With the order to retreat issued, the Iron Warriors displayed a terrifying level of tactical discipline. No longer holding their positions, they covered each other in turns, pulling back like a surging wave of steel.
The Helldivers, unwilling to let their prey escape, attempted to repeat their previous trick.
Several Chimera transports loaded with explosives roared out of the smoke, attempting to sever the Iron Warriors' path of retreat through self-destruction.
However, once on the move, the superhuman reaction speeds and accuracy of the Astartes were fully unleashed.
No longer constrained by the blind spots of a static line, the Terminators fired with calm precision as they backpedaled.
Bolt rounds drilled with exactness into the Chimeras' tracks, viewports, and fuel tanks.
Boom! Boom!
A series of massive explosions erupted. The suicide trucks attempting to block the path were turned into burning scrap metal over a hundred meters away from the Iron Warriors. Aside from leaving a few scorched marks on the corridor walls, they failed to inflict any real damage on the mobile Terminators.
Grendel sidestepped a heavy steel beam that had come loose from the violent blast and crashed down in a shower of sparks.
In that instant, the metallic crash echoed loudly in his ears. Frowning, he looked at the section of the ship's corridor burning fiercely before him, a sense of absurdity rising in his mind.
These mortal lunatics seemed completely unconcerned about whether this ship would be destroyed by their unbridled, suicidal explosions.
"We need to evacuate immediately," Grendel said into the vox channel, his voice carrying an unprecedented trace of urgency. "I have a feeling that if we stay here any longer, these mortals will eventually try to blast a breach in the hull, trying to destroy us by dragging us out into space with them."
Other Imperial Guard forces wouldn't do something so insane, but these gas-mask-wearing lunatics were definitely capable of it.
Under his command, the Iron Warriors began breaking through with even faster and more aggressive methods. To ensure the evacuation route remained open, they no longer conserved ammunition.
The roar of bolters merged into a continuous sheet, and their firepower density suddenly doubled compared to before.
The corridor instantly turned into a meat grinder. Any Death-seeker attempting to block their retreat was ripped to shreds in a moment.
Tactics that previously relied on a endless supply of human lives to fill space and slow the enemy began to fall apart once the Iron Warriors set their minds on leaving and went all out.
Watching the red arrow representing the Iron Warriors rapidly move toward the landing zone on the tactical map, the atmosphere inside the Helldivers' frontline command post grew anxious.
"This won't work, Commander," a player wearing a Commissar armband turned to address the military officer beside him.
"At this rate, we won't be able to hold out until friendly forces arrive. These bosses are going to get back home! When that happens, our quest rewards are gone!"
The Commander scratched his helmet in frustration. "I'm trying to figure something out too! But these are Terminators! Against units of this caliber in tight terrain, without air support or heavy artillery coverage, relying purely on infantry is practically a fool's errand! Our heavy weapons can't even scratch their armor!"
Seeing their prize about to slip away, the Commissar grit his teeth, his mind racing. "We need to find a way to make them stay here voluntarily, or at least stop and get tangled up with us."
That was a fresh perspective. The Commander paused, then asked tentatively, "How about a Psychic Dominator?"
The Commissar rolled his eyes. "Do we look like a regiment that can pull Yuri's gear out of thin air? We don't even have proper Commissars! But... we do have a loudspeaker. It was originally meant for keeping order during our lifestyle meetings."
The Commander was speechlessly silent for a moment. "So you want to take a loudspeaker and shout a few lines? Shout what? 'The Emperor's forces sent me with a message for you'? See if that makes them stay voluntarily?"
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Might as well give it a shot!" The Commissar's eyes lit up as an idea struck him. "This game is full of hidden talents. Maybe some lore fan or setting researcher knows how to pull aggro?"
He grew more excited as he spoke. "I'll go inform the Soldier Committees at every level right away and send out a regiment-wide announcement. Maybe someone in our regiment really is a mastermind who can hard-control them with just a loudspeaker. As long as we can make them turn back or lose their minds in anger, our chance will come!"
