Arguably the busiest week in my life has past.
To celebrate the fact that Boruto isn't canon, new chapter!
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"HOLY SHI—!"
Inside a cramped, suffocating cockpit, a Helldiver player named [Atlas Moth] let out a shriek like a slaughtered pig.
This was not flying at all. This was getting stuffed into a tumble dryer and hurled straight into a volcano!
The rudimentary shock-absorption system was virtually useless. The violent shuddering made his bones ache, feeling as though he would break apart at any second.
Searing overload G-forces pinned him brutally against his seat, so intense it felt as if his eyeballs were being pressed back into his brain.
The cockpit temperature rose rapidly, driven by friction heat from this "manned missile" tearing through the atmosphere at an unscientific speed. Even through his carapace armor, he could feel the scorching heat.
"Accepting this completely insane quest is the single dumbest decision I've made since I started playing this game!" Atlas Moth shouted at the top of his lungs, clinging tightly to a flight stick that gave him almost zero actual control, trying to yell away the blackouts creeping into his vision. "What kind of brain comes up with an operation plan like this?!"
Despite his cursing, he understood the brilliance—or rather, the sheer filth—of the plan.
This was no suicide attack; this was a large-scale, hyper-spatial airborne assault!
Every player piloting one of these manually guided missiles, including Atlas Moth, had received a battlefield promotion to at least the rank of "Regimental Commander" before the mission began.
Of course, they were all commanders without a command, lacking so much as a single orderly under their duty.
Yet that was the core of the strategy: abusing the game's respawn mechanic.
If even one commander pierced the Plague Fleet's dense anti-air defense network—even if he crashed onto an enemy vessel's deck—as long as he did not die instantly, and as long as he survived inside that ship for a single minute, he became a living respawn point!
Right now, someone monitored the forum account of every player executing this assault. The moment a post titled "Infiltration Successful" appeared with attached coordinates, players watching those account feeds would immediately apply to join that commander's regiment, commit suicide, and respawn directly beside him!
It was like spawning a fully armed, thousand-man army out of thin air right in the heart of the enemy!
"Warning! High-energy reaction ahead! Engine output dropping continuously!"
Red alarm lights flashed wildly inside the cockpit. Through a palm-sized viewshield, Atlas Moth spotted the colossal monstrosity lying across the starry void—the Death Guard flagship, The Terminus.
It looked like a mountain of rotting filth floating in deep space, its countless pustule-like gun turrets spitting lethal tongues of fire outward.
"Screw it! May the Machine Spirit bless me! Ram it!"
All around him, allied aircraft burst into fireballs within the dense blanket of interceptor fire, yet Atlas Moth seemed touched by the Emperor's luck. Following a bizarre barrel roll, his craft miraculously slipped through a gap between the lance beams.
BOOM!
A violent impact instantly knocked him unconscious, followed immediately by an even fiercer explosion. The melt-charges mounted on the nose detonated the moment they slammed into The Terminus's outer hull, a jet of superheated metal searing a gaping hole right through the thick ceramite armor.
Carrying immense kinetic energy, the wreckage of the craft plunged heavily into a corridor deep within the ship.
"Cough... Cough..."
Some time passed—perhaps only a few seconds. Atlas Moth woke amid a haze of electrical sparks and heavy smoke.
[Warning: Multiple fractures, internal hemorrhaging.]
[Auto-injecting: Combat Stimulants, Painkillers, Coagulants.]
A sharp pain shot up his spine as cold liquid pumped into his veins, forcibly suppressing his near-death state and drawing out the last remnants of his vitality.
"Still not dead... Ha... I'm in..."
With trembling hands and blood-stained fingers, he struggled to swipe through the air, opening the forum interface to upload the pre-written post using the last of his strength.
[Coordinates: Inside The Terminus! Get over here ASAP!]
In the next second, a miracle occurred.
Inside the empty, poison-choked ship corridor, countless rays of white light suddenly ignited. It was the teleportation flash effect of players respawning, appearing so densely it looked like a rapid burst of flashbangs, visible only to the players themselves.
Figure after figure stepped out from the white light.
Atlas Moth watched in complete shock as these newly respawned players, rather than wearing their default flak armor, almost all navigated the store interface in unison, instantly equipping a layer of heavy, high-tech, fully enclosed armor.
[Void-Type Heavy Carapace Armor]—a luxury item in the shop equipped with an independent life-support system and magnetic void-walking boots. It was obscenely expensive, and almost no one ever brought themselves to buy it under normal circumstances.
"Holy shit... Every single one of you is loaded..." Atlas Moth stared at the crowd of rich players, his eyes wide.
"Uh, Commander," a player wearing void armor with Commissar markings walked over. He looked down at Atlas Moth, who was trapped in the cockpit wreckage, covered in blood, and clinging to his last breath, his tone laced with light mockery. "You don't look particularly fit to carry out the upcoming combat objectives. What do you plan to do?"
"How about calling me an ambulance?" Atlas Moth rolled his eyes, a simple motion that brought a sharp pain to his sockets. "What else can I do? Hurry up, convene the executive committee for a vote. I need to transfer commander duties!"
"Roger that. On it."
Fortunately, these soldiers—none of whom Atlas Moth knew—acted with unprecedented efficiency. Clearly prepared in advance, they executed the succession procedure on their system interfaces without hesitation.
[System Notification: Regimental Commander status relinquished.]
Seeing the prompt, Atlas Moth finally breathed a sigh of relief. He felt the last burst of forced energy fading as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.
"Mission accomplished... Hey, do me a favor and finish me off," he said to the Commissar standing over him.
"Safe travels, brother."
The new commander hesitated for not a second, raising his bolt pistol and pulling the trigger against Atlas Moth's head.
BANG!
Atlas Moth dissolved into a flash of white light and disappeared to respawn.
Holstering his pistol, the new commander turned to face the thousand-man strike force assembled and armed to the teeth within a single minute. This was the heart of enemy territory, surrounded by lethal plagues and heresy, yet beneath his faceplate, there was only composure and calm.
He roared over the comms channel, "Alright, people! We are right inside the bellies of those piles of rotten meat! All units, execute the operational plan! Deal as much damage to this ship as possible! Blow up the power room! Disable the engines! Kill everything that moves!"
The 'Terminus'—a vessel that once belonged to the Imperium of Man—was now a rotting temple floating in the void. Pus trickled through its corridors, and the air blown from its ventilation ducts was not clean, but a foul wind laden with disease-bearing spores.
At the command platform on the bridge, which appeared to be a twisted fusion of biological tissue and metal, Death Guard Captain Gargos, tasked with staying behind to defend the ship, stared at the red intrusion alerts breaking out across the tactical panel like a rash.
When the first "manned torpedo" struck the hull, Gargos had been thoroughly startled.
The moment the tremor hit, his rotting heart, long dead, seemed to twitch. Such a suicidal assault immediately brought to mind the tactics most favored by his fellow Astartes—only power-armored superhuman warriors would force an entry using such boarding torpedoes. If an Ultramarines Terminator squad had boarded, trouble would indeed be brewing.
"Report casualties! Who are the intruders? How many?" Gargos bellowed, his voice sounding like two rusty iron plates grinding against each other. "Are they Astartes?"
