As Governor Robert and his administrative team executed a decisive evacuation, the grand gates of the St. Adriana Convent slammed wide open.
Not a single Sister of Battle felt the slightest fear in the face of this malicious, rainy day. On the contrary, fanatical flames burned brightly in their eyes. Previously, due to strict quotas, only a fraction of their sisters could go to the frontlines to battle the Nurgle hordes, while the rest were forced to stay behind and guard the hive. This had left them harboring a bellyful of pent-up rage. Now that these heretics actually dared to stretch their filthy claws right under their noses, it was practically a gift-wrapped opportunity to earn glory.
Cassandra held nothing back. She deployed every single Battle Sister remaining inside the convent, fanning them out in squad-sized elements into the now-empty upper hive and spire zones.
Even as a Canoness herself, she donned her full power armor, drew her power sword, and personally led a squad into battle.
In the plaza before the Governor's Palace, Cassandra linked up with a remaining company of the Helldivers. When the soldiers of this company saw those pristine white suits of power armor—so striking and distinct amidst the dismal grey curtain of rain—and especially when they saw Cassandra leading the charge, the sound of their heavy breathing beneath their helmets grew perceptibly deeper.
"In the Emperor's name, we shall cleanse this sector together," Cassandra declared through her external vox-grille.
"Yes! Canoness! Loyalty! Devotion!"
The response from the Helldivers was perfectly unified, carrying a strange, soaring excitement that bordered on the eerie.
The final words, "Loyalty! Devotion!", were practically roared out at the top of their lungs with an inexplicable frenzy—so much so that Cassandra could almost feel their eyes blazing brightly beneath their visors.
It wasn't just this company, either. Whenever she brushed past other squads of the Helldivers operating alongside the white-haired Sisters along the way, Cassandra could sense this strangely surging morale.
While Sisters of Battle were indeed renowned for inspiring mortal troops, wasn't the reaction of these Helldivers... a bit too intense?
With a trace of suspicion in her mind, Cassandra led her patrol deeper into the industrial district.
At a heavy machinery staging area, she came across a peculiar scene. A Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, draped in red robes, was waving his mechadendrites around as he directed a group of Helldivers soldiers to laboriously haul delicate production equipment through the rain, covering them with tarps and pushing them into hardened shelters.
Cassandra halted her steps and asked in confusion, "Tech-Priest, why are soldiers hauling cargo? Where are the workers of this facility? Manual labor of this nature should be handled by them. Soldiers should be conserving their strength for combat."
The Tech-Priest turned, his bionic eye flickering once before he answered in a matter-of-fact tone: "The workers have already been prioritized for evacuation to the mid-hive shelters. As for why—Canoness, logically speaking, a skilled machine operator requires eighteen years of growth and at least five years of specialized training.
Their intrinsic value far exceeds that of this machine. If a machine is lost, it can be rebuilt; if a skilled worker is lost, the recovery cycle for production capacity is measured in decades."
Before Cassandra could fully digest this intensely rational, machine logic, a nearby Helldivers soldier who was carrying a heavy crate suddenly chimed in:
"Exactly, Canoness! If the workers are gone, who's gonna manufacture our guns and artillery? I mean, sure, you can kill the enemy with an entrenching tool to rack up merits, but who doesn't love free bolters and lasguns? It's called sustainable warfare!"
Cassandra froze. She looked at the soldier, then at the others around him who were nodding in agreement, and said softly, "It is almost unimaginable that such words are coming from men who treat their own lives as completely disposable on the battlefield—men who literally compete with one another to seek death."
"Ahem, well, is that really the same thing?" The soldier seemed slightly embarrassed, hoisting the crate higher onto his shoulder. "Our lives are the Emperor's currency; if we don't spend them, they have no value. But the workers' lives are the Emperor's means of production—we gotta preserve and grow their value!"
Cassandra fell silent for a moment, her brow slightly furrowed.
Why do they view their own lives as cheap as dust, yet treat the lives of others with such pragmatic care?
This peculiar worldview linking sacrifice directly to productivity was both cold and yet infused with a strange, bizarre tenderness. It was truly baffling. Perhaps she needed to stay on this planet a while longer to truly understand these "Perditia characteristics."
"Resume patrol," she ordered with a wave of her hand.
When the squad advanced under the covered colonnade of a narrow commercial street, a sudden anomaly occurred.
A ventilation duct directly overhead abruptly exploded open. Accompanied by a sickening roar, a dark silhouette lunged straight down from above, aiming directly at Cassandra, who was walking at the head of the formation.
"Watch out—"
The Helldiver soldier behind her opened his mouth to shout a warning and raise his rifle, but in the next second, everyone froze in place.
Cassandra hadn't even drawn her sword. At the precise instant the shadow was about to touch her, her hands moved like lightning, her power-armored gauntlets gripping the monster's shoulders with absolute precision.
"Hah!"
With a sharp shout, the Canoness flexed her arms, her power armor's hydraulic pistons emitting a deafening roar.
RIP!
A sickening, stomach-churning sound of tearing flesh echoed down the corridor. The walking corpse that had plummeted from the ceiling was literally ripped into two halves mid-air by Cassandra's bare hands!
Foul, blackened blood and entrails splashed across the ground. Cassandra tossed the two halves of the corpse aside with a look of utter disgust.
"Holy shit, tearing a monster apart with bare hands..."
The Helldiver soldiers behind her stood dumbfounded, their lasguns nearly slipping from their hands. They knew the Sisters of Battle were powerful, but the sheer visual impact of that move was just too overwhelming.
Ignoring their astonishment, Cassandra stepped forward, using the toe of her boot to nudge the still-twitching corpse, her brow deeply furrowed. "Where did this corpse come from? The upper hive should have been completely purged long ago."
A bold Helldiver soldier crept closer to inspect the tattered, rotted rags remaining on the corpse, guessing: "Looking at this outfit... it might be a corpse left behind in the ductwork back during the Perditia Liberation War.
Theoretically, anything from back then should be nothing but bare bones by now, but this rain... Nurgle's sorcery has probably grown fresh flesh and blood over those old bones, bringing them back to life."
Looking at the unnaturally sprouting tumors and the dark green pustules throbbing in the rain on the corpse, Cassandra felt a wave of revulsion.
If that was the case, then just how many more of these "historical debts" were hiding within this massive hive city?
"As expected, evacuating the civilians—whose wills are less steadfast and bodies less resilient—was the right choice."
Cassandra raised her head, gazing down the rain-drenched street as her tone grew intensely grim. "If those civilians were still here, this rain wouldn't just reanimate the dead—it would likely infect them, turn those who die of the plague into walking corpses.
Without an evacuation, what we'd be facing right now wouldn't be one or two rogue corpses, but an overwhelming tide of the undead."
She rested her hand on the hilt of the power sword at her waist, her gaze sharpening like a blade.
"All troops, listen up: stay sharp, and resume patrol!"
This foul, torrential downpour, into which Typhus had placed so much hope, had been falling intermittently for two months now.
During these two months, the Death Guard had not been idle. Serving as the vanguard of Nurgle, Typhus directed the Plague Fleet and ground forces to launch several waves of high-intensity, fierce assaults. Poxwalkers surged toward the trenches like a tide.
With heavy, plodding steps accompanied by the deafening roars of Daemon Engines, the Plague Marines attempted to break through the lines of Perditia in a single bound, taking advantage of the chaos brought by the storm.
However, reality ran directly counter to the First Captain's desires.
The chaos he had anticipated never came to pass. Those so-called Helldivers, clad in their full-coverage carapace armor, remained as obstinately unyielding as ever.
Even in a harsh environment with dismal visibility and air saturated with viral spores, the artillery along Perditia's defense line maintained its sickeningly precise, mechanical rhythm.
