Chapter 2 Emergency Missions
Ragnar was in a hurry.
He wasn't afraid of death—after all, dying only meant being resurrected back at the hideout. What he was afraid of was dying without dragging the automatic gun back with him.
The footsteps from both sides grew closer, boots crunching over churned mud and shell fragments. Ragnar paced in place like an ant trapped on a hot pan, heart hammering.
Then he saw it.
The crater left by a shell impact.
Inside it lay shredded flesh, broken limbs, and half-buried corpses—what used to be men before the artillery spoke.
A flash of inspiration struck.
Without hesitation, Ragnar leapt straight into the pit and flattened himself among the dead. He grabbed a severed arm from the corpse on his left, draped it loosely across his chest, then tugged a coil of intestines from the body on his right and laid them over his abdomen. He smeared sticky, half-dried blood across his face, tilted his head to the side, let his tongue loll out, and went completely limp.
He became just another corpse.
Barely had he settled when both forces reached the edge of the trench simultaneously—and spotted each other at the same time.
There was no shouting.
No warning.
Both sides raised their weapons and opened fire.
The PDF squad leader acted instantly, bracing his stance and pulling the trigger of the lasgun—a rarer, high-output model even by PDF standards. A searing red beam punched straight through the chest of the rebel at the front. A fist-sized hole burned open, internal organs instantly carbonized. The man died before he could even scream.
But only the squad leader carried a lasgun.
The rest of the PDF soldiers wielded standard automatic firearms. Live rounds slammed into the rebels, but many were stopped or deflected by their crude yet thick organic composite armor, grown and stitched together like chitin and muscle.
The rebels returned fire.
Automatic rifles, bolt-action guns, shotguns—an ugly mix of weapons. Individually inferior to PDF equipment, but there were simply more of them.
Gunfire roared. Men screamed. Bodies fell into the trench.
And Ragnar lay perfectly still in the middle of the corpse pile, not daring to even breathe too hard.
Fifteen minutes later, a grenade detonated with a dull boom.
Silence followed.
Ragnar waited another five minutes, counting each breath.
No movement.
No gunfire.
His heart leapt.
"So… I survived without dying?"
He opened his eyes cautiously.
The trench was carpeted with corpses—gray-clad rebels and green-helmeted PDF soldiers alike, piled in grotesque heaps.
🎵 "The little song of looting~~" 🎵
Ragnar hummed cheerfully as he peeled the gore off his body and began cleaning the battlefield.
He didn't even glance at the rebels.
He lunged straight for the PDF corpses.
First, a helmet.
Name: PDF Bulletproof Helmet
Reference Value: 500 Fertilizer Coupons
Protection Level: 3
Ricochet Chance: Medium
Durability: 30/30
Material: Ceramite-Steel Composite
Weight: 2.2 kg
Next, a relatively intact suit of armor.
Name: PDF Light Bulletproof Armor
Reference Value: 1500 Fertilizer Coupons
Protection Level: 3
Durability: 45/50
Material: Ceramite-Steel Composite
Weight: 6.2 kg
Then—a weapon.
Name: PDF Standard Automatic Rifle
Reference Value: ~3500 Fertilizer Coupons
Weight: 4.5 kg
Vertical Recoil Control: 68
Horizontal Recoil Control: 52
Human–Machine Compatibility: 52
Weapon Stability: 53
Accuracy: 60
Hip-Fire Stability: 72
Effective Range: 600 m
Muzzle Velocity: 1050 m/s
Fire Modes: Semi / Full Auto
Rate of Fire: 750 RPM
Caliber: 8.9×55 mm
Power Output: High
Just one of these rifles was worth 3,500 coupons.
Ragnar nearly laughed out loud.
He dumped all the useless junk he'd been carrying and started collecting.
One gun.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He looped four rifles around his neck. Nearly twenty kilograms of weight pressed down on him, making his breathing labored.
But he could still move.
This is just part of the search-and-withdrawal game!
🎵 "Today is a good day~ a good day~" 🎵
He pulled a fifth rifle from the arms of a PDF soldier who'd been shot clean through the head and hung it on his chest.
Then a thought struck him.
The squad leader's lasgun.
In Warhammer 40K, lasguns were often mocked as "flashlights"—but that was only because the galaxy was full of daemons, Astartes, and abominations.
On a normal battlefield, a lasgun was terrifying.
One power pack allowed roughly 200 shots.
Each beam could blow a fist-sized hole through a human body.
It could punch through 20mm of steel—a feat that, in Old Terra's 3K era, required heavy machine guns.
And this was a single infantry weapon.
Ragnar searched frantically.
He'd been in the Warhammer world for over three months and had never once touched a lasgun.
What level is that damage? Level four? Higher?
He couldn't find the body.
Then—
A faint groan behind him.
Ragnar turned.
And met a pair of bloodshot, ferocious eyes.
"Ah—! You're not dead?!"
The PDF squad leader was slumped in the corner of the trench, soaked in blood, barely conscious—
—but the muzzle of his lasgun was pointed straight at Ragnar.
Cold fear flooded his chest.
No… I don't want to lose my equipment!
"Don't shoot! I'm not a traitor—!"
The squad leader fired.
A blazing beam slammed into Ragnar's chest.
Heat.
White noise.
The stench of burning metal.
He expected death.
But he didn't lose consciousness.
Looking down, he realized—
The lasgun's energy had shattered the five rifles hanging on his chest, dispersing most of the beam's power. What remained slammed into the armor he'd just looted—
—and was blocked.
"YOU—BASTARD!!"
Ragnar exploded with rage.
He charged forward and kicked the squad leader square in the chest, sending him crashing onto his back. He stomped down hard on the man's hand, crushing it against the trench floor.
The squad leader screamed.
Already wounded by bullets, exhausted and bleeding out, he had no strength left. At close range, he was helpless.
Ragnar yanked the bayonet from his waist, disarmed him completely, slung the lasgun over his back, and pressed the dagger to the man's throat.
Why not just shoot him?
Because Ragnar didn't know if the lasgun had a gene-lock.
Technology varied wildly between Imperial worlds. Some lasguns fired for anyone who picked them up. Others were keyed to the owner's genetic signature.
He was about to end it quickly—
When a mechanical chime echoed in his mind.
Ding!
Urgent Mission Triggered: Save Sergeant Ruth Dawson
Sergeant Ruth Dawson—an old, well-regarded PDF veteran.
His superiors had promised him promotion to Second Lieutenant, Company Commander, if he could lead his squad to retake Trench 2563.
Unfortunately… he'd clearly failed this time.
Mission Objective: Escort Sergeant Ruth Dawson back to the PDF defensive line.
Rewards:
• Unlock Ruth Dawson Evacuation Route — withdraw safely via his defense sector
• Unlock Liaison: Ruth Dawson — sell exclusive items, buy restricted equipment, accept special missions
• PDF Favorability +10
Ragnar froze, dagger hovering.
"…Tch."
Looks like this one couldn't die yet.