A bloated Nurgle Sorcerer with three eyes leaned in, checked the auspex readings, and let out a raspy, bizarre chuckle: "No, Captain. Not Astartes. Vital signs show—they are all mortals. Roughly a thousand, with no signs of follow-up reinforcements."
"Mortals?" Gargos paused, a look of contempt spreading across his ulcerated face. "A thousand mortals?"
His taut nerves relaxed instantly. On a ship brimming with Nurgle's blessings, mortals did not even need to be attacked; breathing the air here for ten minutes would dissolve their lungs completely.
"Send the warriors to clean them up." Gargos waved a pus-covered hand as if shooing a fly. "Dispatch a hundred Plague Marines, along with the poxwalkers and Nurgle beasts on the deck. Use the terrain to pin them down in the corridors and slaughter them all. Don't let these bugs interfere with Lord Typhus's great plan."
A hundred Plague Marines possessed exceptional resilience and regenerative power; backed by home-field advantage against a thousand mortals with no heavy weaponry, no resupply, and quite possibly already poisoned, this was practically using a sledgehammer to crack a nut.
Gargos did not spare another glance at the feed from that sector, turning his attention back to the ground battle.
However, a mere standard Terran hour had passed.
Gargos's private comms channel abruptly blared with frantic distress calls.
"Captain—we need reinforcements! Repeat, we need reinforcements!"
The voice coming over the channel was laced with unbelievable anxiety, and even a hint of—fear?
Gargos frowned and answered: "Who's screaming? Grot? Didn't I send you to clean up those mortals? What, a hundred blessed warriors can't finish off a thousand mortals? Are you trying to tell me you got lost?"
"We can't finish them off! We can't finish them off at all!" the Plague Marine squad leader named Grot roared, heavy explosions and the thunder of boltguns blasting in the background. "These mortals aren't normal! Not only are they immune to the toxic gas, but they're full of energy! And—and their firepower is way too heavy!"
Gargos found this absurd: "Heavy firepower? They crashed in riding single-man aircraft—how much ammunition could they bring? Even if every one of them held a bolter, their ammo would run dry eventually. Push the poxwalker horde forward! Drain their ammo, and once their barrels run empty, harvest their heads!"
It was the most basic tactic—using meat shields to deplete enemy resources, something the Death Guard excelled at.
"Captain, you don't understand!" Grot's voice sounded on the verge of breaking down. "The zombie horde and Nurgle beasts are completely useless against them! At that intersection, their firing has never stopped! Not for a single moment!"
"They've even built defensive positions right in the corridor! Heavy bolters, lascannons, autocannons—these Helldivers act as if they brought an entire armory on their backs! Just now a brother charged in for melee, only to be vaporized by four meltagunners!"
Gargos listened in utter disbelief. Carrying an armory on their backs? Setting up fortified positions in minutes? Did these mortals pack a Forge World into their trousers?
"What nonsense are you—"
Just as Gargos was about to reprimand his subordinate's incompetence, a sickening crunch of grinding metal tore through the comms, followed by Grot's blood-curdling scream: "By the Emperor! What in the warp is that thing?!"
"What is it? Did you spot Terminators?" Gargos asked impatiently.
"No! A tank! It's a super-heavy tank!" Grot's voice cracked from sheer horror. "A Baneblade! A Baneblade is charging toward us! It's drifting around corners in the ship corridor! Its main cannon is locked onto us! Evade! Evade!"
"A what-blade?" Gargos thought his ears were playing tricks on him.
'BOOM!'
A deafening roar erupted through the communicator, a thunderous blast that could only come from the main gun of a super-heavy tank. That was immediately followed by the sticky, crunchy sound of treads grinding over flesh and metal.
The transmission cut out, leaving only static behind.
Gargos stood frozen on the command platform, communicator still in hand, petrified.
In that moment, his mind went completely blank. No anger, no fear—only a deep, soul-shaking bewilderment and confusion.
He looked at the sensor data of the boarding torpedo wreck, which was barely wide enough for a single person.
Then he pictured the Baneblade super-heavy tank—over ten meters long and weighing hundreds of tons.
Then he recalled the narrow breach, entirely incapable of fitting a super-heavy tank.
Finally, the Chaos Space Marine who had lived for thousands of years had only one single thought left in his head: 'There should be a limit to how absurd a lie can be, shouldn't there?'
"Warning! Warning! Structural collapse detected on Deck 7! High-energy melta reaction detected! Warning! Perimeter defensive matrix for the engine room is offline!"
Piercing alarms shrieked like banshees, violently yanking Gargos back to reality from his state of sheer absurdity.
The battle-hardened Death Guard Captain stood on the command platform, his rotting face rigid like a sculpture. For five whole seconds he did not move, his heavy breathing mask going entirely silent.
In those brief five seconds, Gargos's brain was forced through a painful reorganization. He forcibly suppressed all logical doubts—such as how that damned super-heavy tank fitted into a two-meter-wide corridor, or where those mortals pulled heavy bolters from.
He accepted only two brutal facts:
First, regardless of how absurd it was, the Helldivers had indeed driven heavy armored units inside, and their firepower was intense enough to look like an entire armored regiment throwing a party.
Second, these mortals possessed an absolute mastery of the 'Terminus's' internal structure. They weren't running around like headless chickens; their objectives were crystal clear and their path precise, heading straight for the engine room—as if they held the ship's original blueprints in their hands!
"Phooey..." With a heavy sigh, murky yellow-green gas vented from his breathing grille. Gargos composed himself, a tyrannical, bloodthirsty glint rekindling in his dull eyes.
"Grot! Grot! Answer me!"
He tried hailing the squad leader again, but only monotonous static and an unsettling chewing noise answered. Clearly, Grot had returned to Grandfather Nurgle's garden.
Gargos wasted no time mourning. He switched channels immediately, hailing the rest of the Plague Marines: "Everyone still breathing, report in now!"
After a brief silence, several intermittent voices came through.
"Captain—this is Squad 3—we're pinned down! These mortals are insane, they don't care about ammo consumption at all!"
"This is Squad 5—we are falling back! That big monster's main cannon blew down the entire corridor! We can't cross!"
Fortunately, the hundred elite Death Guard had not been wiped out entirely; their stubborn vitality allowed a portion of them to survive the initial wave of unreasonable firepower.
"Listen up! Do not engage them head-on!" Gargos ordered, gritting his teeth. "Use your familiarity with the terrain to blow up passages and slow them down! Your priority is staying alive—I will lead reinforcements personally! Hold the line!"
Cutting off the transmission, Gargos took a deep breath and made a decision he was extremely reluctant to make—contacting Typhus, who was still commanding operations on the surface of Perditia.
Reporting such an absurd battle situation to his superior was no different from admitting incompetence, but he had no choice. If the 'Terminus's' engines were destroyed, the consequences would be catastrophic.
The holographic projection flickered, and Typhus's towering, intensely oppressive figure appeared on the bridge. The First Captain was clearly in a good mood, indicating that progress on the ground was smooth.
"Gargos, unless you bring good news, you had better pray the Grandfather forgives your interruption," Typhus said, his voice deep, magnetic, and dripping with decayed elegance.
"L-Lord..." Gargos gritted his teeth and spoke up, "The 'Terminus' has been boarded. Those mortals—the Helldivers—have breached the interior."