Around-the-clock bombardment never slackened; the las-beams remained as dense as rain. There was no logistical collapse capable of shattering the frontlines, nor was there any breakdown in troop morale caused by the plague seeping into the hives behind them.
"As expected, that rain wasn't nearly as lethal as I imagined," Typhus murmured. His manreaper cut through the air with a grating shriek, while the Destroyer Hive nesting within his armor hummed and buzzed as if echoing its master's discontent.
"Though it certainly caused those mortals plenty of trouble, that's where it ends. They are like those damned cockroaches—no matter how hard you stomp, you can never crush them all."
The battle had reached a stalemate.
Typhus' rotting brain began to calculate as he weighed his options.
The veil to the Immaterium here had been thinned considerably by widespread death and despair. As Grandfather Nurgle's most favored Herald, he could easily initiate a grand summoning ritual right now if he so wished.
Leveraging his connections and standing within the Garden of Nurgle, calling down a few Great Unclean Ones would be child's play. In fact, if he simply opened his mouth, daemonic hosts eager to spread the Grandfather's gifts throughout the realspace universe would scramble to pour into Perditia.
With several Greater Daemons backing him, no matter how steadfast those mortals' wills were or how fortified their defensive lines might be, they would crumble into ruin before the terror of the Warp.
Yet, this thought lingered in Typhus' mind for only a brief moment before he ruthlessly snuffed it out.
"No."
A low rumble rasped from his corroded vocal cords.
Even if he summoned reinforcements and won, what of it? If this planet fell to the power of Ku'gath or Rotigus, that glory would no longer belong to Typhus.
He had no desire to share the credit with those bloated daemons whose minds held nothing but eating and rotting—and even less desire to appear incompetent, as though he needed to rely on charity from the Warp just to defeat a band of mortals.
Most importantly, acting like that would remind him of his cowardly, ever-indecisive Primarch father—Mortarion.
Typhus utterly despised Mortarion's hypocrisy of clinging to so-called "Legion honor" and "independence" even after falling to Chaos. But what he hated even more was being viewed by others as a weakling in need of saving, just like Mortarion.
"I am Typhus. I am The Traveler." he muttered under his breath.
Ever since he handed the Death Guard over to Nurgle during that famous betrayal, he had tirelessly wandered the galaxy, spreading the Grandfather's plagues with his own two hands. He was not like those cowards hiding away in the Eye of Terror; he was a man of action, an envoy who personally delivered despair to his enemies.
"I have no need for the aid of those bloated waste-products. This planet is my prey, and its decay must be completed by my own hands."
Typhus turned around, turning his back on the glowing holographic display that showed the defense line still standing firm.
Though his current assault was stymied, he was in no hurry.
As Nurgle's Herald, he possessed a lifespan beyond a mortal's imagination, along with the most precious quality bestowed by his god—patience.
Entropy is irreversible; rot is the inevitable conclusion.
"Then let us wait a little longer," Typhus sneered, his laughter a sickening mixture of bursting mucus. "Perhaps in time, an opportunity will present itself? Even adamantite will erode if soaked in acid rain long enough. The same goes for mortal will; as long as relentless pressure is applied, a day will come when they break."
He decided to maintain this war of attrition, waiting for this seemingly hard fruit of Perditia to begin blackening and softening from within, until sweet pus finally seeped from its core.
For the inhabitants of Perditia's primary hive city, the most noticeable change was that the filthy curtain of rain, which had felt virtually endless, had finally dispersed completely this morning.
When the long-absent light of the artificial star pierced through the clouds once more, bathing the spire's armor plating in radiance, Robert let out a long sigh of relief. Standing before the holographic tactical map in the mid-hive command headquarters, he felt as if a massive stone weighing down on his chest had finally been lifted.
"It's finally over," he murmured, rubbing his temples. "If it kept raining like that, forget the workers' health—even the precision machine tools would have started sprouting mushrooms."
Over the past two months, his greatest fear hadn't merely been the humidity's impact on industrial capacity, but the Warp filth carried within that rain.
Countless times in his nightmares, he had envisioned the upper hive's drainage systems failing, sweeping thousands of corpses down through the conduit pipes—only for them to suddenly snap their eyes open and form an unstoppable undead tide crashing against the mid-hive defenses.
Fortunately, Canoness Cassandra, her subordinate Sisters of Battle, and those tireless Helldivers had performed their duties with absolute devotion.
Frontline reports indicated they had patrolled the upper hive relentlessly, dispatching every corpse that attempted to rise back into the underworld and nipping a potential internal plague outbreak right in the bud.
Just as Robert was about to sip a cup of hot tea to celebrate this rare clear day, the heavy blast doors of the mid-hive command center slid open with a hiss of hydraulics.
Herbert strode inside, clutching a newly decrypted data-slate in his hand. His expression was as grim as if he had just swallowed a Nurgling.
"One piece of good news and one piece of bad news—which do you want to hear first?" Herbert asked, getting straight to the point without ceremony.
Robert froze, his tea cup hovering in mid-air as he looked at the old Inquisitor with some surprise: "Since when did you start playing this game? That doesn't sound like you."
After a moment's thought, he put down his cup and decided to play along with Herbert's humor: "Good news first. Now that this wretched weather has cleared, I could use something a bit more uplifting."
"The good news is that the Astropaths just received a powerful, crystal-clear message," Herbert read off the data-slate. "Another Astartes Chapter has responded to our call for aid and is heading toward Perditia at full speed. They provided a definitive arrival window: barring any Warp storm interference, they will arrive in four to six months."
Here, Herbert paused briefly: "Though they didn't specify exact numbers, judging by the scale of the fleet they've mobilized, I estimate at least several hundred Space Marines—perhaps even a full Chapter strength of a thousand."
"Excellent!" Robert slapped the table hard, overjoyed. "Another fresh force, and arriving so quickly! Talk about a stroke of luck out of nowhere! I thought the Lamenters would be the first to arrive after receiving the word, but to think we'd get a pleasant surprise like this!"
A thousand Astartes! That was equivalent to an entire full-strength Chapter! With a force like that, forget defending—a localized counteroffensive against Typhus wouldn't just be a pipe dream!
Yet Herbert's expression did not improve despite Robert's excitement; instead, it turned distinctly stranger.
"So... what's the bad news?" Robert's smile faded as he sensed something was amiss.
"The bad news is that the Chapter coming is the Space Wolves," Herbert said slowly, a tinge of indescribable complexity in his tone. "The specific designation is the 'DragonSlayer' Great Company, and the Wolf Lord leading them... happens to be an acquaintance of ours: Krona Dragon-Gazer."
Robert blinked. Space Wolves? They were one of the First Founding Chapters and the fiercest warriors in the Imperium—the famous Wolves of Fenris. How could that possibly be bad news? It was even led by an acquaintance; shouldn't that make it even better news?
In the very next second, however, a realization struck Robert like a bolt of lightning.
Wait.
Arriving in four to six months.
He snapped his head up, staring intently at Herbert, his voice turning somewhat dry as he asked: "You mentioned before... when were the Grey Knights from the Inquisition expected to arrive again?"
"You really did remember," Herbert sighed, adopting an expression that said 'I knew it.' "That's right. The Grey Knights' estimated time of arrival is also four to six months from now—barring any unforeseen incidents."
A dead silence fell over the command center.
Robert could feel his temples throbbing violently.
Space Wolves and Grey Knights.
Putting those two groups together wasn't merely a matter of "disliking each other." Ever since the "Months of Shame" incident following the First War for Armageddon, the tension between these two forces was practically worse than between the Imperium and the T'au.
On one side were secret guardians adamant about purging all witnesses, and on the other were fiercely protective savages who wouldn't hesitate to open fire on the Inquisition just to protect innocent mortals.
