes of the Blood Angels' lineage supposed to drink blood? This was the most direct "gift" possible! Their faces lit up with "eureka" expressions as they scrambled to speak first: "Drink mine, Sir! I have very few debuffs, I'm super healthy, and I definitely taste great!"
"Drink mine! Drink mine! I just respawned, my blood is the freshest!"
"I'm a classic Type O! Sir, you don't have to worry about hemolysis or coagulation if you drink too much. Drink as much as you want!"
"Get lost! Where would a Space Marine get hemolysis or coagulation? Sir, drink mine, I'm RH Negative—I bet you've never tasted that before!"
Watching these mortals suddenly compete to let him drink their blood—even earnestly marketing the "selling points" of their own veins—the Flesh Tearer was left utterly slack-jawed. His muscles, previously taut with rage, went slack. His massive frame froze in place, his mouth hanging slightly open inside his helmet, seemingly wanting to say something but unable to utter a single word.
He felt as though his brain had been jammed by a piece of rusted machinery, a buzzing sound filling his ears. Rage, confusion, and even a hint of absurd offense churned in his chest. He realized that if he didn't do something, he would never be able to get rid of these nagging mortals.
His hand instinctively moved toward the chainsword at his waist. A crude and direct thought flashed through his mind: Cleave one of them apart. The resulting terror would surely send the rest of these mortals scattering—that was his usual way of solving problems.
However, as his gaze swept over these mortals again—who were literally vying to donate blood with "please-bite-me" expressions—his killing intent got stuck in his throat. Cleave them? Would they even be terrified? Or would they instead cheer in delight and thank him for providing a "super cool death"? The thought sent a chill down his spine.
He was forced to abandon the idea of a violent solution. He returned the heavy chainsword to its magnetic lock with a click. He struggled to remember that when these mortals first appeared, they seemed to be asking for orders? Right, they mentioned "tasks." Though extremely reluctant, he decided to try something just to make these mortals vanish from his sight.
The Flesh Tearer's heavy helmet turned slightly to the side, pointing toward a mountain of ammunition crates nearby. His voice was stiff and laced with impatience: "You lot... go move those ammo crates over here."
Ding!
Almost the instant the order was given, a notification appeared on the Helldivers' system panels.
[Quest: Transport Ammunition Crates (0/50)].
"Roger that! Sir!" White and his team members were instantly electrified. They accepted the command with glee, without a hint of hesitation.
"Guys, let's get to work!" At White's command, the dozen or so Helldivers rushed toward the ammo pile as if they'd been injected with adrenaline.
In no time at all, the heavy ammunition had been neatly transported to the location the Flesh Tearer had designated.
"Sir, mission accomplished!" The Squad Leader trotted up to the Flesh Tearer with a smile that begged for praise, his voice full of anticipation. The other players also looked at the Flesh Tearer with those same sparkling eyes, seemingly waiting for a follow-up quest.
Looking at the moved crates and the crowd of mortals staring at him expectantly, the Flesh Tearer cursed inwardly. He had assumed these mortals would dawdle like any others, buying him at least some time. He hadn't expected them to move so fast. Did these mortals not know how to slack off? He felt speechless but couldn't let it show.
His massive frame shifted slightly as he took a deep breath inside his helmet, trying to calm his irritation. He hesitated for a moment before finally speaking again, his tone carrying a trace of unmistakable awkwardness:
"You... move those crates back to where they were."
The Helldivers: "?"
"Move them... move them back?" the Squad Leader confirmed cautiously, wondering if something was wrong with his ears.
"Sir, are you saying we should take the crates we just moved here and put them back exactly where they started?" another player couldn't help but ask, his voice filled with confusion. Wasn't this just running in circles? What kind of weird quest chain was this? Could it be... a hidden quest?