"There are no gods in this world!"
The Lord of Nullity's body petrified, crumbling into ash that vanished into the void.
As yet another superhuman entity perished, the sky seemed to dim. The wild winds dispersed the smoke of gunpowder, and the dust of battle finally settled.
With three Rangdan Overlords dead in action, the human forces secured a resounding victory in the battle for Planet V.
Blazkowicz retrieved his round shield, holding it before him as he looked up to survey his surroundings; the local engagement was already over.
The Legion warriors had eliminated the Shadow Reapers. The Eldar bodyguards lay mangled in pieces, and the corpses of elite xenos warriors littered the ground.
He continued issuing combat directives: "Legion warriors, break into dispersed elements. Form ten-man squads, push into the Rangdan fortress, and destroy the shield generators."
The local fight was over, but the war had not yet concluded.
Though the Rangdan host had lost its high command and its morale was shattered, it still possessed a continent-tier fortress as its backing. The sheer volume of elite warriors and slave-thralls was beyond counting; relying solely on infantry strength, it would be impossible to eradicate them quickly.
To eliminate them as swiftly as possible, the shield network had to be breached so orbital strikes could sweep everything clean.
"Understood!"
Changing formation instantly, the Doom Marines organized into ten-man kill-teams. They cut upward against the surging tide of the xenos host, charging straight toward the Rangdan defensive perimeter.
Holding his shield in one hand, Blazkowicz casually swept up a heavy dimensional sword, leading his Primarch Guard forward to break through the encirclement and storm the ramparts.
Encirclement attempts came continuously. Automated weaponry within the iron forest was as dense as hair on an ox, with countless traps awaiting their every step forward.
The assault teams were like trickling streams flowing into a dark, hostile expanse, every step laden with perilous traps and heart-stopping danger. Yet the Legion warriors were utterly unyielding—each ten-man squad acted as a lethal blade, driving into the enemy's core sectors to wreak absolute havoc.
Automated cannons were uprooted and lethal traps rendered inert. Driving forward through the slaughter, the assault teams' momentum did not falter for a single second. They fought with ever-growing ferocity, their advance unshakeable. Wherever they passed, every xenos species in their path, regardless of origin, became silent corpses upon the ground.
With fluid strikes and flying blades of light, the Legion warriors cleaved everything in their path to ribbons!
Explosions thundered across strategic points—munitions factory reactors, neural system cores, and resource depots—as the blistering pulses of melta charges flashed continuously.
When a massive plasma reactor matrix detonated, the force fields rapidly decayed and contracted, leaving the Rangdan forward positions fully exposed to orbital strikes.
Losing shield protection was an absolute catastrophe for ground forces. It was as if all defenses were stripped away, leaving the gods above the heavens to pass judgment upon the mortal realm at will.
Blinding blue-white beams rained down from the sky as plasma lances slammed into the planet's surface. Cascades of superheated plasma splashed across the terrain, vaporizing all matter in the vicinity.
Numbers lost all meaning in that instant. Beneath orbital bombardment, carbon-based life was as fragile as dust in the wind.
With every strike of a plasma lance, hundreds of millions of lives vanished into nothingness; the speed with which voidships struck ground targets belonged to an entirely different scale of destruction. Without shield coverage, even a entity as powerful as a Primarch could only step aside from the brunt of an orbital strike.
The power of annihilation rained down ceaselessly. Orbital support ships that had stood by for fifteen years now unleashed their full might, raining down divine wrath from the void.
The defenses the Rangdan had cultivated for so long were vaporized in an instant, leaving behind scorched sand that glinted with a glassy sheen.
As orbital fire crept forward, the pressure on the human line dropped dramatically. A million ground artillery salvos could not compare to a single direct strike from a lance battery. Mobile shield generators overloaded immediately as the bombardment zone was swept clean by naval fire, sending endless shockwaves washing over the shields of the human fortress.
Beyond the semicircular shield perimeter, a storm of dust kicked up by orbital fire towered a thousand meters high, resembling a desert sandstorm.
"Eliminate remaining xenos! Reorganize the defensive lines immediately!"
Roars echoed along the front, ordering the line regiments to reform their positions at maximum speed. They could not pursue, nor could they launch a counter-offensive against the xenos fortress. The enemy's warships still hovered in high orbit; leaving the protection of their own force fields was equivalent to walking willingly to their deaths.
A single salvo of lance fire or plasma macro-cannon shells was enough to erase any ground advantage. It was not just mortal units—even the demigods charging into the enemy base had to move with extreme caution, carefully timing when to destroy shield generators. Once a force field fell, the fanatical Rangdan commanders would not hesitate to order their warships to strike their own base if it meant destroying high-value human targets.
[All forward units, fall back from extended positions in an orderly fashion and retreat into the defensive fortress.]
Following the orbital bombardment, orders from headquarters arrived swiftly.
The frontline soldiers were stunned. The command was entirely unexpected—why abandon their positions right on the precipice of victory?