Although the Commander felt it sounded somewhat unreliable, watching the Iron Warriors on the verge of disengaging made him willing to try anything. He waved his hand impatiently. "Then hurry! Whoever can curse those tin cans into coming back, I'll award them a First-Class Merit!"
Inside the regiment's temporary briefing room, the representatives from the Soldier Committees of each battalion and company were locked in a chaotic argument.
As soon as the Commissar brought up the topic of "finding a way to hard-control the Iron Warriors," someone immediately slammed their hand on the table and suggested, "Why even overthink this? Bring up the Imperial Fists!
Who doesn't know that the Iron Warriors are Perturabo's brood, and they share a mortal feud with Dorn's brood? As long as we mention the Imperial Fists and say those yellow guys are coming, won't they willingly stay put like they've been injected with adrenaline?"
This proposal immediately gathered a chorus of agreement. After all, "Iron Warriors fighting Imperial Fists to the death" was basic common sense in the Warhammer community.
However, another player soon countered calmly, "That's not right, guys. According to the lore, the main Imperial Fists Chapter should currently be doing construction work on Holy Terra right now. Everyone is in the Solar System defense network, tens of thousands of light-years away from us.
It's true that the Iron Warriors hate the Imperial Fists, but they aren't idiots. If we just shout 'The Imperial Fists are coming' at the top of our lungs with no actual evidence, these naturally suspicious Iron Warriors will definitely realize we're lying. To avoid getting caught in a nonexistent encirclement, they'll only run faster!"
Everyone listened and felt it made a lot of sense. The Iron Warriors were not only tough, but also ridiculously shrewd. Generic taunts without physical proof would hardly fool them.
"In other words," another representative summarized, "if we want to make the Iron Warriors stay in place, we need concrete proof. Ideally, we need an Imperial Fists Space Marine to record a heavily provocative holographic video and project it directly onto their faces."
"That's the right train of thought! As long as they see that yellow armor and hear that 'I am the most loyal' vibe, those metal blocks won't be able to move a muscle!"
"Here's the problem," someone spread their hands. "Where do we find an Imperial Fist? We're way out in the Maelstrom, and I haven't heard of any big brothers from the Seventh Legion operating with us."
The room fell into silence, everyone staring at each other. Someone suggested photoshopping an image, but it was immediately rejected—battlefield holographic projections were hard to fake, especially in front of Astartes.
Just as the atmosphere grew tense and the Commander on the front line started urging them again, someone in the corner suddenly slapped their thigh and stood up excitedly. "Wait! I remember now! The Executioners! The Executioners Chapter is a successor chapter of the Imperial Fists! They are also Sons of Dorn!"
"Who are the Executioners?" someone asked, looking bewildered. "Are they famous?"
"How could you forget? Among the Astartes Chapters participating in this Chaos purge, the Executioners are one of them!" the excited player explained loudly.
"They're the guys with two axes on their shoulder pads who love decapitating people! Even among the Third Founding, they are pure, legitimate blood of Dorn, famous for their explosive tempers and brutal methods! To the Iron Warriors, is there any difference between a son of Dorn and a grandson of Dorn? None! They're all fragments of that damned yellow rock!"
These words came like an epiphany, instantly enlightening everyone present.
"Holy crap, you're right! As long as they bleed Dorn's blood, they're a walking aggro magnet!"
"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" The Commissar reacted immediately; it was a brilliant idea. "Report this to high command right now and contact the Executioners Chapter!
Get their Chapter Master to record a video and send it over immediately! The nastier the content, the more insulting, the better—preferably insulting enough to make Perturabo crawl across the network connection himself!"
"Understood! I'll report it right away!"
The command post instantly burst into busy activity. Everyone realized that this might be their only chance to hard-control the Iron Warriors who were bent on escaping.