And now, they were scheduled to collide right here on this tiny planet of Perditia.
Robert slammed his teacup down onto the table, the porcelain meeting the surface with a sharp clack. He stood up and began pacing back and forth inside the command room, his brow furrowed deeply into a tight knot.
"We need to figure out a way—we absolutely cannot let them meet," Robert said urgently. "Otherwise, if a fight breaks out between them, it won't be a simple skirmish. It'll be a full-scale war that drags us in with them.
When that happens, we'll be caught in the middle with neither side happy, and Typhus, sitting on the sidelines watching the show, will probably laugh himself awake in his sleep."
Herbert sighed, gesturing helplessly with his hands: "That's why I came straight to you in the first place—to see if that brain of yours, full of tricks and scheme, has any good ideas."
Robert halted his steps, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the tactical map. After a moment of deep thought, a sharp gleam flashed in his eyes: "I actually did think of something... Have you discussed specific operational tasks with the Grey Knights yet? For instance, where they should land, or who they'll be coordinating with?"
"Specifics?" Herbert shook his head. "No. Astropathic communications are delayed, vague, and subject to interference. I only informed them that the highest threat here is the Plague Host led personally by Typhus, and requested targeted strikes."
"Good, then we have plenty of room to maneuver," Robert turned around, pointing up at the holographic star map and tapping his finger on the massive red icon representing the Death Guard flagship. "My suggestion is that we modify the operational request. Don't let the Grey Knights land on the surface at all. Have them charge straight for the Terminus Est. We give them only one objective: destroy that warship's Warp drive."
Herbert remained silent, quietly observing him. As a partner of many years, he knew Robert wasn't finished. Relying solely on a Grey Knight strike team to board a giant battleship required at least a solid rationale.
Sure enough, without waiting for Herbert to voice his doubts, Robert continued, a touch of regret in his voice: "When the time comes, the Helldivers forces hiding within the Terminus Est will simultaneously launch a massive assault in coordination.
Given the Terminus Est's current troop strength, I don't think it can handle the Grey Knights' psychic decapitation strike and the Helldivers elite's internal demolition at the same time. Once the mission is accomplished, the Grey Knights can simply teleport out using their psychic powers."
Robert held up three fingers, breaking down his analysis with logical clarity: "Doing this offers several major advantages. First, by not having the Grey Knights land directly on Perditia's surface, they won't see the civilians here or any so-called 'potential corruption,' saving us the trouble of coming up with excuses to stop them from conducting a massive purge later.
Second, since they'll be fighting outside the atmosphere while the Space Wolves fight on the ground, the two sides won't meet, naturally avoiding any conflict and preventing a repeat of the 'Months of Shame' tragedy.
Third, this is tactically the optimal solution—it completely cuts off Typhus' escape route, preventing him from fleeing upon defeat, or doing something desperate like conducting orbital bombardments against the hive cities."
Hearing this, Herbert finally couldn't help widening his eyes, his face written over with utter shock: "Wait a minute... there are still Helldivers on the Terminus Est? And enough of them to pull off a large-scale assault?"
Herbert found it hard to believe. He remembered clearly that last time, in order to wipe out the Helldivers who were spreading like a virus throughout its hull, the Terminus Est had resorted to extreme measures, voluntarily severing a section of its hull roughly a kilometer long.
That massive piece of wreckage had crashed into Perditia's wasteland and triggered a localized earthquake; even now, burning fires and toxic fumes could still be seen rising from the ruins.
Even after such a brutal purge, combined with months of encirclement and suppression by the Plague Host, they still hadn't cleared out all the Helldivers on board? This practically defied biological common sense!
"Otherwise, why do you think they're considered elites?" Robert said with a straight, unblinking face. "They are warriors with wills of iron. As long as they draw breath, they will fight to the bitter end inside that rotting warship."
Herbert opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately managed to accept the explanation. After all, too many strange things had happened around these gas-mask-wearing fellows—one more wouldn't hurt.
After a moment of silence, Herbert asked the final, and most cruel, question: "Then after the mission succeeds and the Grey Knights teleport out... what about the Helldivers? How do they get back?"
Deep inside the enemy flagship filled with daemons and Plague Marines, once they lost the cover of the Grey Knights, death would be their only outcome.
Robert looked Herbert in the eye without flinching, pronouncing four words calmly and firmly: "They simply embrace their demise."
Herbert stared at Robert for a long moment, reading a stirring resoluteness beneath that calm expression. He exhaled slowly, as if venting the oppressive feeling in his chest.
"...Fine. I'll make the arrangements."
---
The unpredictable, purple streams of light within the Immaterium surged wildly outside the Strike Cruiser's Geller field, yet the warship carrying the Imperium's most secretive force remained as steadfast as a rock.
In the incense-filled strategium, adorned with sacred purity seals and inscriptions, the commander of this Grey Knight task force—Grand Canoness Koyal Tempas—was reviewing a parchment scroll that had just been decrypted and delivered by the Astropaths.
Inscribed upon it in High Gothic were top-secret instructions sent by Lord Inquisitor Herbert from Perditia.
"A direct boarding action against the Terminus Est to destroy its Warp drive?" A rare look of surprise crossed Koyal Tempas' resolute face, which had endured countless wars against daemons. He had originally assumed this mission would be like any other: landing on the surface, purging the corrupted lands, and incidentally "handling" any mortals who witnessed their existence.
But this request... was extraordinarily bold, bordering on audacious.
"Did the astropathic message mention enemy numbers?" Koyal turned to look at the Canoness Ancient beside him.
The giant in Terminator power armor was connected to the warship's auspex array via neural interface, while simultaneously reading the detailed notes attached to the astropathic message.
"If the decryption is correct," the Canoness Ancient's voice sounded deep and metallic through the helmet grille, "then according to the intelligence provided by the Lord Inquisitor, due to prior battle losses, there are currently around six to seven hundred Death Guard remaining aboard the Terminus Est. Furthermore, Typhus himself is not on the flagship, but down on the planet's surface."
Koyal nodded slightly, his Nemesis force halberd tapping gently against the floor with a crisp sound: "Acceptable."
If the astropathic message had omitted enemy numbers, or if intelligence had indicated a full-strength Death Guard Legion force, Koyal might have cautiously assessed the risks. After all, the Terminus Est was the infamous flagship of Nurgle, its interior a labyrinth filled with deadly toxic gases and demonic traps.
But fewer than a thousand enemies? And without Typhus himself present?
For an elite unit composed entirely of psychically gifted warriors, this could hardly be considered an even fight. Not to mention their objective wasn't to purge every heretic aboard, but to cut into the core like a scalpel, destroy the engine, and withdraw calmly. This sort of "decapitation" strike was precisely the tactic the Grey Knights excelled at most.
As for the vague lines of text at the bottom of the scroll mentioning a mortal unit called the "Helldivers" coordinating inside the ship—the Canoness Ancient merely glanced over them and skipped them entirely.
He did not report this point to his Captain. In his eyes, it was utterly irrelevant.
Of course, even if he had reported it accurately, Koyal's attitude would have been identical to his brother's—considering it completely insignificant.
"Reply to Perditia," Koyal Tempas commanded, his tone carrying an unquestionable authority. "We will execute the boarding operation immediately upon entering the system. For the Emperor."
"For the Emperor," the Canoness Ancient echoed softly.
-------
Across the plains of Perditia, the roar of bolters and the flesh-tearing howl of chainswords intertwined into a never-ending symphony of death.
Cato Sicarius swung his power sword, its blue power field cutting a dazzling arc through the air, cleaving a Nurgle beast in two as it attempted to spew corrosive bile. Foul-smelling entrails and blackened blood splattered in all directions, yet failed to taint the magnificent power armor of the Ultramarine Captain in the slightest.