They had shed blood and given their lives here; countless close comrades had perished in these very trenches. After holding these positions for over fifteen years, the souls of innumerable soldiers had fused with the ground, making it a symbol of their honor and mission.
To this day, the trenches had become an inseparable part of the soldiers' lives.
Yet orders from headquarters could never be disobeyed!
Regimental commanders issued strict directives to evacuate the front lines as quickly as possible, ensuring the mortal regiments withdrew into the fortress at maximum speed.
"You little bastards! Get the hell out of the trenches, right now!"
Miles cursed loudly, kicking at soldiers who were hesitant to leave their positions: "Are you trying to disobey orders?!"
He drew his electromagnetic pistol, pressing the muzzle against a soldier's helmet, his index finger resting firmly on the trigger.
The veterans of the elite regiments did the same, subtly raising their rifle muzzles toward these non-D'Nurian soldiers, their eyes glinting with cold disfavor.
A soldier's supreme duty is to obey orders—a truth the D'Nurian troops knew intimately and took immense pride in. Clearly, the replacements integrated into the elite regiments during the long war of attrition had failed to internalize this principle. They would not tolerate foreign soldiers sullying the military soul of the D'Nur Regiments.
Miles felt immense pressure; he wanted to save these soldiers' lives, preventing them from being dragged before a court-martial and executed for defying military orders.
"Command's orders are absolute!" he roared in explanation, flicking off the electromagnetic pistol's safety, his finger tightening on the trigger: "Do not bring shame upon us!"
"Commander... can't you just pretend we died here?"
The soldier wept, gesturing toward the fifty-meter stretch of trench. Tears flowed from his numb eyes, his voice raspy with choked sobs: "Everything I ever cared about vanished right here."
"I remember every single one of their names. It feels like they're standing right beside me. If I leave this place, what else do I have left?"
The searing glare of orbital bombardment illuminated the night sky, casting light upon the soldier's anguished face as scalding tears traced paths down his cheeks. There was no fear in his expression; he pressed his forehead firmly against the pistol's muzzle, having long since cast life and death aside.
The men around him were the same. Clutching electromagnetic rifles in their arms, their waists draped with the dog tags of fallen comrades, they huddled in the trenches, refusing to retreat.
"If you don't move now, you won't get another chance!" Miles gritted his teeth.
He pointed into the distance, where a Night Warden had noticed the commotion and was walking over to investigate.
Such behavior might seem tragic and noble, but in the eyes of superhuman, professional warriors, it was nothing more than a display of cowardice. They did not tolerate cowardice. When their blades fell, they would shatter all past honor along with the transgressor's life.
To have survived such a brutal war of attrition was a miracle in itself, carrying immense glory. Miles did not want his soldiers, decorated with honor and standing on the threshold of victory, to become cautionary examples of cowardice and disgrace.
Equally, he understood them. These foreign recruits had left their homelands, underwent training, and were thrown onto the battlefield; combat had consumed almost the entirety of their lives. The bond of comradeship forged between life and death was something they could not sever. Their hearts were buried in these trenches alongside their brothers; those still living were merely walking corpses awaiting death.
The soldiers' sole remaining pillar of purpose was this fifty-meter stretch of trench.
How he wished he could tell them that simply staying alive was the greatest comfort they could offer the dead.
Miles reluctantly withdrew his pistol, reaching down to tap his tactical terminal, using his regimental commander authorization to override and lock their power armor.
He turned to the D'Nurian soldiers and said, "Carry them out. We handle our own matters ourselves."
The D'Nurian soldiers nodded. Dozens of them rushed forward instantly, hoisting their stubborn comrades onto their backs to begin the evacuation. When it came to internal regimental issues, they had no desire for the Night Wardens to intervene either. Honor belonged to the Auxiliary Regiments as a collective; if the Night Wardens stepped in, the entire regiment would never be able to hold its head up high before their brother formations.
The group moved hurriedly, carrying their comrades as they rapidly evacuated the line.
Miles let out a long breath, saluting the approaching Night Warden before making up a quick excuse to gloss over the situation.
"I won't leave this place!"
Just as he finished his explanation, another choked, sobbing roar echoed out.
Facing the Night Warden's cold gaze, Miles's expression hardened, the corners of his mouth twitching uncontrollably.
Chirp~ Chirp~ Chirp~
The sound of electromagnetic rifle fire echoed from a neighboring brother regiment's trench. The two men quickly ran over to investigate.
Miles closed his eyes, his hardened face unable to conceal his deep regret.
A dozen soldiers had been executed. A tall D'Nurian regimental commander clad in power armor, wearing a cloak bearing his family crest, radiated pure fury.
"What happened here?" The Night Warden planted his lance into the ground, his voice stern: "Scion of the Cole Lineage, why have you executed mortal soldiers?"
Evidently, the Night Warden had recognized the regimental commander before him by the house emblem on his cloak.
"I will submit myself for punishment," Commander Cole sighed, pulling up the relevant holorecords: "It was my negligence—I failed to temper their resolve."