"Oh? A few bugs, nothing more," Typhus dismissed indifferently. "Crush them."
"No, my Lord, the situation is... complicated," Gargos swallowed hard. "They brought heavy firepower. Very heavy. Just now, my subordinates confirmed that a... a Baneblade super-heavy tank is currently driving through the corridors of Deck 7, shelling our defensive line."
The holographic projection of Typhus noticeably froze.
Even across the screen, Gargos could feel a wave of "Are you kidding me?" radiating off him.
"Gargos," Typhus's voice went cold, carrying a dangerous edge, "has your brain finally rotted away completely? Do you know what you are saying? A Baneblade? Inside a breach blown open by a boarding torpedo? Are you telling me these mortals folded up a multi-hundred-ton tank and stuffed it into their pockets?"
"I couldn't believe it either, my Lord! But it really happened!" Gargos panicked to the point of almost ripping his helmet off. "I heard the main gun! One of my squads was vaporized in an instant! And they know our ship's structure inside out, thrusting straight for the engine room! My Lord, I request reinforcements, and I need an explanation too, but this is really happening!"
Looking at Gargos's frantic, near-distorted expression, Typhus fell silent. Unlike his weak genetic father, he did not misjudge people; he knew his subordinates well. While Gargos was not the brightest, he was certainly not someone to fabricate such a ridiculous lie.
Which meant it was true.
"'(An ancient Barbarusan curse)'!"
Typhus swung his war scythe violently, smashing a nearby boulder into powder.
For the first time in his battle-scarred existence, the Chaos Lord felt a rage born of sheer absurdity. He began to seriously consider the possibilities behind this, his glowing eyes flickering with suspicion.
"Armies appearing out of nowhere... heavy vehicles that shouldn't exist..." Typhus muttered to himself. "Could there be a Webway portal on the 'Terminus' that none of us discovered? But even if there were, why would these mortals be able to use it?"
A terrifying conjecture dawned in his mind.
"Could these so-called Helldivers, or those Ultramarines, be in cahoots with the Aeldari?"
"Suppressing fire! Don't stop! That poison-spewing fat ass is about to stick his head out!"
Inside a wide corridor on Deck 7 of the 'Terminus', the air was thick with a sickening stench of rot and scorching ozone.
A brutal tug-of-war was taking place here.
The attackers were an entire company of Helldivers players. Anchored behind corners and makeshift anti-blast shields, they poured a torrential storm of lasgun and bolter fire forward.
The defenders consisted of merely three Death Guard in rotting power armor, surrounded by dense swarms of Nurgle daemons and poxwalkers. These fallen Astartes utilized the ship's internal structural pillars and hardened pus to construct formidable cover, their precise single shots taking out an overextended player with every trigger pull.
"Stop saving ammo! Blow them sky-high! Level that cover!"
The frontline commander roared through the comms channel.
As the order came down, heavy weapons squads who had long been itching for action moved instantly. Dozens of offensive grenades rained over the cover like hail. Immediately after, several players shouldering disposable rocket launchers leaned out and pulled their triggers.
'BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!'
The narrow corridor was instantly consumed by explosive flames. Even a Leman Russ tank further back adjusted its turret angle and, at point-blank range, fired a high-explosive shell directly into the densest cluster of poxwalkers.
The massive shockwave shook loose piping from the ceiling, sending clouds of dust and smoke billowing everywhere.
"Don't stop! Keep suppressing! These bastards are tough as nails!"
Right as the roar of the explosion faded, before even confirming the results, dozens of lasrifles, heavy bolters, and autocannons unleashed an indiscriminate barrage of fire into the smoke for a full minute.
Only when barrels glowed red, energy packs warned of depletion, and the area was riddled with holes—its steel flooring shaved down by a layer—did the gunfire gradually taper off.
A deathly silence hung over the corridor.
Gunsmoke and dust drifted in the air, obstructing vision. Not a sound came from the enemy position opposite them—no retaliatory bolter fire, nor the annoying giggles of Nurgglings.
"Ceasefire! Ceasefire!"
The squad leader at the absolute front raised his hand, stopping his teammates behind him who were preparing to reload and keep shooting. He stared vigilantly into the mist; the internal auspex showed that the red enemy indicators ahead were rapidly disappearing.
Was it a trap? Or were they truly all dead?
A few seconds of dead silence felt as long as several centuries.
The squad leader did not hesitate. Snapping back behind cover, he executed a series of standard tactical hand signals to the squad members behind him:
'Recon team, flank left; Fire team, set up covering fire; Assault team, on me!'
Without a single word of fluff, ten soldiers clad in void armor leaped out from cover. Utilizing bounding overwatch tactics, they pounced toward the enemy position like leopards.
From a safe corner at the rear of the unit, the company commander watched it all unfold.
He did not wave a chainsword and charge at the very front like a Commissar or Company Commander in traditional Warhammer stories.
Under this game's unique mechanics, his most crucial duty as a commander was not killing enemies—it was staying alive.
He was the company's mobile respawn point. As long as he lived, fallen brothers on the frontline could endlessly rematerialize beside him and keep pushing forward. If he died, the respawn point would fall back to the distant regimental headquarters, causing the offensive to collapse in an instant.
Yet that did not mean a company commander had no work to do. He made a mental note of this squad; as a commander, if he failed to recognize frontline soldiers who dared to step up and take risks at critical moments, he was by no means a qualified junior officer.
Before long, the squad leader's voice came through the comms channel, laced with excitement and disbelief: "Commander! Clear! Repeat, sector clear!"
"We found a Death Guard corpse behind the cover! His head was blown to pieces—probably a lucky hit from that volley. The other two ran off judging by the tracks on the ground!"
They ran?
Those Death Guard—who allegedly knew no fear and felt no pain—had actually retreated on their own initiative?
The commander froze for a moment before realizing this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Whether the enemy was executing a strategic repositioning or had been frightened off, they had to strike while the iron was hot.
"Great job, Squad 3! Hold the intersection, do not pursue!"
Cutting off the single-soldier channel, he bellowed into the company-wide channel: "All units, listen up! The enemy line has broken! Armored units, push forward!"
'RUMBLE...'
Accompanied by the roar of its engine, a Leman Russ main battle tank—though nowhere near as colossal as a Baneblade, yet still imposing immense pressure in the narrow corridor—slowly rolled forward.
Its treads crushed the remnants of poxwalkers on the deck, its thick battle cannon barrel pointing straight into the dark depths ahead.
Under the tank's cover, over a hundred fully armed Helldivers soldiers surged over the defensive line like a tidal wave, pressing relentlessly toward the heart of the 'Terminus'.
This scene was far from an isolated incident; similar engagements were unfolding across countless choke points throughout the 'Terminus'.
From the moment the first boarding torpedo slammed through the armor plating, a full ten hours had passed.
Over those ten hours, over a thousand Helldivers worked like untiring army ants, carving a blood-soaked path through a steel labyrinth choked with venomous fog, living traps, and Nurgle daemons. Even though the Plague Fleet used the terrain to delay them by every conceivable means—blowing up passages, releasing toxic gases, and even blocking corridors with mountains of corpses—this mortal army tenaciously pushed a whole kilometer deeper into the hull.
