Three thousand Ogryn players surged forward like a bursting dam, slamming violently into a defensive line composed of several hundred Lychguard. From a tactical standpoint, this was a one-sided slaughter—of the Ogryns, of course.
The Lychguard are the elite warriors of the Necron Dynasties. They have discarded ranged weaponry to focus entirely on the art of close-quarters combat. The hyperphase swords in their hands can effortlessly sever atomic bonds, each swing carrying a mathematically precise intent to kill.
One Lychguard sidestepped a clumsy shield bash from an Ogryn, its phase sword tracing a perfect arc. Without resistance or sound, before the Ogryn could even react, he was cleaved in two along a clean cut. Blood sprayed out, staining the Necron warrior's polished metallic frame.
This was a total outclassing. The Ogryn's crude armor and tough flesh were as fragile as butter before phase weaponry.
However, something bizarre happened.
After completing the kill, the Lychguard did not immediately launch its next attack. As a noble guard adhering to an ancient code of combat, it habitually flourished its sword and adjusted its stance, preparing to meet its next opponent at the most perfect angle. This was the "martial virtue" and arrogance hardcoded into its core programming.
But that brief pause of a second or two was a fatal opening for the Ogryn players.
"Shit! Number Three is down! Guys, get in there together!"
"This mob hits hard and has thick skin! Body block him! Trap his movement!"
Before the Lychguard could finish its pose, three other Ogryns had already lunged from the left, right, and rear. They certainly weren't interested in a one-on-one duel; they used their shields as bricks to bash with, slammed their bodies into the Necron, and even tried to tackle its legs.
Meanwhile, the "Number Three" who had just been split in half had already respawned at the entrance, thanks to the players' unreasonable revival mechanic. He was currently howling as he picked up his shield and charged back into the fray.
This scene played out repeatedly across the entire battlefield.
Every strike from a Lychguard was a guaranteed kill—elegant, lethal, and full of aesthetic grace. But they were facing a horde of lunatics who couldn't be killed off and didn't fear death.
Often, a guard would strike someone down, but before they could even retract their blade, they would be pinned down by two other Ogryns using their shields. While the Ogryns' crude weapons struggled to penetrate Living Metal—only managing to dent it—the Necrons simply couldn't handle the sheer numbers.
"He's a tin can! Everyone push! Pry him open!"
"Grab his sword! That thing is OP as fuck!"
One unlucky Lychguard was a moment too slow in pulling its blade out of an Ogryn's body and was instantly tackled to the ground by seven or eight massive hands. The Ogryns were like a gang of street thugs jumping an old lady; some held down the head, some pinned the legs, and others rained down blows on its skull with clubs.
Crunch!
Finally, under the combined strength of several Ogryns, the Lychguard's neck was snapped, and its core processor was violently destroyed.
But that wasn't the end.
The fallen Lychguard's body began to flicker with green light as phase teleportation and reanimation protocols kicked in. The shattered metallic bones began to automatically realign and repair themselves.
"Holy crap! This mob is self-reviving!" an Ogryn shouted.
"Are you stupid? While his health bar isn't full, keep hitting him!"
And so, the Lychguard—which had just shown signs of repair—was subjected to another round of inhumane "physical therapy."
The entire battlefield fell into a stalemate. Though the Lychguard possessed overwhelming individual combat power, they were bogged down by their own slow self-repair speeds and kill efficiency. Conversely, while the Ogryn players had pathetic individual strength and agonizingly low kill speeds—often taking several minutes to fully dismantle a single Necron—they had the advantage of near-instant respawns.
Every Lychguard was surrounded by three or four Ogryns. Kill one, and another took his place; kill a pair, and two more stepped up.
The once-grand bridge hall was now littered with flying limbs and metallic parts that were constantly being deformed and restored.
The Space Marines in the rear held their bolters, unable to find an opening to intervene.
Watching this chaotic mess—which looked like several thousand Grox had been tossed into a blender—the Space Marine Captain's power sword froze mid-air.
He had originally intended to command his brothers to provide precision fire support, but it now seemed like an impossible task. The Ogryns and Lychguard were entangled face-to-face, flesh-to-metal. If a bolt shell was fired, it would likely pass through the buttocks of two Ogryns and explode in the rear of a third; whether it would even chip the paint on a Necron was anyone's guess.
"Captain... do we join in?" a Battle Brother carrying a heavy bolter asked hesitantly. His finger tightened and loosened on the trigger several times, unable to find a firing window.
"Let them fight. These big fellows seem to be... enjoying themselves," the Captain's lip twitched as he watched an Ogryn try to bite a Necron's thigh. He made a wise decision: "Do not interfere in that chaotic quagmire. Our objective is the decapitation strike."
He turned his blade, pointing toward the towering blackstone throne. "Everyone, follow me! Surround the Necron Lord!"
Although the center of the hall was a heated mess, not many Necrons blocked the Space Marines' path because all the guards were being hugged to death by Ogryns. Thus, this small squad of Astartes elites successfully crossed the edge of the battlefield and approached the throne in a pincer formation.
However, when they truly stood before the Necron Overlord, an invisible pressure made the air feel thick.
The Overlord remained seated on the throne, staff planted on the ground, posture languid. Beside it stood two tall figures holding Rods of Covenant and clad in even heavier, more ornate armor—Triarch Praetorians, the enforcers of ancient law within the Necron race, whose strength far exceeded that of ordinary Lychguard.
The Space Marines fanned out quickly, their muzzles aimed squarely at the three targets. Meltas preheated and plasma guns charged; the atmosphere was tense to the breaking point.
But no one pulled the trigger.
Through the helmet's vox channel, the Captain issued a secret order to all squad members: "Maintain vigilance. Do not fire rashly before Chapter Master Huron arrives. These three are difficult to deal with; we need to stall for as much time as possible."
They knew very well that, according to the intel from the Helldivers, their single company would suffer a pyrrhic victory at best if they tried to force a kill on a high-ranking Overlord protected by Triarch Praetorians. Since the Ogryns had tied down the main force, they only needed to keep an eye on the big boss. Once the main army arrived, a "righteous" gang-beating would be the way to go.
On the throne, the Necron Overlord's electronic eyes, burning with green fire, swept over the Space Marines below. It emitted a contemptuous electronic chitter.
"A pack of wolves waiting for the alpha's command," it said, showing no hint of panic at being held at gunpoint. Instead, it examined the Astartes as if observing rare animals. "I can calculate the hesitation in your tactical logic. You are waiting for someone, yes?"
The Captain did not answer, merely tightening his grip on his weapon, his body coiled like a spring.
"No matter," the Overlord leaned back slowly, its metallic spine clinking against the throne. "Though I am curious about your strange breach technology and admit you are slightly more resilient than I imagined—before absolute power, such cleverness is meaningless."
The two Triarch Praetorians beside it slightly raised their Rods of Covenant, seemingly ready to launch a devastating strike at any moment, but because the Overlord had not given the command, they remained in a posture of deterrence.
The Overlord possessed its own brand of arrogance. As an ancient being who had lived for sixty million years, it had witnessed the fall of stars and the wailing of gods. To it, these hundred human warriors were nothing more than slightly stronger insects. It was confident that it could crush them whenever it pleased, so it didn't mind spending a little extra time to see what other "surprises" these humans could bring.
"Since you wish to wait, I shall wait with you," the Overlord even pointed with some interest toward the chaotic battlefield below, its tone carrying a hint of mockery. "Coincidentally, I also wish to see just how long these slabs of meat you brought can last against my guards."