In stark contrast to the suffocating tension at Imperial High Command, the headquarters of the Perditia Third Suicide Legion was filled with an atmosphere that could only be described as leisurely.
The holographic sand table was still operating, faithfully reflecting the expansion of the green toxic mist on the front line and the advance of the troops. But the officers responsible for monitoring it were gathered in small groups, discussing recent official announcements on the forums or which lucky person had drawn a good piece of equipment.
And in the central area of the headquarters, the Legion Commander, Ghostface, who should have been strategizing, was sitting with his legs crossed, slamming a gwent card onto the table with a triumphant smile on his face.
"Long live the Nilfgaardian Empire! Haha! I won again HAHAHA!"
Opposite him, Jason, a burly man wearing a hockey mask, silently stared at his utterly defeated deck, not saying a word. Michael, who was watching nearby, was the same.
Just as Ghostface triumphantly declared his victory and was about to collect his spoils—a pack of Jason's prized spicy strips—Freddy's severely burned face leaned in and shoved a data pad directly in front of him.
"Before you celebrate your meaningless victory, you'd better look at this," Freddy's voice carried a hint of schadenfreude.
"What is it?" Ghostface, still immersed in the joy of being a gwent master, grumbled discontentedly but still reluctantly glanced at the content on the data pad. "Oh, a supreme directive from Imperial High Command, telling us to advance with full force and coordinate with the Ultramarines who are about to airdrop... This is a small matter, couldn't you just notify the officers at all levels directly instead of showing it to me?"
"Small matter?" Freddy let out his characteristic sinister chuckle. "I'll give you a friendly reminder... If there haven't been any special changes in the Ultramarines' personnel, then according to the original plot, among the Ultramarines airdropping this time, there's a sergeant whose Name is Cato Sicarius."
"Clang!"
Ghostface fell directly off his chair, tumbling over with the chair. But he instantly scrambled up with a agility completely out of proportion to his fall, his sharp, distorted voice echoing like an alarm throughout the entire headquarters:
"What?! Sicarius?!"
These four words seemed to possess some mysterious magic, instantly shattering the calm of the headquarters.
"What?! Sicarius?!"
An executive committee member passing by, on his way to collect his ration of nutrient paste, suddenly turned his head.
"The Sicarius?!"
A communications officer, drowsily guarding the comms, instantly sat up straight with a "whoosh" and turned his head.
"Bad boy my dakimakura pillow Sicarius?!"
An officer diligently studying tactics in front of the holographic sand table also broke his voice from excitement and turned his head.
In just three seconds, the entire headquarters transformed from a leisurely internet cafe into a pot of boiling water.
"Quick, quick, quick! Stop playing cards, goddammit!" Ghostface lunged to the table, his hands like bulldozers, sweeping all the gwent cards on the table into the storage box. "Jason! Michael... Ugh, why am I calling out names? All you guards, get to the front line! All of you! You must! At all costs! Get me Sicarius' autograph!"
As he issued orders, he pounded his chest and stomped his feet in regret, wailing in pain: "Damn it! Why did I impulsively become some broken Legion Commander! Now I can't even go to the front line, I can't personally ask Sicarius for an autograph!"
No sooner had Ghostface finished speaking than a chorus of requests to join the battle erupted throughout the headquarters.
"Legion Commander! I want to go too! My chainsword is already thirsty!"
"And me, Legion Commander! I suddenly feel full of power and really want to go to the front line to serve the Emperor!"
"Legion Commander! My loyalty to the Emperor has suddenly become uncontrollable, I especially, especially want to personally go to the front line and cut down those xenos!"
"No!" Facing his agitated subordinates, Ghostface roared loudly, forcefully suppressing this unhealthy trend. "All of you must stay here with me!"
He cleared his throat and righteously added: "This is absolutely not because I want you to also experience the same pain as me! This is purely to ensure that our Legion's command system doesn't collapse at a critical moment! Understand?! This is for the greater good!"
On the other side, above the polluted clouds of Guelbryn, squadrons of Thunderhawk Gunships were cutting through the sky with thunderous might. Their heavy armored hulls emitted a dull roar as they rubbed against the upper atmosphere, their fuselages vibrating slightly, heralding an impending storm of steel.
Inside the troop transport compartments of the gunships, red combat lights bathed everything in a bloody hue. Ultramarines in blue power armor sat like silent statues, firmly secured to their seats by magnetic locks. The air was filled with a unique mixture of engine oil, ozone, and purifying incense, the only sounds being the roar of the engines and the steady hum of the life support systems.
In this deadly silence, Cato Sicarius, still just a sergeant of the Eighth Company, was unaware of the fervent "welcome" he was about to receive on the ground. He sat upright, his helmet on his lap, his handsome and resolute face devoid of any superfluous expression. He simply waited in silence, rehearsing every detail of the impending airdrop operation over and over in his mind.
Another sergeant, Numi, who was also riding in this Thunderhawk, proactively broke the pre-battle calm.
"Brother Sicarius," Numi's voice came through his helmet's internal amplifier, clear and steady, "do you know anything about the Helldivers Astra Militarum we'll be coordinating with this time?"
"No," Sicarius shook his head honestly, "In fact, before this expedition, I hadn't even heard the Name of this world, Perditia. But it sounds like, Brother Numi, you seem to know something?"
"I only overheard some chatter during the long voyage," Numi revealed a hearty smile, which appeared particularly bold in the red light. "It's said that the people of Perditia generally believe life is a race. The starting line is birth, the finish line is death, and all of them are running relentlessly in this race, eager to cross that finish line."
Sicarius tilted his head slightly, a hint of interest in his eyes: "A very interesting culture... How did this come about?"
"It's said to have originated from a protracted warp storm. That storm cut off Perditia's contact with the Imperium for thirty standard years. During those thirty years, they fought endless wars against various xenos, heretics, and rebels entrenched on the planet in order to survive," Numi explained. "And it is precisely this brutal history that shaped their unique culture.
On Perditia today, there are only workers and soldiers, no third profession. Because for them, nobles, bureaucrats, these are like people participating in a race on horseback, their speed indeed far exceeding those mortals running on two legs, but..."
Numi deliberately paused here, building suspense.
Sicarius' expression became somewhat strange; he instantly grasped the logic and continued: "But they also die faster?"
"Yes." Numi chuckled, a hint of approval in his voice. "I have to say, compared to the eternally silent Krieg Death Legion, these Perditia people seem to have an innate sense of dark humor."
Just then, the Thunderhawk Gunship suddenly dipped, beginning to descend and prepare to penetrate the atmosphere. The "prepare for airdrop" warning light in the cabin began to flash, accompanied by a buzzing sound.
Sicarius replaced his helmet, the crisp and decisive click of the faceplate closing. The peculiar anecdote about their allies from moments ago was instantly cast from his mind, replaced by cold combat protocols and an unyielding resolve to win.
Like the other Ultramarines, he checked the bolter's feeding system, feeling the power emanating from his power armor.
The storm was about to arrive.