On the bridge of the Astral Claws' flagship The Hierophant in the Badab Sector, Lufgt Huron sat upon his massive command throne. His iconic Terminator power armor loomed heavy and authoritative under the dim lighting. He was fully engrossed in the giant holographic tactical map hovering before him.
The map depicted the Maelstrom zone, a region known as the "Ulcer of the Imperium." At this moment, golden-yellow patches representing order were steadily expanding within the red zones that originally denoted chaos and lawlessness.
A trace of satisfaction appeared on Huron's face. His grand plan was becoming reality step by step; the wild beast of the Maelstrom was being broken to his harness.
In his strategic blueprint, threats were clearly divided into three tiers.
The first to bear the brunt, and the one that had to be eradicated first, was the forces of Chaos.
Huron's finger traced across the core area of the holographic map. That was where warp energy was densest, and where heretical warbands spawned. To Huron, these fallen individuals were the root cause of the Maelstrom's total collapse and a malignant tumor capable of shaking the foundation of his rule.
As long as these madmen continued to perform dark rituals, the Maelstrom could never truly stabilize.
Because of this, he had committed the main force of the Astral Claws and most of the warriors known as the "Helldivers" to this area. Like hounds, they tirelessly tracked, tore into, and destroyed every Chaos warband attempting to gather, interrupting every desecrating summoning ritual.
Second came the Ork empire, which was as difficult to root out as wild weeds.
On the fringes of the warp storms, countless green-skin fungi were proliferating wildly. While these savage xenos lacked the subversive, corrupting power of Chaos, their constant raiding of Imperial shipping lanes and colonies caused continuous bleeding.
Furthermore, waging war against the green-skins was a purely losing business. The bolt shells and fuel consumed by the Imperium to wipe out an Ork Waaagh! were worth far more than any value salvaged from their scrap-metal corpses.
Therefore, Huron formulated a more economical decapitation strategy.
It was common knowledge that Orks were a race held together by raw power. By killing the biggest, meanest Warboss, the remaining green-skins would fall into chaotic infighting before deciding on a new boss.
Regarding this task, many Helldivers showed immense enthusiasm, volunteering to form special operations squads to execute these decapitation missions.
"A hundred mortals trying to assassinate a heavily armored Warboss while surrounded by tens of thousands of green-skins?" Huron did not hold high expectations for this, finding it somewhat absurd. "Though they are indeed fearless in the face of death, courage alone cannot be enough. Assassination is a technical skill, not a suicide mission."
However, the Tyrant of Badab did not know the true horror of these Helldivers. To an Ork warlord, facing a few hundred "mortals" who could resurrect infinitely, knew no fear, and whose minds were entirely consumed with calculating how to kill you was an absolute nightmare—far worse than facing an entire Astartes company.
Finally, there was the threat with the lowest current processing priority, but practically the most headache-inducing: the Drukhari pirates.
These sadists from Commoragh utilized the complex gravity wells and warp currents of the Maelstrom to appear and disappear like ghosts. They never engaged in open combat, striking only poorly defended merchant ships and settlements, plundering populations before quickly retreating. This hit-and-run tactic left regular military forces with nowhere to direct their strength, making it nearly impossible to counter.
"Report, my Lord," a mortal bridge officer interrupted Huron's contemplation. "Regarding the purge operation against the Drukhari, the executive committee of those Helldivers has sent another request."
"They still insist on operating alone?" Huron turned his head.
"Yes, my Lord," the officer said with some hesitation. "They state they can handle these xenos pirates by themselves, and—they strongly request that no allied forces be present, including the Adeptus Astartes and the Tyrant's Legion. They said this is for—tactical confidentiality."
Huron tapped the armrest, half-believing and half-doubting.
He knew very well how terrifying an enemy the Drukhari were. They were a race that took pleasure in torture, and ordinary mortals falling into their hands would suffer a fate worse than death. Where did this bunch get the confidence to handle xenos that were fast as lightning? And why were they being so secretive about it?