A kilometer might be negligible on a vast planetary battlefield, but inside this malicious daemon ship, that kilometer was a miracle paved with countless bolt shells, las-beams, and lives.
---
Deck 7 Frontline Command Post.
Originally a small-to-medium cogitator array room, it had been swiftly converted into a temporary command center by Helldivers engineers. The regimental commander stood before a holographic sandtable, his brow furrowed as he stared at the light points representing the tactical situation.
Just then, a harsh burst of static noise suddenly erupted.
The cogitator terminal in the center of the room, originally displaying tactical data, booted up on its own. Green holographic projections distorted and flickered before forcibly resolving into the bloated, decaying bust of a giant.
It was Gargos.
Evidently, the defensive commander of the 'Terminus' had used his ship-wide administrative privileges to hijack the local communication signal. It was no masterclass in hacking, but simply a perk of home-field advantage.
Gargos's ulcer-ridden face filled the regimental commander's field of view. His dull, yellow eyes glared fixedly through the projection at the tiny mortal commander before him.
"Mortals..." Gargos's voice sounded as if squeezed out of a throat filled with pus, carrying a sickeningly slimy rasp. "I admit you are somewhat... more stubborn than I imagined. But this ends now."
The regimental commander looked up, expressionless as he stared at the intruder.
"Your good days of relying on ambushes and heavy firepower are over." Gargos let out a hideous smile, revealing maggots squirming in his gums. "Ahead lies the Grandfather's true garden. I will make you understand that in this sacred realm, death is not the end, but the beginning of eternal torment—"
'BANG!'
A crisp gunshot cut Gargos's threat short.
A wispy trail of blue smoke rose from the barrel of the regimental commander's bolt pistol.
The core component of the holographic projector was precisely shattered by the shot. Gargos's unfinished threat, along with his image, instantly dissolved into a shower of errant sparks and vanished into thin air.
A brief silence fell over the room; the surrounding staff officers and signalmen were momentarily stunned.
The commander did not even holster his pistol. He casually slapped the still-hot weapon onto the table, as if he had merely swatted a buzzing fly.
"Sever external signal access and resume operations," he said cold-bloodedly, his eyes returning to the tactical map. Those few words had made him realize the enemy was merely dropping empty threats; there was zero need to listen to the end.
Regardless of how those Nurgle worshippers viewed time, or how firmly they believed all things would decay into eternal stagnation, this Helldivers force—from top to bottom—valued time above all else.
As the communication cut out, Gargos's rotting, bloated face grew even darker in the dim light of the bridge.
He turned around, his dull eyes fixed on the constantly blinking red dots on the tactical auspex. As a Death Guard commander, he had witnessed countless stubborn enemies and battled the Imperium's most fanatical zealots, yet this group named the Helldivers filled him with an unprecedented sense of... absurdity.
Yes, absurdity.
Not only did these mortals not fear death, but they were actually utilizing it.
Gargos had seen it with his own eyes: whenever his Plague Marines set up a crossfire network, several Helldivers soldiers would immediately rush out with suicidal courage. They didn't push forward to kill enemies, but merely to catch bolter rounds with their bodies, forcing the Death Guard to expose their exact firing positions. In the very next second, precise artillery shells and concentrated volleys would blanket the newly revealed fireteam.
Every single one of them possessed exceptionally high tactical literacy, yet every such soldier treated himself as a disposable asset.
What proved even more troublesome for him was their seemingly infinite logistical supply.
In these enclosed ship corridors, common sense dictated that losses of heavy equipment were irreversible. Yet ten minutes ago, these lunatics had just lost a Leman Russ, only for another brand-new one with identical paintwork to come rumbling over the wreckage of the previous tank a mere five minutes later.
It was as if they really packed a Forge World in their pockets.
As for the Baneblade super-heavy tank currently rampaging down the main thoroughfare of Deck 7, Gargos still couldn't comprehend how they had stuffed such a behemoth into a boarding torpedo, nor did he know what could possibly stop a main gun that was currently demolishing the ship's structural load-bearing pillars.
If the Helldivers on the surface were just like them—every individual equipped with void armor, possessing flexible tactics, firm combat resolve, and a Baneblade for every thousand men—Gargos dared not think any further.
After a moment's hesitation, Gargos pressed his pus-covered finger against the highest-priority communication rune.
After a burst of harsh static, the transmission connected.
"Speak."
Typhus's voice was deep and laced with fury, accompanied by the roar of heavy bolters and the screech of chainswords tearing through flesh in the background. Evidently, the ground battle was at a fever pitch, and Nurgle's herald was in an extremely foul mood.
Without giving Gargos a chance for pleasantries, he demanded directly: "What, did you find that supposed Webway portal?"
Gargos fell into a stiff silence for a second before offering a negative response: "No, my Lord. We are still suppressing them, but we have encountered... extremely stubborn resistance."
He paused, tentatively asking: "Can a portion of the ground forces be pulled back as reinforcements? Or perhaps dispatch more Daemon Engines? The firepower of these boarders exceeds our expectations."
"Reinforcements?" Typhus let out a cold laugh that sounded like rusting metal grinding together. "Foolish! Gargos, can't you see it? This is precisely the goal of those Imperial lapdogs!"
"They don't just want to destroy the 'Terminus'; they want to use this suicide squad to force me to split my forces on the main battlefield!" Typhus's voice was resolute and cruel. "If I turn back now, our offensive will stall, granting them a breathing room on the surface. I will never let the enemy lead us by the nose."
"Hold your ground, Gargos. That is my flagship; its internal defense systems are more than enough for you to bury a hundred times their number of mortals."
Gargos looked at the Baneblade firing once more on his screen, alongside the Helldivers infantry surging forward like a dense swarm of ants, feeling a wave of powerlessness.
"My Lord, if that is the case..." Gargos's voice turned heavy, "with the forces currently at my disposal, it might take a very long time to suppress these Helldivers. Furthermore, I cannot control the casualties or the structural damage inflicted on the ship itself."
He pointed at the red-soaked sector on the auspex, even though Typhus couldn't see it.
"Theoretically, there are only about a thousand of these guys, but according to the recent engagement data, their rate of replenishment is unnaturally fast. If I don't find a way to destroy their organizational structure all at once, or simply wipe them out instantly with devastating force—"
Gargos took a deep breath of foul, rotting air and voiced the conclusion that felt absurd even to himself: "—then their numbers are no different from infinity."
Typhus's deep, raspy voice pierced through the static on the comms channel with an unquestionable coldness: "Since you've proposed a solution, go do it! Gargos, your vision is far too narrow."
Within the holographic projection, Typhus swung his massive war scythe, seemingly having just harvested another batch of Imperial souls: "As long as the 'Terminus' isn't blown into complete fragments, as long as the core remains intact, the Grandfather's blessing will naturally heal its wounds once we return to the embrace of the Immaterium. In Nurgle's great garden, metal heals like flesh, and decks regenerate like bone! Time is infinite for us! Do not obsess over momentary victories, losses, or costs! For the sake of victory, I permit you to detonate sections of the 'Terminus'."
Gargos remained silent. He could feel every tremor beneath his feet from this ancient warship; it was not merely a vessel, but the lair upon which they depended for survival, a walking temple of Nurgle.
