Looking at the Imperial light vessels in the holographic projection—which, instead of turning around and fleeing, slammed head-on like a swarm of provoked wasps—a hint of astonishment appeared on Grendel's scar-covered face, before quickly transforming into a contemptuous sneer.
"If strength is lacking, bravery and stupidity are often two sides of the same coin."
Grendel stood up from his command throne, the servo-motors of his power armor emitting a low hum. He cracked his neck, making a sharp popping sound.
"Since they are in such a hurry to hand their ships over to us as roadblocks, we shall gladly accept them.
It just so happens that after that stifling artillery duel just now, I want to stretch my muscles and crush a few Loyalist heads with my own hands."
He waved his hand, and the Iron Warriors Terminator Guard, who had long been standing by on the lower decks, rapidly assembled.
Dozens of boarding torpedoes packed with Angels of Death shot across the chaotic battlefield like arrows from a bow, slamming heavily into the flank of the cruiser.
Accompanied by the muffled hiss of melta-charges, the thick hull armor was forcefully torn open. Before the airlock doors could fully collapse, the distinct roar of bolters already echoed down the corridors.
"For the Lord of Iron! Kill them all!"
Just as Grendel predicted, the battle was initially a completely one-sided slaughter. Although those Astra Militarum soldiers resisted fiercely, before the Iron Warriors clad in Terminator power armor, they were like ants trying to stop a tank with toothpicks.
Bolts tore flesh to shreds.
Within a few short minutes, the Iron Warriors cleared out a secure landing zone. The only casualty was a scorch mark blasted onto an Iron Warrior's shoulder guard by an enemy plasma pistol—this didn't even count as a light injury, merely paint wear.
"Advance. Seize the engine room and the bridge," Grendel commanded coldly, stepping over the corpses littering the floor. "Don't waste too much time on these dregs."
The squad advanced to a wide intersection that was a mandatory path to the engine room. Originally stationed here was a company of the Helldivers numbering about a hundred and twenty men.
Relying on dismantled bulkheads, overturned cargo containers, and sandbags, they had built a seemingly formidable defensive position, with several heavy weapons set up covering the blind spots of their crossfire.
But in the eyes of the Iron Warriors, this was merely a simple geometric arithmetic problem.
Without any battle cries or superfluous movements, the Terminators merely used their cover to adjust the firing solutions of their bolters.
The angles of the crossfire were precisely calculated; the impact point of every bolt was planned to achieve the most efficient kill radius, ensuring maximum destruction with the minimum amount of ammunition.
The engagement lasted for less than forty-five seconds.
Because the unfortunate company commander didn't even have time to shout a complete slogan before half his head was blown off by a bolt in the first round of precise, targeted fire.
Deprived of leadership and resurrection nodes, the players before the scalpel-precise fire of the Astartes were like wheat before a harvester, instantly falling in vast swathes.
Death came too quickly. Blood dyed the gray deck dark red, while shattered carapace armor, twisted lasguns, and severed limbs were jumbled together. The air was thick with the heavy stench of blood and the acrid smoke of bolt propellant.
"Area cleared. Enemy annihilated."
A monotone electronic report chimed through the vanguard's vox-channel.
After confirming that there were no more standing red dots on the thermal imagers and life-sign scanners, these battle-hardened Iron Warriors slightly relaxed their tense nerves.
In their view, though this pack of mortals possessed commendable courage to dare counterattack Astartes, before absolute tactical proficiency and the disparity in equipment, such resistance was utterly meaningless.
Heavy Terminator boots crushed the wreckage on the floor, producing a tooth-grinding crunch. They strode over the piled corpses, not even bothering to put a security shot into these "hunks of meat," preparing to head straight to the next node.
For the Fourth Legion, which was accustomed to brutal siege warfare, a slaughter of this level did not even count as a warm-up—it was merely a routine sweeping operation.
However, just as an Iron Warrior stepped over a "corpse"—a Helldiver soldier whose lower body had vanished in an explosion—a sudden anomaly occurred.
In the shadows at the end of the left corridor, a heavy stubber that had been designated as destroyed was pinned down firmly by the body of a soldier who had lost one hand. It suddenly unleashed a dying, struggling roar.
"Thud thud thud thud—!"
Large-caliber solid rounds struck the thick armor of the Terminator, setting off a cascade of brilliant sparks. Although unable to penetrate, the massive kinetic energy still caused the warrior's frame to falter slightly.
Out of warrior instinct, the Iron Warrior instantly turned his head, his muzzle rapidly snapping to the left, preparing to eliminate this final source of resisting fire.
It was only a split second of distracted attention, but it was a fatal one.
At that exact moment, the "corpse" lying by his feet—whose lower body had been completely blasted to pieces by a bolt, intestines spilled all over the floor—suddenly moved.
"Die!"
Accompanied by a guttural roar, this broken torso actually used the strength of a single hand to violently launch itself up from the ground!
Buzz!
The chainsword, which had long been preheated and concealed beneath his body, let out a lethal shriek at this exact moment.
The Iron Warrior had not expected this strike at all. Before he could pull back his defense, the high-speed spinning teeth of the chainsword plunged precisely into the soft joint at the neck of his helmet, and then fiercely churned upward, drilling straight through his brain.
The massive Terminator frame swayed, collapsing with a resounding crash.
"What?!"
The surrounding Iron Warriors were shocked and enraged. Several bolters fired simultaneously, instantly turning that Helldiver soldier, who possessed only an upper body, into shredded meat.
But this could not reclaim their comrade's life. Grendel strode forward, looking down at his fallen subordinate, and then at the mass of flesh that could barely be recognized as human, his brow furrowed tightly.
This defied logic.
How could a mortal, missing their entire lower body and suffering from a lethal amount of blood loss, still possess the strength to launch such a violent assault?
And even erupt with enough speed to ambush an Astartes?
"Even the Corpse Emperor's most fanatical zealots would have gone into shock long ago from such injuries," a subordinate said in a deep voice.
"Their strength, reaction speed, and vitality are several times stronger than ordinary mortals. It's almost... like monsters wearing human skin. Could it be some kind of special genetic modification?"
Grendel didn't speak. He crouched down, activated the medical scanner built into his helmet, and ran a deep scan on the mass of flesh.
A few seconds later, the data flashing across his retina caused even this widely experienced Warsmith to draw a sharp breath.
"It's not genetic modification. It's drugs."
Grendel looked at the analysis results, his tone carrying a hint of disbelief. "What's flowing in this guy's veins isn't even blood anymore. It's entirely high-purity combat stimulants."
"How much did he inject before dying?" the subordinate asked.
"Extrapolating from the residual concentration—" Grendel paused, as if confirming whether the data was flawed, "—at least eight hundred milliliters."
The surrounding Iron Warriors fell into a brief silence.
"Utter madness—" Grendel stood up, kicking away a severed limb blocking his path.
The contempt in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a grim solemnity one feels when facing madmen. "I thought only those degenerates of the Emperor's Children who pursue ultimate sensation would go to such lengths. I didn't expect this lot from the Imperial Guard to be even crazier than them."
"All units, stay alert!" Grendel opened the vox-channel, his voice freezing cold. "Do not treat them as ordinary mortals.
Treat every corpse as a bomb that could detonate at any moment! Put two more rounds into them to confirm death! Move out!"