Chrr-rip—
Accompanied by an ear-splitting screech of metal friction and a wet tearing sound, Akash slowly drew his massive Executioner Power Axe from Grendel's shattered chest.
The once-insufferable Iron Warriors commander now slumped on the ground like a pile of scrap metal. A terrifying gap had been carved into his chest, his sparking bionic limbs still twitching unconsciously.
Yet his head—once consumed by blind fury—had thoroughly drooped, incapable of ever barking out another logical command or data-driven calculation.
Akash flicked the thick, foul blood and motor oil from his axe blade, taking a deep breath of the air infused with ozone, gore, and cordite, before slowly surveying his surroundings.
The battle was over.
The narrow boarding corridor had turned into a hellish slaughterhouse. Most of the Executioners' battle-brothers stood leaning on their weapons, breathing heavily. Even for Astartes, such high-intensity, close-quarters meat-grinder combat was immensely taxing.
The floor was littered with corpses. Most of the Iron Warriors in heavy Terminator armor had been hacked to pieces by the Executioners' power weapons. Yet Akash acutely noticed that among the pile of metallic wreckage, at least a dozen bodies had been forcibly blown to bits by pure heavy firepower and high explosives.
That was the handiwork of mortals.
Though only a dozen or so, these were Chaos Astartes wearing Terminator armor! For unaugmented mortal troops, this was an unfathomably impressive feat.
With heavy footsteps, Akash walked up to the positions of the Helldivers.
The guys who were crazily mocking through the loudspeakers moments ago were now excitedly poking their heads out from behind the fortifications. Akash narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd, attempting to locate rank insignias on these soldiers clad in matching full-body carapace armor.
However, he quickly gave up. Aside from all sorts of weird graffiti and tactical gadgets, these people bore zero rank designations compliant with Imperial regulations; some even had comical smiley faces painted on their armor.
"Who holds the highest rank here?" Akash called out directly, his voice echoing through his helmet's vox-grille with an imposing gravity.
"Me, sir! What's up, got a new mission?"
Almost the instant he finished speaking, a regimental commissar eagerly jumped out from behind the cover. He was even tightly clutching a melta gun, his eyes practically gleaming behind the lenses of his gas mask, as though that tragic battle just now had been nothing more than a warm-up exercise.
Akash paused for a moment.
These Helldivers really were... not only suicidal, but actually obsessed with battle. After fighting such a brutal engagement, their first reaction was actually a craving for the next fight.
"There won't be any for now," Akash shook his head, his tone softening slightly. "The remaining work consists of clearing out the remnants of the Chaos warships. Any ground combat will be boarding operations in narrow areas like this, which are better left to the Space Marines and your Ogryn allies. Your task is complete."
Upon hearing "no more missions," the surrounding circle of players visibly slumped their shoulders, letting out a chorus of disappointed boos.
"However, besides that, I have words that Brother Huron asked me to convey on his behalf."
Akash paused, looking at the strange mortal warriors in front of him, and said solemnly: "Huron said that without your all-out effort in battle, this Badab War would never have been won so easily."
He pointed to the corpses of the Iron Warriors strewn behind him: "After this battle, the Chaos forces in the Maelstrom region are severely weakened, their main strength annihilated. In all likelihood, for the next hundred years, they won't pose any threat of making a comeback. This is a victory belonging to the loyalists."
At this point, Akash pulled out a holographic projection device from a pouch at his waist, displaying the image of a exquisitely crafted medal bearing the lion-head emblem of the Astral Claws alongside the Aquila.
"In recognition of your outstanding contributions in this battle, Brother Huron has decided to award every participating Helldiver a custom 'Savior of Badab' medal, which will also be recorded in the Astral Claws' Roll of Honor to commemorate your achievements."
The moment these words were uttered, the player group—which had been somewhat dispirited a moment ago—instantly erupted like a boiling pot.
"Huh? We get a commemorative medal after finishing this fight?" someone exclaimed.
"Holy crap, for real? A physical medal or in-game?"
"Nonsense, of course it's in-game! But the meaning is completely different!" A veteran player beside him excitedly slapped his thigh. "Broskis, think about it! This game claims to be absolute reality with no such thing as wiping data or reloading saves; whatever happened is set in history. That means—"
"This medal is a limited edition?!"
Everyone's eyes lit up instantly like searchlights.
"Obviously! The Badab War only happens once; once it's done, it's gone! Players who join later won't be able to get this achievement or medal at all! This is proof of being an OG player, a limited edition item! It's gonna be worth millions of real cash!"
"Damn! We struck it rich, huge profit!"
The player who had been broadcasting the taunts earlier was so excited he was dancing around: "Good thing I thought to basically finish pushing the storyline here before heading over to the Segmentum Obscurus to fight space hulks! If I had run off to Segmentum Obscurus earlier and missed this limited edition medal, I would've died of envy!"
"Exactly! I heard the loot over there isn't bad either, but how can it compare to a unique limited reward like this?"
"This run is a massive win! Even dying a few times was worth it! Once we get it, screenshot it for memories and post it on the forum to make those who didn't come drool with envy!"
Watching this group of Helldiver suddenly fall into a state of revelry, blabbering a string of unintelligible terms, Akash—though not fully understanding what they meant—could feel their pure joy.
A rare smile appeared on Akash's battle-hardened face. Though these Helldiver acted comically, their fanaticism for honor and craving for slaughter were greatly to the taste of the Executioners Chapter.
"Since our allies are in such high spirits, let us celebrate according to our Chapter's tradition."
At Akash's command, the Executioners behind him caught on immediately. Accompanied by the roar of chainswords and the harsh sound of power blades cutting through metal, the corpses of the Iron Warriors lying on the ground were swiftly processed.
Helmets painted with yellow and black hazard stripes were violently severed—including the head of Commander Grendel, whose eyes remained wide open in unyielding death.
In no time, a gruesome trophy pyramid composed of over a hundred Astartes helmets and dripping conduits stood prominently in the middle of the corridor.
"Holy shit! This is way too cool!"
"Now this is the style Warhammer should have! Screenshot, screenshot!"
"Damn chat! That's nasteee!" a fat ginger player bellowed.
Akash removed his helmet, strode over to the head-pyramid, slammed his power axe heavily onto the ground, and gestured to the players: "Come, Helldiver! Take a group photo in front of this altar of victory, so these traitors must witness our glory even in death!"
The players swarmed forward in a rush. The scene froze in the flash of a servo-skull:
In the background were the smoke-filled corridor and the gory mountain of heads; on both sides stood the blood-soaked Executioner warriors, solemn as sculptures; in the middle was a group of players in various poses—throwing peace signs, making funny faces, and even trying to plant a foot right on top of Grendel's head.
"Ayo chat watch me t bag these fools!"