Behind him, the Helldivers clad in full carapace armor moved like an untiring grey wave. Some charged forward with bayonets fixed, while others poured a torrent of las-fire from hastily dug trenches. On the flank, Sisters of Battle sang holy hymns at the top of their lungs, their weapons reducing Nurgle's filth to ashes.
Such scenes had played out hundreds of times from the war's inception to the present moment.
On average, it happened once a day, with each engagement lasting at least twelve hours. This battlefield seemed to have transformed into a gigantic meat grinder, with both sides throwing in troops without reserve.
It was an exceedingly bizarre war of attrition, because several of the factions involved appeared to have long departed from the realm of "normal humans." The Helldivers moved like clockwork soldiers endowed with infinite stamina; so long as their heads weren't shattered, they could keep pulling the trigger endlessly.
As Astartes, the Ultramarines possessed physiological capabilities far beyond those of mortals, meaning combat of this intensity remained well within their limits. The newly arrived Sisters of Battle were driven by fanatical faith, their spirits heightened to the point of tireless excitement.
As for the Plague Host opposite them, they were walking corpses who had died long ago, completely oblivious to pain and fatigue.
This high-intensity warfare was like two colliding trains that, by all appearances, could keep going until one side collapsed entirely.
Just as Sicarius had finished off the third Nurgle beast trying to approach him, expecting yet another grueling tug-of-war that would stretch from dawn until midnight, the pressure across the battlefield suddenly eased.
The Plague Host—which had been slowly advancing just moments prior, appearing virtually endless—abruptly broke contact without warning. They did not break into a rout; instead, like receding sludge, they pulled back in an orderly fashion toward the rear, quickly vanishing into the murky fog along the horizon.
The thunder of gunfire thinned out, eventually settling into silence.
"Why are they retreating so early today?" beside Sicarius, a Helldivers combat engineer swapping fuel canisters for his flamethrower grumbled under his breath, a faint trace of lingering disappointment in his tone.
"Stay vigilant," Sicarius sheathed his sword, his sharp gaze continuing to sweep across the distance. "They may be plotting a night assault. Nurgle's curs have no concept of honor."
"Yes, Second Captain!" the Helldivers engineer replied cheerfully, casually slapping his mud-caked trench coat before complaining: "Though honestly, these Death Guard are ridiculously hard to kill. Fighting them is fine—they hardly dodge—but on these wide-open plains, they move around too easily. Unless it's a guaranteed one-shot kill, they can run around dragging their guts behind them. Getting a hundred percent confirmation on a 'kill' is basically impossible..."
Hearing this, the corner of Sicarius' mouth twitched slightly.
He couldn't help but remark silently in his mind: Since when did mortal troops start discussing "killing Astartes" as a routine tactical objective?
And in that tone of complaining that the prey's hide is too thick?
Do you people not realize that the other side views you in exact same way?
The Plague Host had charged the defensive lines countless times, taking out innumerable Helldivers and even harvesting lives en masse with toxic gas.
Yet no matter how many fell, this grey defense line countered with unyielding strength. Its organizational structure functioned like living metal with self-repairing capabilities, refusing to break no matter how hard it was hit.
To Typhus, this group of gas-mask-wearing mortals was likely even more monstrous than the Astartes.
Meanwhile, several kilometers away behind the Plague positions:
Typhus stood beside a rust-pitted Daemon Engine, his manreaper dripping with un-dried blood. Yet at this moment, he had no mood to savor the pleasure of slaughter. Instead, he furiously connected to the comms channel with his flagship in orbit.
The Plague Host's retreat had not been his intention. Rather, an enormous gap had suddenly appeared in the aerial fire support that was supposed to cover the battlefield, stalling their ground advance.
"Gurgos!" Typhus' raspy voice—sounding like the buzzing wings of countless flies—exploded over the comms channel. "Why did the air support suddenly weaken? You had better give me a proper explanation!"
A stomach-churning screech of static sounded over the comms, followed by Gurgos' distinct mutter, as though his throat were stuffed with thick phlegm: "Lord Typhus, the orbital fleet was just ambushed by a Strike Cruiser. It attempted to close in on us, but we have just repelled it. Air support will be restored shortly."
Hearing this, Typhus' tense nerves relaxed slightly. He had thought an Imperial relief fleet had arrived; if it was merely a single Strike Cruiser, it was nothing more than a suicidal charge.
"Good. Resume the bombardment immediately. I want to see—"
Mid-sentence, Typhus' voice cut off abruptly. He suddenly realized Gurgos hadn't mentioned what became of that Strike Cruiser. If Gurgos had destroyed it, could he possibly have left that unsaid?
Thus, Typhus pressed on: "Where did that Strike Cruiser run off to?"
Silence fell over the other end of the line for a moment, before Gurgos responded with some embarrassment: "...It crash-landed onto Perditia. Its void shields were overloaded and its engines appeared severely damaged. It dived straight into the atmosphere, presumably attempting one final force-landing before crashing."
"Useless trash!" Typhus roared, scaring the surrounding Nurglings into scattering in panic.
He truly hadn't expected that Gurgos, commanding the entire Plague Fleet and holding complete orbital dominance, could still let a single Strike Cruiser slip through down to the planet.
Gurgos immediately tried to defend himself: "My Lord, that Strike Cruiser arrived very suddenly. Coupled with our shortage of personnel and slow fleet response, I assure you I did my absolute best under the circumstances—"
"I will settle scores with you when I return!"
Typhus bellowed in rage, applying sudden pressure. The weathered vox-communicator in his Terminator-armored gauntlet emitted a sickening crunch, instantly turning into a pile of scrap metal mixed with rotted wiring and shredded metal.
He knew he was about to face yet another fresh enemy force.
Regardless of whether that crash-landed Strike Cruiser carried more Space Marines or something else.
An intensely ominous foreboding stabbed into Typhus' long-numbed nerves like a cold needle.
This foreboding made him extremely irritable, even causing the Destroyer Hive buzzing within him day in and day out to grow restless. Billions of daemon-flies slammed about frantically inside the gaps of his armor, as if sensing the approach of a natural predator.
He had a constant feeling that an invisible hand, hiding behind thick layers of mist, was meticulously moving the pieces across the board, step by step trying to guide him toward a terrible fate.
Inside the temporary frontline command post.
The dim blue light emitted by the holographic tactical table reflected onto the faces of the two Astartes commanders, bringing their vastly different demeanors into stark contrast. On one side stood Cato Sicarius, Second Captain of the Ultramarines—draped in master-crafted power armor and crowned with a transverse crest, every plate of his armor shining with glorious prestige.
On the other side stood Gabriel Seth, Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers—a burly giant whose power armor was covered in deep crimson paint and vicious scratches, exuding a suffocating stench of blood and violence.
The two stared at each other, eye to eye, in complete silence for a full thirty seconds.
Sicarius maintained his dignified, statue-like posture, though his mind was racing with bewilderment: Why on earth did these lunatics suddenly show up on Perditia?
Could they have lost their way in the Warp, bumped into this war after dropping out, and impulsively charged down here on a whim?
Considering the abysmal reputation of the Flesh Tearers, Sicarius felt that this scenario fit all the rumors he had heard about them perfectly.
Well, great. The situation was already a colossal mess. In the upcoming battles, not only would he have to deal with those revolting Plague Hosts, but he would also need to keep a constant eye on these "allies." Emperor knows if, in the heat of slaughter, they might turn their bayonets and chainswords against the comrades beside them. Neither the Helldivers nor the fanatical Sisters of Battle could likely withstand a round of backstabbing from these madmen.
It seems we are the only ones who can bear the responsibility of keeping a watch over them, Sicarius sighed silently, preparing for the worst-case scenario. As the Sword of the Emperor, this is a burden the Ultramarines must carry.
