As Robert said, this band of cultists did not launch another attack, and the players actually got to sleep in the game, which everyone found quite novel.
As soon as the next day arrived, the piercing alarm once again cut through the Lower Hive's murky air, and from the darkness in the distance, a new wave of cultists surged forward.
They roared blasphemous prayers, brandished crude weapons, and charged like a pack of mad dogs driven by hunger.
The players immediately awoke from their sleep, nervously returning to their firing positions, gripping their lasguns.
This time, however, Commissar Walter did not rush to give the order to fire as he had last time.
"Hold! Hold!" He stared intently at the approaching enemies, his voice terrifyingly calm, "Let them get a little closer... a little closer!"
The cultists rushed within fifty meters, forty meters, thirty meters... The players could even clearly see the twisted fanaticism on their faces and the defiled chaos marks on their bodies.
Just as one player was about to pull the trigger, Walter finally roared: "Fire!"
A dense net of red laser beams instantly wove together, precisely enveloping the cultists charging at the forefront.
At such close range, the power of the lasguns was unleashed to its fullest.
The cultists fell in droves as if they had crashed into an invisible wall, their bodies scorched with black holes.
However, the number of cultists was simply too great.
As the front ranks fell, those behind immediately stepped over their comrades' corpses and continued to charge.
In the blink of an eye, dozens of stragglers roared and clambered over the edge of the trench, engaging the defenders in close-quarters combat.
"Prepare for melee!" Walter drew his chainsword and roared.
"Hoo-hoo-haha!" A roar, completely unlike the battlefield's atmosphere and filled with pure joy, rang out.
Cain excitedly swung his massive metal club, charging forward like an out-of-control battering ram.
He needed no skill; he simply swung, swept, and smashed.
Each swing brought a storm of blood and gore, the metal club colliding with flesh and bone, creating a sickening thud.
Hardly any cultists could last a second before him; their fragile bodies were easily smashed into a pulp.
On the other side of the battle line, Robert, wielding a chainsword, also shone brightly.
When the first cultist, brandishing a rusty machete, charged at him, Robert's heart was still pounding.
But just as he was about to swing wildly as he had last time, the chainsword in his hand suddenly vibrated slightly.
A strange sensation traveled from the hilt throughout his body.
He was surprised to discover that this chainsword, named xenos must die, seemed to have a consciousness of its own, intentionally helping him.
This help was not an external cheat-like takeover of control but a gentle guidance.
When he wanted to parry, a faint pulling force would come from the blade, guiding his wrist to the optimal angle; when he prepared to counterattack, the roar of the blade seemed to urge him to take the most efficient steps.
Under the guidance of the chainsword, Robert's movements became unprecedentedly clean and decisive.
Parry, sidestep, thrust, sweep...
He seemed to become one with the weapon in his hand, and in this bloody dance, he was rapidly learning how to fight, rather than having his mind blank as he did the first time.
Those chaos puppets, which had once seemed menacing and terrifying in his eyes, now vanished like fragile snowflakes under his attacks.
"Is this... a machine spirit?" Robert couldn't help but exclaim after a clean decapitation.
He felt the slight hum of the chainsword in his hand, filled with hatred and anger, and a term that had only existed in background lore now became incredibly real.
He ran a charging cultist through with a single sword, feeling the thrill of the blade tearing through flesh and the "pleasure" transmitted by the machine spirit, and couldn't help but shout, "By the omnissiah! I understand those tech-priests now! This has instantly turned into a satisfying hack-and-slash game!"
Led by the two "generals," Robert and ogryn Cain, the battle line instantly stabilized.
Cain was like a mobile meat grinder; within his range of activity, no cultist could last more than three seconds.
Robert, on the other hand, was like an experienced swordsman; with the assistance of the machine spirit, every swing of his chainsword was precise and deadly.
Seeing this, the other players' morale greatly boosted.
They followed closely behind Robert, using their lasguns to precisely target enemies attempting to flank, or using rifle butts and bayonets to dispatch stragglers stunned by Cain's furious attacks.
The entire battle, which had previously been a tense defensive stand, transformed into a satisfying "slaughter" battle.
The chaos cultists' proud numbers and fearless madness seemed so pale and powerless in the face of absolute strength and efficient killing.
When the last cultist was cleanly decapitated by Robert, only the howling wind and the players' heavy breathing remained on the battlefield.
The battle was over.
A player leaned against a sandbag, replacing his lasgun's power cell, and said with some confusion, "Speaking of which, I don't think I heard any artillery fire this time..."
At his words, everyone, who had been immersed in the joy of victory, paused.
They thought back carefully; indeed, from beginning to end, the booming of friendly heavy artillery, which had given them a great sense of security, had not sounded once.
The atmosphere on the scene suddenly became heavy.
Robert pondered for a moment and came up with the most obvious and unsettling answer: "Out of ammunition, I guess?"
This speculation was like a cold stone, weighing heavily on everyone's hearts.
A unit lacking ammunition, with incomplete organization, and besieged deep within city ruins usually doesn't fare well.
Although they had only been in this game world for a short time, Commissar Walter's strictness and care, Cain's honesty and bravery, and the silently fighting veterans had given the players a considerable sense of immersion.
They did not want this tenacious Astra Militarum unit to ultimately suffer the tragic fate of being completely wiped out.
Seeing the worry appearing on the faces of those around him, Robert opened his mouth to comfort them: "Don't think too much.
This is just a closed beta; it will end soon.
Maybe next time the official will open up more slots?
Then we can bring in hundreds or even thousands of brothers, and that would be a fresh force!"
His words enlightened everyone.
"That's right! We are players!"
"These chaos cultists have no tactics whatsoever; they're just fearless and numerous." Ruthless Assassin slung his lasgun over his shoulder and said confidently, "When it comes to these two points, we players have never been afraid of anyone!"
Everyone nodded in agreement.
As long as there were enough people and the equipment could keep up, they were confident they could turn this Lower Hive ruin into a meat grinder for the cultists.
For a moment, the previous heavy atmosphere was swept away, replaced by a vibrant vitality, belonging to players and full of hope.