"Besides, hearing your description of those mortals..." Typhus's tone suddenly turned cold and greedy, like a venomous snake spotting its prey, "...my desire to claim Perditia has grown even stronger."
"A mortal army that knows no fatigue, no fear, and can even regenerate infinitely... isn't this precisely the mystery of life we need to explore? Once we take this place and shatter their defensive lines, all their secrets will lie bare before us. At that point, this power will serve the Grandfather, becoming our grandest tool to spread his gospel."
"Do not disappoint me, Gargos. Clean the fleas off the ship."
'Bzzt—' The transmission was unilaterally cut.
Gargos stood on the dim bridge, surrounded by mutated crew members and servitors operating control panels. The expression on his rotting face flickered unpredictably, pus dripping from the decayed flesh on his chin and sizzling as it corroded the deck.
Blowing up a portion of the 'Terminus'...
To him, this was as painful as severing his own limbs with his own hands. This ship had accompanied them for ten thousand years; every inch of its corridors and every armor plate was carved with the marks of time and sacred filth.
Yet looking at the expanding red alert sector on the tactical panel and the invincible Baneblade, Gargos knew that if he did not perform this "amputation," the entire ship would perish from this horrific "infection."
These Helldivers were the most stubborn virus.
"Pass down the order."
After a long silence, Gargos finally made up his mind. His voice became as calm as stagnant water, yet infused with a chilling resolve.
"Initiate emergency quarantine protocols. Lock all blast doors from Deck 7 to Deck 9. Cut off all power supply and gravity stabilization systems in those sectors."
The Plague Marine adjutant beside him froze for a moment, but upon catching Gargos's fierce gaze, he immediately bowed his head to execute the command.
"Also," Gargos turned his back to the holographic map displaying the Helldivers' offensive route, as if unable to bear another look, "release the structural locking bolts for Decks 7 through 9. Plant severance charges."
"Since they're having such a grand time fighting down there, let them continue their battle out in the void."
"Jettison all those decks... cast them off into space."
The Death Guard executed their action with a rare combination of decisiveness and efficiency, entirely abandoning the sluggish, drawn-out style of savoring slow decay that Nurgle worshippers typically displayed.
Less than ten minutes after Gargos issued the command, the cover protecting hundreds of demolition points at the junctions of Decks 7 through 9 was cleared, exposing the structural weak points beneath. There were no ritualistic prayers, nor length sacrifices to the Grandfather—only the cold sound of industrial cutting tools and the muffled thuds of detonating melta-charges.
With a deafening explosion, the colossal hull of the 'Terminus' shuddered violently.
For this ancient warship, this was nothing short of severing its own arm to survive. Accompanied by the horrifying screech of tearing metal, tens of thousands of tons of armored deck sections were forcibly severed from the mothership alongside venting gases and debris. To ensure these stubborn "parasites" were thoroughly cast off, Gargos went as far as activating the attitude control thrusters; the massive thrust violently pushed the severed wreckage toward the gravity well of Perditia.
The Helldivers on Deck 7, who were preparing to launch a forward push, instantly felt the earth-shattering tremor.
The once-stable artificial gravity field failed in an instant, before turning utterly chaotic under the tumbling motion of the wreckage. The massive explosion could be heard clearly even through the thick blast doors, immediately followed by the sickening crunch of twisting metal.
"What's going on? An earthquake?" a newly respawned soldier asked, supporting himself against the wall.
"This is deep space, where would an earthquake come from?" Another soldier smashed open the protective shutter of a nearby observation window.
Through the thick blast glass, everyone witnessed a breathtaking scene: the 'Terminus', towering like a mountain range, was rapidly receding. The once-dark starry background was now spinning, while the massive planet of Perditia dominated the lower half of their view, its murky atmosphere opening like a gigantic maw, waiting to swallow this falling chunk of iron and flesh.
They had been jettisoned.
"Damn it! These green fat asses can't afford to lose!"
A Helldivers veteran wearing an assault jump pack reacted with lightning speed. Without a moment's hesitation, he engaged his pack's overload mode and smashed headfirst through the observation window glass, attempting to leap back to the mothership before the wreckage completely broke away.
A streak of blue flame cut a straight line through the void.
Yet the laws of physics proved exceptionally cruel at this moment. Captured by the planet's gravity, the unpowered wreckage section began to accelerate downward, whereas the 'Terminus' relied on its powerful engines to maintain orbital altitude, accelerating away from them.
The veteran thrusted forward with everything he had, but on the vast scale of open space, he was like a firefly trying to chase an arrow loosed from a bow. Within mere seconds, the distance between them expanded to a hopeless degree. As his propellant ran out, the soldier could only curse helplessly over the comms channel before plunging toward the atmosphere below along with the wreckage, turning into an insignificant shooting star.
Inside the command post, the atmosphere froze for a second.
The regimental commissar grabbed the regimental commander's arm, speaking at a rapid-fire pace: "How many merit points do you have left? Enough to buy a dozen individual gravity parachutes?"
Looking at the receding 'Terminus', the commander shook his head with an iron-grey face: "Not enough. My merit pool was completely drained to redeem that Baneblade and its ammunition supply. If we pool everything right now, I can only afford two standard-issue ones at most."
"Two..." A ruthless glint flashed in the commissar's eyes. He immediately looked around at the fearless soldiers surrounding them, a wild plan taking shape in an instant.
"It's enough," the commissar stared into the commander's eyes. "Redeem the gear right now and fly toward the 'Terminus' at full burn. We still have some time before we burn up entering the atmosphere."
"During this window, we will commit suicide one by one."
The commissar pointed at the commander's chest: "We will abuse the respawn mechanic to refresh directly beside you. Then we'll slap our packs or fuel canisters directly onto you, using our thrust in a relay to push you across!"
It was essentially building a ladder out of corpses and instant respawns in the void.
As long as the commander could keep flying forward as the "anchor point," the men behind him could endlessly die back and resurrect at his side, providing him with extra thrust.
Emergency was upon them; the engine light of the 'Terminus' was growing smaller by the second. If they delayed for even a few more seconds, they would never catch up unless the God-Emperor Himself performed a miracle.
Without a second word, two high-tier void jump packs appeared out of thin air in the commander's hands. He rapidly strapped one onto himself and tossed the other to the commissar.
"I'm heading out first."
Without even looking back at his subordinates who were already loading their pistols to commit suicide, the commander slammed his thrusters on. His entire body launched out of the ruptured breach like a cannonball, charging toward the receding daemon ship.
Leaving nothing in reserve, the commander pushed the power output of his jump pack straight into the red line, the pale blue plasma tail-flame drawing a long, straight whip across the void.
Fortunately, although the 'Terminus' had severed a section of its hull and attempted to accelerate away, it was a battleship with a mass comparable to a small city. Its immense mass dictated that its acceleration process still required time. Right now, it was maintaining orbit rather than executing sub-light cruising, shutting down its engines once it confirmed the damaged hull section had been cast off. This offered the commander his sole window of opportunity.
As the space around him twisted and flickered, Helldivers appeared one after another out of thin air in the vacuum beside the commander. They needed no verbal communication, nor even eye contact. The moment they respawned, they skillfully reached out and grabbed the buckles on the commander's back armor—standard interface latches built into the void armor.
'CLICK!'