In the end, it was Seth who broke the awkward silence first. Tilting his head slightly, his eyes—hidden in the shadows—inspected Sicarius with predatory scrutiny: "Not welcome?"
Sicarius instantly smoothed his expression, responding with textbook-perfect diplomatic etiquette: "Of course not, Brother Seth. Any loyal Astartes brother is an invaluable asset. I am confident that our joint operations will deal a devastating blow to the arrogant Chaos enemy."
Though in his heart he desperately wanted to quarantine these walking time bombs, he still had to maintain proper surface formalities.
"Hmph—unnecessary, and unwanted," Seth coldly interrupted Sicarius' pleasantries. His voice was low and raspy, like a chainsword grinding against bone. "Carve out a sector for us. We will handle the defense there entirely on our own."
This took Sicarius completely by surprise.
If the Flesh Tearers were willing to operate independently in a designated zone, that would be an absolute godsend. It would allow them to unleash their combat power while completely eliminating the risk of friendly fire.
He hadn't dared to suggest it earlier, mainly out of concern that these sons of Sanguinius were too overly sensitive; if they felt they were being excluded or sidelined, a fight might break out on the spot.
However, since they were the ones voluntarily bringing it up, the nature of the request changed entirely.
Sicarius felt a swell of silent relief, though he maintained a strict, professional demeanor on the outside as he probed cautiously: "Do you not require support from other allied forces? After all, the size of the Plague Host is—"
"If the great, glorious, and righteous Ultramarines Chapter could use your highly efficient bureaucratic government to wade through those ten thousand approval procedures and grant us a few bags of blood plasma to support our operations, that would be wonderful," Seth remarked with a sardonic sneer.
"As for other 'coordination,' forget it. I don't want my warriors having to waste effort distinguishing between enemies and 'allies' standing in their way while they're hacking and slashing."
Sicarius' eye twitched slightly, but he decided to outright ignore this offensive remark.
At the same time, he wondered in his mind: How on earth did those rumors outside start spreading? Everyone says the Flesh Tearers are rabid dogs who know nothing but slaughter, but while this Gabriel Seth has a sharp tongue and a foul temper, his logic is crystal clear, his tactical intent is precise, and his mental state seems perfectly normal?
"Very well. As you wish, Chapter Master Seth."
Sicarius turned swiftly, his fingers sliding across the holographic map to zoom in on a prominent salient located on the far left flank of the battle line. Clearly, the moment Seth requested an independent area of operation, his tactical mind had already spun up at high speed and filtered out the optimal solution.
"Right here, Hill MMIWG2SLGBTQQIA+," Sicarius said, pointing at the zone densely surrounded by red icons, his tone carrying a touch of professional salesmanship. "This is the highest-pressure breach along the entire defensive line.
The terrain is narrow and rugged, unfavorable for deploying mortal forces, and surrounded on all sides by enemies. The Plague Host has massed a huge force of heavy infantry and armor here, attempting to tear open our flank."
He raised his head to look at Seth, a spark flashing in his eyes: "There are only enemies here, no allies, and the density of monsters is at its absolute highest."
"I presume this should suit the Flesh Tearers Chapter's... appetite."
Seth ignored Sicarius' double entendre regarding their "appetite," merely frowning as he repeated the hill's name with a hint of confusion in his voice: "MMIWG2SLGBTQQIA+? Why does it contain letters, numbers, and mathematical symbols?
Does the naming format of this hill have any special significance? A code for bombardment coordinates? Or does it hint at an underground defensive structure?"
Sicarius shook his head, the transverse crest on his helmet swaying slightly with the motion to signal a negative: "I do not know. For that question, I am afraid you would have to ask the Helldivers who named these hills."
The Ultramarines Second Captain gestured helplessly with his hands; clearly, he too had been baffled by these designations before: "Though these names are rather long and strange, they carry no actual tactical significance, so I did not bother to inquire."
"Forget it then," Seth dismissed. Upon hearing that it held no tactical meaning, the slight spark of curiosity in his eyes extinguished instantly.
For the Flesh Tearers, any piece of information that didn't help them drive a chainsword into an enemy's chest more efficiently was garbage—wasting a single word on it was a waste of rage.
He straightened his massive frame, the giant two-handed chainsword mounted on his back-plate letting out a dull clatter, as if it too longed for the impending slaughter.
"We move out immediately. Since that place is wall-to-wall enemies, we won't be needing complex vox codes. When you hear the roar of chainswords, you'll know where we are."
Seth turned to walk toward the exit of the command post, but as he passed the two Ultramarines standing guard, he paused his footsteps.
Although the two guards maintained a flawless attention posture, their fingers rested tightly near the trigger guards of their bolters, knuckles turning white from extreme tension. The lenses beneath their helmets were locked dead onto Seth's every movement, as though ready to react to a charging beast at any second.
The infamous Chapter Master tilted his head, a subtle, hard-to-read expression crossing his scar-riddled face—part mock, part pity, as if looking at a group of fresh recruits who had never seen the world.
"Also, Sicarius—tell your warriors to relax a bit. They are far too tense," Seth glanced at those tightly held bolters and let out a cold snort. "Keep them strained like this, and their nerves will snap long before Nurgle's flies even get here. Rest assured, as long as you stay out of our way, my brothers have no interest in blue tin cans."
The air inside the temporary frontline command post was murky and heavy, thick with the pungent stench of burning promethium mixed with the metallic odor of damp soil. The furnishings were laughably rudimentary—completely unbefitting a central hub for a planet-wide campaign. Yet this was precisely Joker's style; like his fellow Helldivers, he kept himself pinned directly to the forward positions.
At this moment, the most powerful figures along the entire battle line were gathered inside the narrow meeting room: a representative of the Sisters of Battle, along with two Astartes Chapter Masters—Cato Sicarius and Gabriel Seth—who had just arrived straight from the front lines after fierce fighting.
Joker stood before the holographic tactical table, his expression tranquil, as if the thundering artillery fire outside were merely trivial background music.
"Everyone, I have gathered you here because I have news capable of altering the entire trajectory of this war," Joker said, scanning the room, his voice steady. "While we previously established that reinforcements were coming, the precise timeline for the Ultramarines relief force was uncertain—until now. We have received definitive confirmation."
Sicarius straightened his posture slightly, even though he too had only just learned of this detail.
"They have already rendezvoused with warriors from the Astral Claws Chapter originating from the Maelstrom," Joker illuminated a set of coordinates on the star map, whereupon a massive cluster of light points materialized. "Furthermore, this is no ordinary relief fleet. This is a battleship battle group fully capable of going toe-to-toe with the Plague Fleet. As for the number of Space Marines aboard..."
Joker paused for a moment before dropping the suffocating figure: "Ten thousand. A full ten thousand Astartes are expected to arrive at Perditia in one year's time."
A moment of dead silence fell over the room. Even the notoriously proud Seth raised an eyebrow slightly. Ten thousand Astartes—in the history of the Imperium following the breakup of the Legions into Chapters, such numbers could be counted on one hand.
Mobilizing a force of this magnitude simply to reinforce a single planet sent a genuine shock through everyone present.
"This is invigorating news," Joker nodded, before changing the topic sharply, his command baton tapping against the surface map of Perditia. "However, this also means our campaign plan now officially has a clear timeline."
Under his manipulation, the defensive line on the map began to shift. The once rock-solid front started slowly falling back in the tactical simulation.
"The upcoming phase of our operation may not be particularly pleasant," Joker said in a low tone. "Moving forward, the Helldivers Corps will gradually reduce troop density and firepower projection at the front.
We must feign weakness—creating the illusion that our forces are exhausted and our momentum depleted. We will use our blood and flesh to solidify Typhus' resolve to press his attack."
