After reaching the second trench, Zhang Ge was struck by a realization: Wait a minute, am I the elite force?
The troops stationed here were not clad in carapace armor like himself but only wore ballistic armor, most of which bore the same insignia—likely the crest of a local noble family. Even though their faces were covered by full-face respirators, their subtle trembling and rapid breathing were impossible to hide.
It seemed they were a mixed detachment of the planet's PDF (Planetary Defense Force) conscripted for service.
No wonder the Astra Militarum, who valued holding the line more than human lives, had pulled Zhang Ge and his unit back from the first trench. If the PDF alone were left to hold the line, another wave of demonic assaults would likely be enough to collapse these "rookies"—men whose combat experience, at most, involved fighting gangsters or civil wars.
It wasn’t that Zhang Ge looked down on them; it was just that maintaining a large-scale force capable of enduring the kind of casualty rates that could erase entire units from the roster was rare. Even on Zhang Ge’s homeworld in his previous life, where wars had been fought for millennia, there had only ever been one such force. As for these PDF troops, who were essentially feudal noble private soldiers, it was questionable whether their training even approached the level of modern professional armies from his past life.
Fortunately, the local noble seemed well-funded. At least every soldier had a laser gun. This simple and efficient weapon, with its straight trajectory, could still be used effectively at engagement ranges of over a kilometer, even with the PDF's limited combat skills.
This allowed the chaotic situation caused by the demonic assault to be temporarily stabilized through brute force. A barrage of laser beams, heavy explosive rounds, and autocannon fire managed to suppress the cultists' waves of charges, giving Zhang Ge and his unit a brief respite while awaiting further orders.
When no new orders came for some time, Zhang Ge, half-squatting, idly observed the surroundings. Suddenly, Duluth issued a command:
"Into the bunker."
This order was passed down the chain of command step by step, so no other allied units overheard it. After they had been in the fortification for a while, Zhang Ge couldn’t help but ask:
"Shouldn't we warn the other units?"
The semi-enclosed environment of the bunker significantly dampened the external noise, turning it into a kind of background hum. This made direct conversation possible here.
In the dim yellow glow of a hastily lit torch, Zhang Ge vaguely saw Duluth glance at him for a moment. After a few seconds of silence, Duluth finally spoke:
"There are demons among those cultists. The sorcery of demons falls upon the battlefield like artillery shells. But unlike artillery, demons leave once they’ve killed enough."
To be precise, some of the demons of Slaanesh. These lesser demons, summoned by cultists, pursued eternal stimulation. However, if banished back to the Warp in the material universe, it was uncertain when they could return again.
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Thus, in the absence of effective restraints among these low-level cultist groups, some lesser demons would often leave on their own once they believed they had claimed enough sacrifices or experienced sufficient stimulation.
Returning to their current situation: the Astra Militarum’s organizational structure strictly segregated equipment by regiment. Infantry regiments consisted solely of infantry, artillery regiments solely of artillery, and so on. In other words, a conventional infantry regiment like theirs lacked the heavy firepower typically found at the brigade or divisional level.
Given the dire circumstances, where the PDF had been mixed in as the main force and communications had failed, hoping for sufficient indirect heavy firepower—or air and artillery support—to counter enemy bombardment was clearly unrealistic.
This left no choice but to sacrifice some to preserve others.
"Our lives need to be saved for when they’re more useful. If we all die meaningless deaths like your previous unit, then everyone on this planet will perish."
After Duluth finished speaking, a fellow soldier next to Zhang Ge shifted closer and patted him on the shoulder. The soldier pressed a small cross with a grayish-white skull at its center into Zhang Ge's hand and whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear:
"The Emperor protects. Thank you… You’re a good man, but surviving is more important than doing good deeds."
Zhang Ge froze for a moment before realizing what the soldier meant—if someone's dog tag was recovered intact, it served as proof of death. Compared to such confirmed casualties, greedy officials were more inclined to label those without evidence as "missing," pocketing the compensation meant for the deceased’s families.
By comparison, confirmed deaths at least allowed the families to receive a relatively decent pension.
As the conversation ended, several more squads of Astra Militarum infantry poured into the bunker from outside. Some carried heavy explosive launchers and other heavy weapons, but their condition was noticeably worse—two or three squads combined barely outnumbered Zhang Ge’s single squad.
In this oppressive environment, no one seemed inclined to talk. In the silence, broken only by the sounds of weapons and equipment being checked, the slaughter outside began.
Clusters of seemingly light, pinkish mist—projectiles moving too fast for the naked eye to track—descended from the sky. Warp energy tore through the fabric of the material universe, as if some grotesque living entity was gnawing at the membrane between the Warp and reality.
The PDF units, fully focused on holding back the cultists, were annihilated in an instant.
The sorcery, which favored humans with Warp projections over inanimate objects, latched onto any exposed flesh the moment it made contact. Armor and flesh were twisted together into grotesque lumps of meat mixed with shards of metal. Depending on the caster, these lumps either withered and shriveled, exploded, or swelled grotesquely before lunging at surviving comrades.
Those struck suffered excruciating pain, their muscles, organs, and nerves crushed inch by inch, their senses agonizingly amplified several times over—enduring all this before death finally claimed them.
Combat experience, training, and defensive equipment were meaningless now. Faced with this sudden sorcerous assault, all they could do was pray to the Emperor.
But clearly, even the Emperor couldn’t extend his light to everyone. No matter their specific fate, those hit were now far removed from the state of being alive.
The screams of agony were so horrifying that they penetrated even the thick layers of earth above the bunker. Amid this harrowing cacophony, Duluth stood up and approached his squad. Just as Zhang Ge thought he might offer some words to boost morale, Duluth instead announced:
"If we encounter this situation up there, the closest person is responsible for ending their pain. Now, fix bayonets."
The laser rifles, now fitted with monomolecular bayonets, cast distorted reflections of Duluth’s figure. The chainsword in his hand roared to life with a buzz, filling the bunker with its grating noise.