Accompanied by the crisp sound of mechanical locks engaging, spent fuel packs were instantly detached and cast off into the bottomless abyss of space behind them. Immediately after, a fresh pack loaded with fuel was slapped onto the commander's back, locking into the interface and powering up.
After completing all this, these soldiers—who had been revived for less than three seconds—would give the commander one final, powerful shove to provide extra initial velocity before decisively letting go.
Under the effects of gravity and inertia, they were peeled off like spent rocket boosters, silently falling toward the murky plague planet below.
In the corner of the commander's vision, the list representing team member statuses was flickering frantically.
[Player "198-DKK" has left the squad]
[Player "773-DKK" has left the squad]
[Player "045-DKK" has left the squad...]
Since items could not be picked up in the vacuum of space, every single "suicide relay" meant the complete loss of an expensive void jump pack. When an individual's merit points were no longer sufficient to redeem another, these soldiers chose to leave the squad organization directly so as not to clog precious respawn cooldowns and slots, allowing their bodies to turn to ash in the atmosphere and respawn back at Perditia's main hive city.
The commander counted the numbers silently in his heart.
900... 800... 700...
Every decrease in number meant he was one step closer to his target. As for the specific casualty count—thousands? tens of thousands?—it no longer held any tragic significance. Right now, they were merely fuel, stepping stones to the 'Terminus', pure numbers burning away to achieve a tactical objective.
When the remaining squad members in his vision dropped below the 500 mark, the nauseating, ulcer-ridden armor plating of the 'Terminus' was already right before his eyes; the massive macrocannon arrays towered like mountain peaks ahead.
Another flash of light broke out, and a Helldiver respawned at his side, expertly swapping out a full fuel pack for the commander.
Just a moment before he prepared to let go and fall away, the commander's voice rang clearly inside both their helmets via bone-conduction comms: "That's enough. I'll stay on the 'Terminus' from here on."
Staring fixedly at the monstrosity ahead, the commander issued orders at rapid speed: "Inform everyone to temporarily leave the squad. Do not respawn beside me anymore. Our current equipment isn't enough for a frontal assault; respawning now is just throwing lives away."
"Go accumulate merit points again and wait for these suicidal traitors to lower their guard. When I call upon you again..." A cold gleam flashed in the commander's eyes, "...we will bring out weaponry destructive enough to blow this ship sky-high once and for all."
The Helldiver responsible for the final relay had no surplus energy to power his comms system to speak, so he simply gave a firm nod through his thick faceplate.
In the next second, he released his grip, falling toward the planet like a grain of dust.
The commander took a deep breath, welding the valve of his final jump pack permanently onto maximum output.
His entire body turned into a miniature meteor. Facing the corrosive gases shrouding the outer layer of the 'Terminus', he slammed hard into a structure that looked like an abandoned exhaust vent along the midsection of the hull.
'BANG!'
The massive force of the impact made him feel as though his internal organs had shifted out of place, but he had succeeded.
His mag-boots clamped tightly onto the icy ship hull as the commander panted heavily in the freezing void, white frost coating his outer armor. He rapidly scanned his surroundings—this was a blind spot on the 'Terminus', where massive conduits and Gothic sculptures provided him with seamless cover.
Like a lethal flea, he had burrowed deep into the hide of this giant beast.
The 'Terminus' was far too colossal—so massive that hiding a single man was as easy as turning a palm. Gargos believed that slicing off a piece of flesh would rid him of the infection. How naive that thought was. The true pathogen had, through this unimaginable method, attached itself once more to his very marrow.
The commander switched off his external lights and melted into the darkness.
The second wave of the assault would definitely give these Death Guard a lesson they would never forget.
On the surface of Perditia, along the plague-ridden swamp frontlines.
Typhus stood atop a command high ground built from piled corpses and decaying vegetation. Countless bloated flies buzzed around his rust-spotted Terminator armor like loyal bodyguards. When Gargos's report came through the comms channel, the Son of Mortarion and favorite of Nurgle let out a rare, satisfied snort.
"Very good, Gargos," Typhus's voice rasped alongside the hiss of his breathing mask. "At last I hear good news from your end. Though a price was paid, as long as the 'Terminus' is secured, it is worth it. However... there aren't any damnable Helldivers left remaining on the ship, are there?"
On the other end of the line, Gargos's voice overflowed with confidence: "Rest assured, Lord Typhus. To ensure we cast them off completely, I specifically detonated two additional decks beyond the planned zone, creating a massive vacuum isolation buffer. Moreover, during the detonation, I ordered the engines to run at full power, leveraging recoil and gravitational slingshot effects to rapidly widen the distance."
Gargos paused, a sneering tone entering his voice: "Under such extreme physical conditions, no mortal vehicle or individual equipment could ever catch up. I imagine the only ones who could re-board the ship under such circumstances would be the legendary Primarchs."
Hearing this, Typhus, who was naturally somewhat suspicious, lowered his guard slightly.
Indeed, throughout the Imperium of Man's ten-thousand-year history, the only person capable of accomplishing such an impossible boarding mission in the void without a vehicle—relying solely on physical prowess and simple thruster gear—was Roboute Guilliman, who had created a similar miracle during the Battle of Calth with his astounding void-combat record. Aside from him, even if other Primarchs theoretically possessed such capabilities, they rarely had the opportunity or necessity to perform such a feat.
As for these Helldivers?
They were indeed an annoying and troublesome bunch of mortals, but Typhus by no means believed they could be compared to demigod-like Primarchs. That was a chasm in the very nature of existence, one that could not be bridged by mere willpower.
"Well done. Maintain the orbital blockade."
Hanging up the communication, Typhus turned around, his glowing green eyes casting their gaze once more back toward the tragic battlefield before him.
The war had lasted for an entire year now.
Throughout this grueling tug-of-war, he could clearly sense that the Helldivers legion opposite them had undergone a qualitative transformation. From their initial rigid, somewhat green novice state, they had gradually grown veteran, cunning, and seamlessly coordinated.
It was frankly unbelievable.
Under the Nurgle Legion's relentless, destructive strikes and a casualty rate high enough to collapse any Astra Militarum regiment, this force had not only avoided a collapse in morale, but had actually retained a vast number of experienced veterans. Those surviving soldiers grew increasingly familiar with Death Guard tactics and faced the plagues with growing composure.
"It seems Perditia's medical and logistical systems are unbelievably effective..." Typhus muttered to himself, his tone laced with a perplexed grimness. "To save so many people back from a meat grinder like this and even return them to the battlefield—this is practically the ultimate sacrilege against the death and decay granted by the Grandfather."
Since it was difficult to completely crush these tough bones on the frontal battlefield in a short time, perhaps... he should try spreading plagues to Perditia's rear?
If the plague could spread behind their lines, disrupt their supply chain, paralyze their industrial capacity, and even turn the medical stations responsible for treating the wounded into massive morgues, then these Helldivers on the frontline would fall apart on their own.
Thinking up to this point, Typhus's decaying brow furrowed slightly.
It was not as if he hadn't tried spreading plagues. In fact, as the First Captain of Nurgle, the Plague Fleet had consistently spared no effort in spreading the Grandfather's gospel to the mortals fighting against them.