The representative of the Sisters of Battle frowned, but did not interrupt.
"Of course, Typhus is a cunning bastard; simply feigning weakness will only arouse his suspicion," Joker's finger slid along the timeline. "In four to six months—the exact arrival window for the Space Wolves and the Grey Knights—the battle line will have been intentionally allowed to recede right up to the gates of the main hive. That will be the moment Typhus feels he is closest to victory, believing that one final push is all it takes to completely crush us."
"And at that exact moment," Joker clenched his fist tightly, "our ground joint forces will coordinate with the Grey Knights' boarding action in orbit to launch our first counteroffensive. This counteroffensive won't be aimed at routing him, but at locking him down. Our objective is to partially destroy the Terminus Est's propulsion systems, stripping away his ability to flee the battlefield."
Joker's eyes turned cold: "Once this step is completed, the plan is half-won. By that stage, Typhus will face only absolute victory or complete ruin—there will be no third path for him. His arrogance and sunk costs will compel him to fight to the death."
"Then, six months after that—exactly one year from now..."
On the holographic map, the massive cluster of light points representing the ten thousand Astartes finally arrived in orbit above Perditia.
"That will be the moment we truly pull the net tight. A decisive battle will erupt in orbit, while on the ground, we will launch a full-scale push forward across all fronts.
Simultaneously, the Grey Knights, Space Wolves, Ultramarines, Flesh Tearers, Astral Claws—several formidable, Chapter Master-level Space Marines will launch a joint assault to surround and kill Typhus," Joker's voice carried a ruthless edge.
"And our Living Saint of the Helldivers will deliver the final blow, ending him permanently—proving to every heretic and daemon across the galaxy that invading Perditia carries only one outcome."
Nothing remained in the meeting room save for the sound of heavy breathing.
This was Seth's first time attending a joint conference of this scale. Staring at the massive trap laid out on the map, he now fully understood the grim state of Perditia and why things had reached this point.
These lunatics were line-fishing—using an entire world's survival as bait.
"Ha!" Seth suddenly grinned, revealing flashes of white teeth. "If it weren't for killing Typhus and sealing off all his escape routes, you'd already have launched a full-scale offensive by now, wouldn't you? Showing Typhus that his current strength can't deal with Perditia and forcing him to slink off empty-handed... But that doesn't satisfy your appetite, does it?"
Joker looked at Seth and answered calmly: "Repelling or wounding him accomplishes negligible results against Chaos. Such a victory is merely a false victory. Decades or centuries later, he would return, and we would have to bleed all over again. Rather than that, we might as well bleed dry right now."
He paused briefly before adding: "Better to sever one finger than to injure ten."
"Well said," Sicarius—who had remained silent—voiced his concise and firm agreement. As an Ultramarine, though he championed honor, he understood strategic imperative. Permanently eradicating a cancer like Typhus was well worth making tactical sacrifices for.
At this point, the Sisters of Battle representative spoke up with a touch of concern, her voice bearing a hint of uncertainty: "Commander, strategically I have no objections. However... won't months of feigning weakness and retreating deal a devastating blow to the morale of our warriors? Watching their comrades fall, watching positions lost, only to receive orders from above to continue pulling back—this is torture for devout soldiers."
Joker turned his head to look at the Sister: "Rest assured, Sister. The soldiers are already aware of this plan."
The Sister froze in surprise.
Joker continued: "Their attitude toward it is wholehearted support. As I said, if we let Typhus slip away this time, who knows if he'll dare return next time? Temporary forbearance is undertaken to teach these Chaos bastards a lesson they'll never forget, securing long-term peace for Perditia.
Every single Helldiver, from top to bottom—even a common soldier down in the trenches—knows how to run these numbers."
The Battle Sister's mouth hung open in astonishment. Revealing an ultra-classified strategic plan to frontline soldiers? This was unheard of in any Imperial military branch—it was downright insane. What if secrets leaked? What if a mutiny broke out?
Yet as she turned her head to look at Sicarius and Seth, the two battle-hardened Astartes showed no reaction whatsoever, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
Since the Astartes tacitly accepted it, she ultimately swallowed her doubts and shock. Perhaps this was simply the way of the Perditian people.
Seeing that none of his allies harbored further objections, Joker knew the plan had passed with a unanimous vote.
He snapped his heels together sharply, raising a crisp and powerful military salute to everyone present. His voice echoed through the narrow confines of the command post:
"Everything for the front lines! Everything for victory!"
Across the battlefield of Perditia, gunsmoke and plague-choked toxic fog intertwined into a suffocating haze of greyish-yellow.
For Typhus, this was supposed to be yet another dull and tedious day. Ever since the initial landing operations devolved into a brutal trench war of attrition, time seemed trapped in Nurgle's eternal cycle of stagnation: attack, get repelled, attack again, get repelled again.
Those gas-mask-wearing mortals were like stubborn fungi; no matter how thoroughly you scraped them away, a fresh crop would sprout in the exact same spot by the next morning.
Yet, just as Typhus was directing another wave of Poxwalkers and Nurgle beasts in a routine probing charge, a subtle, almost imperceptible sense of discord struck his sharp nerves.
As a veteran who had been active continuously since the Great Crusade, Typhus' perception of the battlefield had long transcended the scope of ordinary five senses. What he picked up on was not the sound of gunshots or artillery, but the overall "rhythm" of the war.
In the past, whenever his Plague Host surged toward the Helldiver positions, what greeted them was always an endless, gapless wall of las-fire and heavy artillery, a density of firepower like an immovable brick wall. But today, that wall felt... somewhat thinner.
It wasn't that the mortals' morale had faltered. Through the visors of his Terminator armor, Typhus could still clearly see those Helldiver soldiers fighting to the death in the mud, still employing bayonets and entrenching tools to fight unimaginable horrors without showing the slightest sign of fear or hesitation.
Yet objective facts could not be masked: the density of las-fire had dropped by roughly fifteen percent, windows of inactivity had begun appearing in heavy bolter nests, and even the frequency of those insufferable artillery bombardments had noticeably thinned out.
Ten thousand years of combat experience spun rapidly in his mind, instantly inferring several possible causes behind this anomaly:
A depletion of manpower?
Over-drafting skilled labor, leading to reduced efficiency and yield rates in rear-area munitions production?
Exhaustion of stockpiled resources, with new ore extraction failing to keep pace with consumption and forcing production lines to slow down?
Whichever reason it was, all pointed to a single conclusion: the chains holding Perditia together were beginning to snap.
"Could it be... that an opportunity has finally arrived?"
Typhus tightened his grip on his manreaper, a long-absent thrill creeping up his spine to the crown of his head. Was this endless war of attrition finally dragging the enemy under?
However, he quickly forced himself to cool down, suppressing that surge of excitement.
"This could very well be a trap," he cautioned himself internally. "The Corpse-Emperor's lapdogs excel at such tricks—feigning weakness to draw the enemy in deep, before detonating pre-planted explosives to blow the greedy attackers sky-high."
His decay-filled, cunning mind weighed the risks and rewards. If this truly were a trap, rushing in blindly would be courting disaster. Yet if this was indeed the precursor to their collapse, and he missed the golden opportunity out of sheer paranoia, that would be unforgivable cowardice.
Though Grandfather Nurgle favored steadiness and stagnation, he held no love for cowering in the face of opportunity.
After careful consideration, Typhus made his decision.
He would take the field in person to test the true strength of this position.
"Hear my command!" Typhus' voice thundered through the Death Guard communication channels, carrying unquestionable authority.
"Assemble the First Company! Select one thousand of the most elite Plague Marines to join me in personally tearing this gap open!"
Yet that still wasn't safe enough. As an extraordinarily cautious commander, Typhus added a double layer of insurance for himself.