Did they possess some undisclosed secret weapon? Or did they plan to use methods that were highly dishonorable, perhaps even violating Imperial law?
But looking at the mountain of raid reports, Huron ultimately waved his hand.
"Granted," he said coldly. "Since they are so confident, let them try."
Meanwhile, on a barren wasteland two kilometers away from a large Ork stronghold.
Two figures draped in desert-yellow camouflage netting lay flat behind the scorching rocks, with only two mounted high-magnification binoculars poking out.
"How do we handle this? That Warboss looks bigger than a fracking Dreadnought," the player Flying Eagle complained in the team channel while adjusting his focus. "And the surrounding area is packed with Boyz holding big shootas. If we don't one-shot him, we'll be instantly submerged in a green ocean."
The player lying next to him carried a rather casual ID: [Name? Haven't Thought of One]. Chewing on a strand of dead grass, he said helplessly, "Nothing we can do. The rewards for the decapitation mission given by the system are too enticing. My suggestion is not to rush. Let's just lie here for a day, observe the big guy's behavioral patterns, and see if there's a time when he's alone or going to the latrine."
"Do green-skins go to the latrine?"
"Who knows, maybe they just relieve themselves anywhere? Anyway, observing is never wrong. We are assassins, aiming for a one-hit kill, not berserkers."
The two quickly reached a consensus, deciding to carry out the "camper" spirit by staying low and observing the situation first.
However, just as they adjusted their postures for a long stakeout, the distant Ork camp suddenly erupted into a commotion like a stirred hornets' nest.
"What's the situation? A mutiny?" Flying Eagle immediately zoomed in with his binoculars.
Amidst the swirling yellow sand, a solitary figure was charging with absolute determination directly through the main gate into the camp of tens of thousands of green-skins.
"Holy crap! Who is that? So brave?" Name was so shocked he almost swallowed the grass in his mouth.
Through the automatic identification of the tactical visor, the player's bright red ID was faintly visible in the dust: LetMeSolo.
"Is this guy crazy? Even an Astartes wouldn't charge a formation like that!"
The two thought this would be an open-and-shut suicide performance, but the player demonstrated astonishing combat capability. Dressed in light carapace armor and wielding two tactical knives, his movements were as fast as lightning.
He darted left and right among the green-skins, every strike accompanied by flying severed limbs. Under the influence of combat drugs, his strength and speed could actually clash head-on with those large Orks.
"Those movements—he's got some skills, definitely a high-skill player," Flying Eagle watched dumbfounded. "But it's useless. What happens when the green-skins use their big shootas?"
As if to confirm his words, the surrounding Ork Boyz who had reacted raised their crudely manufactured firearms, and several Looter Boyz carrying heavy machine guns were even preheating their gun barrels.
"It's over, he's going to turn into a sieve." Name shook his head. "This guy is about to be turned into blood mist."
Just as the two were preparing to mourn for the warrior, a roar amplified by a loudspeaker suddenly erupted from the center of the battlefield. The sound was so loud it drowned out the surrounding rumbles: "You green-skin cowards who only know how to play with water guns! If you have any courage, come fight me in melee!
WAAAAAAGH!!!"
This roar, full of provocation and even including the iconic Ork slogan, instantly froze the air of the entire battlefield for a second.
The next moment, the eyes of the green-skins who were about to pull their triggers instantly filled with blood, turning bright red. For an Ork, being accused of not being "Waaagh" enough and not daring to engage in melee was a humiliating insult worse than death.
"WAAAAAAAAAGH!!!"
Countless roars merged into a tsunami.
A scene that caused the jaws of the two distant observers to drop occurred: those Orks actually threw away the firearms in their hands, drew their choppas and axes, and charged screaming toward that player.
What should have been a fatal hail of bullets was turned into a massive melee brawl by that single shout.
"—This works too?" Flying Eagle felt his gaming common sense being shattered.
"Probably—that's just how green-skins are," Name muttered.