In any previous war, among the mortal forces fighting Nurgle, those who actually died to bolters, chainswords, or daemon claws usually accounted for an absolute minority. The overwhelming majority—civilians included—perished from all-pervading superviruses, lethal bacteria, and Warp plagues. That ratio frequently reached an astounding ten-thousand to one. Often, while the Death Guard were still on the march, the enemy's defensive lines would have already collapsed on their own due to massive disease outbreaks.
Yet on Perditia, this law failed.
Here, the psionic plagues that had always worked like a charm produced ridiculously poor results.
This was not because of the recent birth of that detestable "Living Saint"; Typhus had noticed this anomaly as early as the initial stages of the war. For these Helldivers, it seemed that only real-world physical pathogens and toxins produced a slight effect—such as causing wound festering, fevers, or organ failure.
However, the most lethal, core aspects of Nurgle's plagues—those acting directly upon the soul, inducing despair, causing the soul to fall into agony, and spawning Nurgglings—yielded minuscule results, or were virtually ineffective.
These soldiers were like a herd of soulless husks. Or perhaps their souls were protected by an indestructible barrier, rendering them entirely immune to Warp corruption. They would perish from bodily breakdown, but never from spiritual despair.
"Could it be that damned planetary will again..." Typhus struck the ground with the butt of his scythe, dislodging several Nurgglings that were breakdancing on his pauldrons.
Although he remained skeptical about how much substantive effect spreading plagues to the rear would achieve—given that even the frontline soldiers were so hard to "convert," civilians and backline facilities were likely much the same—he reasoned:
"Still, skepticism aside, it is worth a try after all."
---
At the same time, on the far side of the galaxy, upon an icy, war-scorched planet.
A brutal slaughter had just drawn to a close. The air was thick with the heavy stench of blood, un-dissipated gunsmoke, and the foul odor of beasts.
The Wolf Lord of the "Dragonslayer" Great Company, Krom Dragongaze, sat atop a small mountain of massive xenos corpses. Holding a torn rag grabbed from who-knows-where, he casually wiped down his power axe, which was still dripping with blood.
His single eye flickered with lingering intent to kill as Space Wolves around him were either clearing the battlefield or boisterously boasting about who had slain more.
Suddenly, Krom paused his movements, leaning his head slightly to listen to a message that had just come through the comms channel. His brow furrowed slightly before smoothing out into a wild, toothy grin.
"Lads, stop celebrating for a moment," Krom's voice boomed through the cold wind like rolling thunder. "Over on Perditia, those mortal pups seem to have run into a bit of trouble."
Hearing that name, the surrounding Space Wolves—who had been making a racket—went silent for an instant before reacting.
"Perditia? Isn't that the Helldivers' homeworld?" A scarred Long Fang veteran slung his bolter over his shoulder, his tone carrying a bit of surprise. "They called for help?"
"The Helldivers?" A Blood Claw recruit who had clearly never fought over there froze for a second, his eyes lighting up as if recalling a famous rumor. "Wait, Wolf Lord! Are you talking about that... mortal legion rumored to have strung up Inquisitors from the Inquisition and put them on a parade?"
"HA HA HA HA! I've heard that joke even back on Fenris!"
A wave of rough, boisterous laughter erupted among the crowd. For the Space Wolves, who had always thoroughly detested the Inquisition and had even engaged in armed conflicts with them, nothing brought more joy than watching those guys in black coats suffer a setback. Based solely on that rumor, the Wolves—who had yet to meet them—already felt an unexplainable fondness toward this mortal legion.
Krom was well pleased with everyone's reaction. He stood up from the pile of xenos corpses and slammed his power axe back onto the magnetic lock on his back.
"That's right, those gutsy bastards."
Krom looked down at his pack, his tone turning serious and brimming with battle lust: "Nurgle's scum are besieging them. I heard even that old fossil Typhus went over. If Perditia gets blown to bits just like that, I don't think I'll be very happy. After all, these days, there aren't many mortals left who can flip off the Inquisition and still be walking around alive and kicking."
He paused, sweeping his gaze across all the warriors present: "So, I reckon we ought to go lend them a hand. What do you say?"
Since the Wolf Lord himself had spoken, the Space Wolves naturally needed no further motivation.
"For Russ!"
"Drive those stinking green fat asses back into the Warp!"
Warriors raised their chainswords and bolters toward the sky, unleashing a collective howl that echoed like a pack of wolves barking at the moon. Baring their teeth, they craved fresh blood and glory—especially landing an axe strike on that legendary Traveler, a feat worth boasting about at feasts for a hundred years.
"All hands board ship!" Krom waved his massive hand. "Destination: Perditia. Let's go add some spice to that plague party!"
Perditia, the newly constructed Monastery of St. Adriana.
As a Canoness of the Adepta Sororitas, Cassandra stood on the top-floor terrace of this magnificent, recently completed structure. Towering Gothic spires pierced the gloomy sky, their fresh reinforced walls glinting with a cold metallic sheen under the dim light.
She surveyed the courtyards and cloisters below, a faint trace of satisfaction in her eyes. Though this monastery lacked the opulent, intricate grandeur of ancient cathedrals on Holy Terra or Ophelia VII—devoid of jewel-encrusted icons and gold-paved domes—its layout was rigorous and spacious, featuring expansive training grounds and formidable fortifications that made full use of every inch of land. To her sisters, this was not merely a place of prayer, but a perfect fortress of war, capable of supporting their most intensive tactical drills and physical conditioning.
Cassandra's gaze drifted beyond the high walls of the monastery and toward the streets outside.
This was one of Perditia's logistical hub cities. Though not engulfed in constant artillery fire like the frontlines, the air remained thick with a tense, industrious urgency. Across the building walls flanking the streets, massive red slogans and banners were posted everywhere.
"United as One!"
"Everything for the Frontlines, Everything for Victory!"
"For Managed Democracy! For Perditia!"
As she watched these banners flutter in the wind, Cassandra's heart—hardened like bedrock across countless battlefields—felt a long-forgotten tremor.
Throughout the vast majority of the Imperium's worlds, she had seen far too many similar propaganda pieces. Whether in the underhive slums or the spiretop banquet halls of the nobility, the air was perpetually filled with endlessly "correct" yet hollow, tedious platitudes like "Righteousness is Ours," "Purge the Xenos," and "Praise the God-Emperor." Such slogans were often meant only to mask the incompetence of ruler elites or to numb the suffering of the common populace.
Yet on Perditia, everything was starkly different.
Cassandra could clearly feel that these were not mere catchphrases, but core principles viewed by everyone on this planet—from the highest-ranking commanders to the lowest laborers—as the essential secret to achieving victory.
Since arriving here, what she had seen and heard was entirely free of the sickening bureaucracy, corrupt decadence, and cowardice in the face of mighty foes so common across the Imperium. What met her eyes were only untiring production lines, steadfast supply convoys, and workers laboring relentlessly to support the frontlines.
Everyone squeezed out their very last drop of strength, if only to supply the frontline soldiers with one more bullet, one more canister of fuel.
"This is how the Imperium ought to be..." Cassandra muttered under her breath, the corners of her mouth curving slightly upward. "No wonder a Living Saint was born here. The blood flowing through this land is not lavish mead, but the sheer will of iron and blood."