"Furthermore, have one thousand warriors from the Second Company stand by as a reserve force ready to move in at a moment's notice. Should the battle shift, deploy immediately to cover our retreat."
"Inform the orbital fleet to send out heavy swarms of Plague Flies and Heldrakes to hover in low orbit. The moment I give the signal, deliver total fire coverage over the target coordinates within five minutes!"
Having arranged all of this, Typhus looked upon the assembling Plague Host, his mind thoroughly at ease.
One thousand personal guards accompanying him, one thousand elite reserves backing him up, along with on-call orbital air support. With a setup like this, even if he walked straight into the most venomous trap imaginable, he was more than capable of carving a way out.
"Unless that old dried meat sitting on the Golden Toilet stands up himself, or a Primarch on the level of Sanguinius or Lion El'Jonson pops out of the Warp to slap my head off..." Typhus let out a low, bubbling chuckle beneath his faceplate, "...this is absolutely foolproof."
He swung his manreaper, pointing toward the slightly weakened breach in the defensive line.
"Attack! For the Grandfather!"
---
This turned out to be a grueling siege that kept Typhus' nerves on edge.
Even with him leading the charge in person, and even with orbital fire support at his disposal, those few short kilometers of advance remained saturated with Helldiver-style malice. Every time he felt a bunker had been cleared out, a few melta bombs would suddenly fly out from the mud, aimed straight for the Death Guards' heads.
Every time he attempted a bold push, a strange premonition would make him halt his steps, suspecting the ground beneath his feet had been hollowed out and stuffed with high explosives.
A few times, simply due to a shift in wind direction or a distant noise, Typhus came within a hair's breadth of ordering a full retreat—he had developed a genuine psychological scar from those suicidal mortals.
Finally, accompanied by an earth-shattering explosion, half of the entire forward position collapsed in a violent tremor.
That was the final gift left behind by the Helldivers. Tons of buried high explosives were detonated, burying the final batch of un-evacuated soldiers along with the Nurgle beasts and Poxwalkers that had just surged onto the line under a towering wall of flame and mudslides.
When the dust settled, a Death Guard Captain clad in decayed power armor walked up to Typhus, bowing his head to report: "My Lord, the enemy main force has retreated. We... have taken this position."
Typhus' hand holding the scythe trembled slightly. Through his filth-covered lenses, he stared incredulously at the shattered yet undeniably captured position before him.
"We actually won?" His voice sounded like two rusty iron plates grinding together. "Won so easily? It took only three days to capture this place?"
One had to keep in mind that over the past several months, contesting even a hundred meters of trench usually required weeks of grueling combat and tons of corpses. Yet now, three days—merely three days!
"My Lord, shall we pursue and strike while the iron is hot?" the Captain asked tentatively, raising his bolter slightly to point in the direction of the Helldivers retreat.
"No!" Typhus shot down the suggestion almost instantly, scanning the surrounding smoke with sharp vigilance.
"What if there's a trap? Those madmen love setting up chained booby traps along retreat routes, or intentionally baiting us into pre-designated kill zones."
Had it been in the past, choosing to hold ground instead of seizing such an easy pursuit opportunity would have led subordinates to view this famed First Captain as overly cautious, perhaps even timid. Yet upon hearing Typhus' words now, that Death Guard Captain let out a shockingly clear sigh of relief, his shoulders visibly slumping.
These Space Marines who had fought the Helldivers on the front lines truly knew that they had to be wary of every single item left behind—whether it was a discarded lasgun, a seemingly harmless canteen, or even a stone-dead corpse.
Everything exploded! Those Helldivers were walking bombs themselves!
"Fortify the position!" Typhus issued the safest possible order. "Establish a defense line, stay alert against Helldiver counterattacks, purify the land, and secure our foothold!"
"Yes! For the Grandfather!" The Captain executed the order with loyal relief.
Over the next twenty-four Terran standard hours, this elite Death Guard force acted like a flock of startled quail inside the newly captured trench line. They crouched obediently and attentively behind the cover, aiming their muzzles strictly at the fog ahead, not daring to draw a heavy breath.
Typhus remained fully focused the entire time, awaiting the inevitable counterstrike—such as a sudden shower of manually guided missiles from the sky, or an armored division charge that inexplicably rushed right up to their faces within five hundred meters before the engine roars were even heard.
However, nothing happened.
There was only dead silence in the wind, accompanied by sparse, distant gunfire. No counteroffensives, no exploding traps—those Helldivers had seemingly... just retreated.
Upon realizing this, Typhus was finally convinced: he had genuinely captured this key position with ease, without undergoing dozens of nauseating, back-and-forth handovers and battles.
An indescribable surge of ecstasy rushed into his heart.
"Finally! Could it be?!"
Typhus' rotting heart pounded wildly. Yet he forcefully suppressed the urge to throw his head back and roar, telling himself to remain calm—this was only the first step.
His gaze swept across the holographic map. Now that this position had been taken, a hill on the flank defended jointly by the Ultramarines and the Helldivers lay exposed before his army's spearhead.
He turned his head abruptly, issuing orders to three Captains over the comms channel: "You three, take your forces immediately and lay siege to Hill 304 on the flank! It is now surrounded on three sides by us. Hit them hard! Test their true strength!"
For this battle, Typhus threw in even more forces, the assault surging like a cresting wave.
A full day of high-intensity attacks saw bolters and las-fire weaving into a dense net of fire in the air. In the past, the Ultramarines and Helldivers would have held on like iron nails, refusing to take half a step back even if reduced to the last man.
Yet this time, right at sunset, the flag bearing the indestructible Macragge blue actually began a slow retreat. Following that, the Helldiver defense line contracted along with it. Though their movement remained orderly and disciplined, it was undeniably a retreat.
Watching this scene unfold, Typhus finally couldn't hold it in any longer.
"HAHAHAHA!"
Standing atop the pile of corpses at the high point of the captured position, he opened his arms wide, throwing his head back to unleash a raspy, arrogant burst of wild laughter. The sound was mixed with the sickening gurgle of thick phlegm, sending chills down the spine.
"I knew it! I KNEW IT!"
Typhus pointed at those retreating figures, a malicious gleam flashing in his eyes: "Mortals have their limits after all! Even Astartes have their limits without supply lines and manpower replacements!
How many of you have died? One hundred million? Two hundred million? After over a dozen months in this meat grinder, even the mortal guards of Holy Terra would have been ground to dust! You finally can't hold out anymore and have to pull back!"
The feeling of watching a once-invincible, stubborn foe finally show signs of fatigue was more intoxicating than the sweetest pus in the Garden of Nurgle.
A subordinate stepped forward, unable to hide the excitement in his voice: "My Lord, since they can no longer hold out, shall we launch a full-scale general offensive? Crush their defense line in one single blow?"
Typhus continued laughing for a long moment before slowly shaking his head: "No."
Typhus struck the ground with the butt of his manreaper, his tone resolute: "Step by step, advance steadily. We are in no hurry."
As yet another flag bearing the Aquila emblem collapsed into the pus-soaked mud, Typhus stepped onto a new position once more.
His mood was remarkably pleasant. Even though this rate of advance was far from "unstoppable"—with every step forward still costing hundreds of thousands of Poxwalkers and even several Death Guard—it was a definitive and irreversible winning process.
Typhus could feel that the Helldivers' forces were gradually running dry. That human-wave tactic that had once felt like an insurmountable iron wall was now thinning out. While the intervention of the Ultramarines and the Flesh Tearers was indeed troublesome, their numbers were simply too few.
"They are like a few patches on a dam," Typhus sneered as he swung his manreaper. "They might stop a few leaks, but they cannot prevent the collapse of the dam itself."
