In an instant, the position, which had seemed somewhat sluggish, resembled an anthill doused in hot oil—it erupted immediately.
"Holy hell! Full assault?"
"It's finally here! I was about to sprout mold squatting here!"
"Tanks! That's the smell of a tank! I'm going to be a tank ornament!"
"Wait up, bro up front! I just respawned and I'm butt-naked and running full speed!"
All sorts of chaotic shouts rose and fell across the lines. But in stark contrast to this verbal pandemonium was the terrifying efficiency of their actions.
Countless Helldivers scrambled out of their foxholes, makeshift cover, and trenches, rushing to the supply points at top speed to check their weapons and resupply ammunition.
In just a few minutes, the entire position transformed from a dormant state of silence into a high-speed war machine.
Reinhard stood still, quietly observing the scene.
He watched the Helldivers calling out to each other in slang he couldn't quite understand, rushing towards the battlefield with an incomprehensible fervor.
Their movements lacked the prescribed discipline of the Imperial Guard's codex, yet in that noisy confusion, there was a raw, savage, and effective order.
Soon, the fully kitted-out Helldivers surged like a tide toward the assembling armored forces.
They nimbly clambered onto the Chimera transports; when the internal seats were full, they unhesitatingly threw themselves onto the roof armor, securing themselves with hands or ropes.
They climbed onto the broad hulls of the Leman Russ Battle Tanks without ceremony, grabbing the turret railings, the track guards, or any protrusion they could find, nailing themselves firmly to the steel.
In short, no one wanted to stay on the ground using their own two legs.
In the Helldivers' war logic, when facing a classic coordination problem like "tanks outstripping infantry," they would never allow the tanks to slow down to wait for the foot soldiers.
Their solution was simple and brutal: force the infantry to run—run for their lives, run until they died, then respawn at the front line, and run again. Rather than endure that painful cycle, it was better to become a literal part of the tank from the start.
When Pyro and his comrades arrived at the rallying point, the sight before them even made him inhale sharply.
Hundreds of Leman Russ main battle tanks and Chimera transports formed a forest of steel. Their engines roared in a deep, guttural sound, spewing acrid black exhaust, while their treads ground the earth with a spine-chilling vibration.
And within this forest of steel stood an even more formidable and sacred force: the Astartes Marines.
This was no longer just Reinhard and the dozen familiar figures.
As far as the eye could see, hundreds, even thousands, of transhuman warriors stood silently in the gaps between the armored vehicles.
Their Power Armor created a magnificent, yet disparate, tapestry of heraldry. Space Marines from different Chapters had converged here, their shoulder pads bearing widely varying insignia, each suit of ceramite armor narrating a glorious and bloody history.
Some were calibrating their Boltguns, their movements steady and precise; others were wiping the teeth of their Chainswords, muttering the Chapter's litanies; still more stood in complete silence, like statues, their invisible killing intent and pressure freezing the air around them.
"Hoo, a grand spectacle," Pyro climbed onto the roof of a Chimera, gazing at the magnificent scene. A hot current surged through his chest, his heart pounding. "I can't wait to attack."
Pyro felt this way, and what about Reinhard, standing not far from him? His helmet's optic scanned the entire assembly area, finally settling on the Tyranid lines shrouded in purple mist in the distance.
Astartes value glory above all else. Battle, especially grand and glorious battle, is the meaning of their existence, the sole way to prove their loyalty and value to the Emperor.
It was hard to say who craved this kind of monumental, history-making fight more: the Helldivers, driven by the desire for adrenaline and violence, or the Space Marines, pursuing glory and fulfilling their mission.
The thirty minutes of preparation, catalyzed by adrenaline, flew by.
The clamor in the staging area gradually subsided, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Only the deep, shared rumble of hundreds of engines, like the suppressed breathing of a colossal beast before battle, caused the ground to tremble slightly.
Reinhard stood atop his ride—a Land Raider—his red optics like two burning embers, staring into the distance.
In front of him, around him, and behind him, were the colorful Astartes battle formations from various Chapters, embodiments of the Emperor's wrath.
And surrounding them, stretching across the wider battle line, were countless Leman Russ tanks and Chimera transports, their hulls plastered, clung to, and stood upon by the strangely shaped Helldivers.
"Countdown… five, four, three, two, one!"
"Attack!" The commander's voice exploded like thunder in everyone's ear via the command channel.
However, simultaneously with his command, a sound entirely unexpected by everyone rang out.
"Deet—Deet-deet—Dah—!"
A piercing, high-pitched, incredibly penetrating musical sound, carrying a bizarre sense of festivity appropriate for both funerals and weddings, abruptly tore through the battlefield's solemnity!
A single Helldiver, standing in an incredibly brazen posture, chest puffed out atop the tall turret of a Leman Russ, was revealed. He wore no helmet, and a horn was clamped in his mouth.
He was puffing out his cheeks, playing a quirky, catchy little charge tune that somehow made everyone's blood boil and want to laugh at the same time.
This blasphemous scene momentarily stunned the Astartes present for two seconds.
The Helldivers, needless to say, immediately erupted.
"Holy crap, where did the charge horn come from?"
"Where did this guy even get a musical instrument?"
"And it's a suona! What a genius! That one blast just sent the bugs on the other side straight to their funeral!"
"The banquet has started! The banquet has started! Charge, bros!"
As if the suona blast was the most effective starting pistol, the entire torrent of steel suddenly roared and moved forward!
The collective sound of thousands of engines instantly transitioned from a low growl to a furious howl, and the massive armored column charged like a steel tsunami, rushing toward the distant horizon without looking back.
The vanguard of the armored regiment quickly burst into the area bio-engineered by the Tyranids.
The ground here was covered in vast amounts of slimy, resilient Tyranid-specific bio-structures. Countless sinewy vines twisted up from the ground, attempting to tangle the tank tracks.
If this were a pure infantry force, they would likely be stuck, struggling through this bizarre "plant" defense.
But for this armored torrent, it was all meaningless.
The heavy bodies of the Leman Russ tanks were the best herbicide. Tough vines snapped with a sickening, grinding sound under the crushing weight of the treads; massive, fleshy bio-plants were smashed by the main battle tanks, sending foul-smelling sap flying; as for the spore clouds, they were simply broken apart by the armored hulls, unable to impede the advance at all.
The entire armored cluster acted like a red-hot iron, easily searing through this thin layer of biological barrier and plowing wide, straight swaths of scorched earth through the Tyranid bio-mass.
After crushing through the bio-engineered zone, the sight before them suddenly opened up, then became utterly silent.
They had reached the epicenter of the previous nuclear strike.
The earth had a strange, vitreous texture, reflecting a spectral glow within the purple toxic mist. Twisted metal wreckage and massive impact craters, still radiating residual heat, dominated the color palette. Radiation dust rolled in the air.
And it was in this death-zone that the main force of the Tyranid Swarm bared its fangs.