She liked this planet. Compared to worlds that paid lip service to faith while playing political games behind the scenes, Perditia's pragmatic style far better suited the aesthetic of a Battle Sister.
Recalling her interactions with local Perditian officials over this period, Cassandra couldn't help but feel a sense of ease.
On other worlds, when she arrived in her capacity as a Canoness, her presence was almost always accompanied by tedious welcoming ceremonies, insincere hymns, and noble faces plastered with fake smiles. On Perditia, however, aside from a brief and solemn reception on the day of her arrival, there was zero unnecessary pomp.
Even when she proactively visited relevant departments to coordinate affairs, she received none of the customary "pleasing answers" or subservient bowing. The liaisons responsible for coordinating were constantly in a hurry.
Yet Cassandra thoroughly understood this—and even admired it. Everyone was busy fighting against that horrific Nurgle Legion, racing against Death Himself to buy time; who had any spare mood to engage in superficial etiquette?
What satisfied her most was the sheer efficiency of these interactions.
When she submitted supply requests or tactical assistance demands for her Sisters, she no longer faced the habitual brush-offs of other bureaucrats—the usual "Ah, naturally, by the God-Emperor, we will do our utmost to fulfill your request," only for three months to pass without a shred of progress.
Here, she received only three extremely straightforward responses: "Granted, arriving this afternoon."
"Cannot be done; insufficient inventory, no production capacity."
Or "Not possible at the moment, but if you can help us solve the transport vehicle issue, then yes."
This almost machine-like honesty and efficiency brought Cassandra—accustomed as she was to the buck-passing and squabbling of Imperial bureaucracy—an unprecedented sense of relief. Here, a promise was a contract, a refusal was factual reality, and there were no lies—only absolute rationality aimed at survival and victory.
Just then, Cassandra saw the gloomy sky suddenly torn open as if by an invisible giant hand, and a bizarre downpour cascaded down without warning.
The rainwater was not pure and clear, but bore an unsettling, murky greyish-green hue, slapping against the newly hardened adamantine outer walls of the monastery with a dull, viscous thud. The odor of engine oil and ozone typical of an industrial world was instantly overridden by a faint, sickly sweet scent resembling rotting autumn leaves mixed with stale, stagnant water.
As a veteran warrior who had fought Chaos for centuries, Cassandra's sharp sensory nerves instantly tightened to the limit. Stopping dead in her tracks, she rushed back to the terrace edge and reached out to catch a few raindrops.
Watching the liquid slide slowly across the gauntlet of her power armor without immediately corroding the metal, her psychically attuned vision revealed a sickening, faint glow emanating from the water.
"Something's wrong..." Cassandra murmured under her breath, her brow deeply furrowed. "This rain reeks of the Warp—it is the harbinger of a massive sorcerous ritual, or perhaps a medium for spreading a plague."
If it was the latter, the upper hive and spiretop districts, left completely unsheltered and directly exposed beneath the sky, would bear the brunt of the strike.
To handle this type of widespread atmospheric contamination, the best course of action was naturally to evacuate all personnel from the upper hive and spiretop, relocating them to the middle hive situated physically further down. The thick armor plating and layered architectural structures there provided natural shelter.
However, the moment this thought crossed her mind, Cassandra instinctively wanted to shake her head.
If this were any other Hive World in the Imperium, such a proposal would be pure fantasy. Although in terms of numbers and logistics, evacuating the small population at the top down to the middle layers was infinitely simpler than moving hundreds of millions of lower and middle-class residents upward, it involved something far more sacred than life itself: class and nobility.
Those high-and-mighty hive nobles and rulers would rather die in beds covered in silk, or board shuttles to flee the planet, than lower their status to enter the crowded, filthy middle hive belonging to "commoners." To them, that was an insult far worse than death.
She had seen countless worlds where, because the Governor refused to evacuate the spiretop, the entire command system was paralyzed in the very first wave of attack.
And yet—
Cassandra looked at the banner reading "United as One," and the once-indestructible "common sense" in her heart began to waver.
This planet had surprised her far too many times. The Governor and officials here did not seem to care about empty vanity or pomp.
"Perhaps... Governor Robert would agree to this plan?"
After a moment's hesitation, Cassandra ultimately decided to give it a try. Even if there was only a one-in-a-million chance, she could not sit idly by and watch the command system collapse over such a foolish reason. She quickly led two escort Sisters and sped toward the Governor's Palace.
---
The gates of the Governor's Palace stood wide open, devoid of the usual strict, tedious clearance protocols.
Cassandra strode into the main office hall, her mind racing to formulate her speech—devising how to use "the Emperor's Will" or "tactical necessity" to convince the Governor to set aside his pride.
However, when she pushed open those heavy oak doors, the sight before her caused her prepared speech to instantly choke in her throat.
Governor Robert and his Chief Advisor, Joker, were hard at work in the hall. They were not enjoying afternoon tea, nor praying in a panic, but rather... packing up.
Robert was neatly packing dataslates into a sturdy tactical crate, while Joker directed several attendants to dismantle the tactical map projector on the wall. The entire room appeared busy yet orderly, resembling the headquarters of an elite unit preparing to strike camp.
Hearing the commotion at the doorway, Robert looked up. Seeing the Canoness, a look of "What a coincidence" crossed his face.
"Ah, Cassandra, you arrived just in time," Robert said at a rapid-fire pace while snapping the locks on the crate shut. "We were just about to send someone to notify you. Joker believes this sudden rain is suspicious; chemical analysis shows it contains unknown active substances. After discussing it, he and I decided to initiate the 'Mole' contingency plan immediately."
He patted the crate, as if speaking of the most mundane affair: "The Mechanicus and command staff will fully evacuate to the backup shelters in the middle hive. The upper hive and spiretop will retain only essential automated defense emplacements, leaving behind only the most capable combat personnel for defense and observation. After all, the top layers are far too exposed; if Typhus drops an oversized bio-bomb here, we wouldn't even have time to run."
Having said this, Robert seemed to remember something and looked up to ask: "Oh, by the way, Canoness, rushing over here in such a hurry—do you have urgent business?"
Cassandra stood rooted to the spot, stunned for two whole seconds.
No deflection, no attachment to status or position, not even a shred of hesitation. While she was still agonizing over how to convince them to "condescend," they had already packed their bags.
Was this Perditia's efficiency?
Cassandra took a deep breath, suppressing the shock and the surge of respect that followed deep in her heart. Composing herself, she looked at the unpretentious Governor before her and said earnestly: "You are a straightforward man, Governor... I originally came to suggest an evacuation. Since that is already settled, my Battle Sisters and I will remain in the upper hive. Our power armor and faith can withstand pollution of this degree; we will serve as the defensive line here to guard against potential anomalous ambushes."
Robert obviously had no idea how much complex internal deliberation Cassandra had just experienced. For him, staying alive was the only way to maintain output; holding out in the spiretop just for the sake of face was something only a fool would do.
Hearing Cassandra volunteer to stay behind, he simply gave a firm nod: "Then I leave it in your hands. The remaining Helldivers will cooperate with your actions; defense network authority has been transferred to you. If you have any resource or fire support requirements, feel free to raise them with them, or contact the middle hive command directly."
With that, Robert picked up his crate and waved to Joker: "Let's go, the elevator is ready. This damn weather makes one uncomfortable just looking at it."