In the middle of clearing out enemy remnants in the trenches, Typhus—on a rare whim—even opened the public vox-channel to taunt the Helldivers still mounting a stubborn, futile resistance.
"Give up, slaves of the Corpse-Emperor!" His voice sounded like two pieces of rotting flesh rubbing together. "Look around you! Your comrades grow fewer, and your defense lines are full of holes. The numerical advantage you relied on is gone, and Nurgle's love shall encompass this planet at last!"
His response was a series of precisely aimed las-shots, accompanied by the bellow of a Helldiver officer covering the retreat.
"Typhus, fuck your cow mother!" the officer yelled, hurling a cluster grenade toward the Death Guard while cursing back: "Don't celebrate too early! What goes around comes around, and we will settle this tab! Just you wait—we're gonna beat you until you're crawling on the ground!"
Hearing this, Typhus merely let out a low, bubbling chuckle. He paid no mind to such threats; in his eyes, it was nothing more than the desperate wailing of a beaten dog before death, the impotent rage of facing an unalterable fate.
Right at that moment, a brilliant golden radiance suddenly lit up the sky above the battlefield.
A gentle yet holy light pierced through the heavy, poisonous clouds, cascading over the Helldivers. The defensive position that had been pushed to its absolute limits seemed to instantly be injected with fresh vitality, the line stabilizing once again.
It was that Living Saint again.
As Typhus pressed his advance step by step, such scenes became increasingly common. That damned Living Saint frequently appeared across various defense lines on the verge of collapse, using this Warp sorcery to forcibly keep the Helldivers' dying breaths going.
Had it been earlier, facing such direct interference from Warp energy, Typhus might have cautiously paused his offensive to re-evaluate the risks. But now, watching those mortals who, despite being empowered, were still continuously falling, he merely let out a disdainful snort.
"Attack! Do not stop!" Typhus ordered the surrounding Death Guard. "This is nothing more than a final deathbed rally."
Pointing at the golden light, he mocked with an extremely crude and venomous metaphor: "Look at them—they're like a guy who's already shot his load several times, but is still forcing down aphrodisiacs just to keep going! This forced morale won't hold out long. Once the drug wears off, they'll die even faster!"
Just as he predicted, although the Living Saint's power delayed the Death Guard's pace, this position ultimately changed hands as well.
After the battle concluded, Typhus stood atop the corpse-strewn high ground. Though his mouth spouted endless ridicule, his paranoid mind began working once more.
"Too smooth... still too smooth."
Even though the enemy's resistance remained fierce and every step was soaked in blood, as a veteran of ten thousand years of war, Typhus felt something was missing.
"If Perditia is truly dying, it would be complete bullshit for it not to put up a final struggle before kicking the bucket," he mused to himself. "Sitting back and waiting to die is definitely not an option in these mortals' heads."
The Helldivers' counterattack should be arriving soon, shouldn't it? Even if they lacked the manpower to launch a full-scale counteroffensive, they would never just be strangled to death quietly like this.
"Could it be a decapitation strike?"
The thought jumped into Typhus' mind instantly. That was the Imperium's favorite tactic, especially when they were at an absolute disadvantage on the main battlefield. They would often gather their most elite forces to try and turn the tides by killing the enemy commander.
Several figures surfaced in Typhus' mind: Cato Sicarius, Gabriel Seth, and that Living Saint wielding the Emperor's power.
If those three guys managed to silently creep up right in front of him and launch a joint assault while he let his guard down for even a second...
Typhus shivered. Even as the favored Herald of the Plague God, facing an ambush from a lineup like that would be genuinely dangerous.
"I cannot be careless. The closer I am to victory, the more careful I must be not to capsize in a ditch."
Typhus made a decision immediately.
"Pass down my order," he said to his personal guard. "For the next few attacks, the Captains of each company will have full command authority. I will remain in the rear to coordinate the overall battle."
He resolved to show his face less from now on and stop charging at the very front every single time. Though losing a top-tier combatant like himself on the front line might increase casualties among his troops, only the living had a future.
Until he confirmed that the Helldivers and those Loyalist Astartes had played their final trump card, hiding himself behind the endless hordes of Poxwalkers and Plague Marines was the safest choice.
---
Time flowed past for another month within the endless cycle of rot and rebirth.
The battle situation on Perditia was like a slowly tightening noose. The Death Guard's front line crawled forward day by day, eating away at the Loyalists' survival space slowly, but with relentless certainty. Green plague markers proliferated across the map, while the blue zones representing Imperial defenses were compressed into fragmented pieces.
Yet Typhus did not feel the relief he had anticipated. On the contrary, as the finish line of victory seemed within arm's reach, that cloud of suspicion at the bottom of his heart grew like a poisonous mushroom in the Garden of Nurgle, sprouting frantically in the dark, damp corners and weighing heavier by the day.
It was too quiet.
Apart from sporadic resistance on localized battlefields and that irritating trench warfare of attrition, the Helldivers' legendary desperate counterstrike had still not materialized.
"What are they waiting for?" Typhus sat alone in the shadows of his command room, his fingers mindlessly tapping on the decaying table. "Do they really plan on curling up inside their shell and waiting to die like this?"
At that moment, a Plague Caster strode inside with heavy steps, interrupting Typhus' meditation.
"Grand Master," the Caster's voice was low and raspy, as if his throat were stuffed with maggots. "An urgent report from the front lines: a sorcerous node located in Sector 7 has unexpectedly failed."
Typhus snapped his head up, a cold gleam flashing through his murky yellow eyes: "Failed?"
"No, my Lord," the Caster appeared somewhat perplexed. "There are no signs of an attack. It's like... as if the conduit connecting to the Warp was suddenly blocked. The warp supply cut off without warning.
Affected by this, the Warp rift along that battle line is closing up. The army we originally planned to summon cannot take form, and even the existing swarms of Poxwalkers have slowed down due to losing their sorcerous drive—their numbers are diminishing rapidly."
The Caster paused briefly, asking carefully: "The offensive in Sector 7 is already loaded and ready to fire. Shall we proceed with the attack according to the original plan?"
Typhus' brow furrowed deeply, his rotting face crumpling into a sickening mesh of deep grooves.
"Proceed with the attack?" He snorted coldly, his tone laced with unreserved mockery. "Without Poxwalkers and daemons to fill the line, are you planning to send my Death Guard to take the brunt of it?"
He stood up and walked to the holographic map, pointing at the node location flashing with red warning lights.
"Those mortals' lasguns may be as laughable as flashlights, but if tens of thousands of them are pointed at you simultaneously, even Terminator armor will be burned through. Without those endless hordes of Poxwalkers exhausting their ammunition and burning out their barrels, and without Nurgle beasts drawing the heavy firepower, my warriors would have to face the Helldivers' attacks head-on."
Typhus calculated this balance better than anyone.
If there were meatshields to cover the assault, his core Death Guard might suffer single-digit casualties—or even zero—after a grueling siege. But if he made Astartes act as meatshields, the casualty figures would likely spike into the teens or dozens.
If Poxwalkers and daemons were lost, holding a ritual could summon another batch.
But if Death Guard were lost, they were truly gone. Every single Plague Marine was a precious asset that could not be replaced in the short term. Sacrificing strategic assets for a minor tactical victory was the height of stupidity.
"Pass down my order: slow down the offensive in Sector 7 immediately," Typhus made a decisive call.
Having said that, he turned around and glared at the Caster: "Also, send someone to thoroughly figure out how that node failed in the first place!"
Once the Caster answered and departed, Typhus muttered to himself: "Could this be the prelude to that long-overdue counterattack?"
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I've been real busy, and couldn't update. I've also come across a pretty good story so I translated it.
It's complete so you could probably binge read it.
Check it out it's called Walking Dead Engineer.
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