The Flesh Tearer sneered, his voice dripping with deliberate mockery and impatience. "Yes, this is your task. Furthermore, I want you to carry these ammunition crates back and forth between these two points repeatedly. Do not stop until I tell you to. If you're unwilling to do it, then get out of my sight!"
He fully expected these words to humiliate and irritate the mortals enough to make them scurry away. He was even prepared to watch them retreat in dejected silence.
However, he never could have imagined that his words wouldn't drive them back. Instead, a new quest notification instantly flashed across the players' system interfaces:
[Quest: Carry Ammunition Crates (Repeatable)]
[Quest Description: A Space Marine of the Flesh Tearers Chapter has ordered you to move a pile of ammunition crates back and forth between two points for reasons unknown—perhaps he thinks shaking them makes the rounds more powerful? Regardless, as soldiers, your duty is to obey.]
[Quest Reward: 5 Merit Points per completed trip.]
As the dozen or so members of the Helldiver Legion finished reading the quest—specifically the words "Repeatable" and "5 Merit Points"—the confusion on their faces was instantly replaced by monumental shock and sheer ecstasy!
"Huh?! It's one of those legendary 'no-cap' reward quests where you can just farm Merit?!" one Helldiver couldn't help but exclaim, his voice trembling with disbelief and excitement. His hands were even shaking slightly from the rush.
"Holy crap, I can't believe we stumbled into such a goldmine!" another player slapped his thigh hard, looking as if he'd just hit the jackpot.
"Hahaha, I told you guys! If you hang around the Space Marines, you get the good stuff!" the Squad Leader laughed triumphantly.
In this game, finding a quest that allowed for repeatable farming of currency or Merit might be simple in other MMOs, but in this world—one so realistic it bordered on cruel—it was nearly impossible. There was no such thing as a "daily quest" mechanic here; every mission had to be sought out or triggered through one's own initiative.
For most players in the Helldiver Legion, the most common tasks were military: fighting Xenos or heretics. But therein lay the problem—enemies in this game didn't "respawn." Heads weren't like leeks; you couldn't cut one off and expect two more to grow back.
Take the players' home world, Peditia, for example. At the start, enemies were everywhere—Genestealers in every alley and Orks beneath every rock. But now, aside from the Orks that players purposefully "conserved" in the wastes outside the Hive Cities, where were the heretics? Most sectors had been scrubbed clean by players; if you wanted a fight, you had to travel a long way.
Thus, the Squad Leader spoke with genuine, unprecedented fervor as he offered the highest praise to the Flesh Tearer:
"Sir, you really are a great person!"
His voice boomed through the narrow corridor, filled with infinite longing for this farming quest.
Beneath his heavy helmet, the Flesh Tearer thought he had misheard. He had lived a long time; he had been called a demon, hailed as heroic, lauded as valiant, and cursed a thousand times by heretics.
But he had never, in his entire life, been sincerely and passionately called a "good man." In his memory, that term was utterly incompatible with any deed associated with the Flesh Tearers Chapter.
He tried to recall his past actions—the blood-soaked campaigns, the frenzied slaughters triggered by the Black Rage, the reckless, bloodthirsty charges. For a moment, he couldn't tell if he was crazier in the grip of the Black Rage or if these mortals praising him were the insane ones. This was more incomprehensible than the technobabble that spilled from the mouths of the red-robed Cogboys.
"What kind of grox-sh*t are you talking about?" the Flesh Tearer asked from the bottom of his heart.
However, what confused him even more was that these mortals—who had been so enthusiastic just moments ago—suddenly ignored him in unison. They no longer competed to offer their blood or peppered him with questions.
Instead, like pre-programmed machines, they began to move the ammunition crates back and forth with intense focus and speed. Seriousness was written on every face, their steps hurried and forceful, as if this meaningless transit was a mission of vital importance.
Brother Reed watched them. The behavior of these mortals was more inscrutable than that of an Ork. He figured that once they grew tired of this pointless labor, they would eventually ask, "Sir, do we still have to carry them?" At that point, he would simply let them go, finally rid of these freaks.
For now, he decided they would simply not disturb each other. They would do their thing, and he would do his. Brother Reed returned to his bolter and resumed checking the weapon, attempting to put these strange mortals out of his mind.
Ten Terran hours later, the dim corridors of the nuclear power plant were still filled with the rhythmic thudding of mortals moving crates. After a long period of focused work, Brother Reed's mental state tightened again; he had almost forgotten the mortals were even there.
Just then, a steady, familiar voice spoke near his ear: "Brother Reed."
Startled out of his focus, Reed's massive power armor emitted a faint metallic groan as he turned instinctively to face the newcomer. It was a Space Marine clad in black power armor with a skull-faced helmet—the Chaplain of the Flesh Tearers, Apollos.
"Chaplain Apollos, good day," Reed said. His voice was low, but carried a clear note of respect and caution.
The Marine known as Apollos offered a slight nod, his gaze scanning the surroundings from behind his lenses. As a Chaplain of the Flesh Tearers, his burden was far heavier than that of Chaplains in other Chapters.
Beyond maintaining the Chapter's faith, his most critical duty was to constantly monitor the mental state of his battle-brothers—especially when they were alone or under prolonged stress—to prevent the onset of the Black Rage and to ensure they didn't slaughter allies in the heat of battle.
He had come here specifically to ensure Reed hadn't lost his mind during his solitude. In the Flesh Tearers, every Marine was a potential "time bomb," and the Chaplains were the ones guarding those bombs.
Apollos's gaze swept over the busy mortal soldiers. Since they were all still intact and there were no severed limbs scattered about, it was proof enough that Reed's mental state was relatively normal—at least, he wasn't teetering on the edge of the Rage. Thus, Apollos didn't feel the need to say much to test or soothe him.
He took another look at the mortals hurrying back and forth with the crates. They seemed perfectly fine, limbs attached, and were even whispering to one another between trips with a strange sort of excitement. Satisfied that Reed hadn't harmed them, Apollos prepared to take his leave.
But just as he was about to speak, he realized something was wrong.
These mortals... why were they moving the crates back and forth between two points? They moved the ammo from one spot to another, then moved it right back to where it started, repeating the cycle with tireless enthusiasm.
Did this... serve any purpose at all?