With the order given, the Helldivers Company's battle line, like a steel serpent, began to advance again through the gloomy underground passage. As vanguards, naturally, it was the Seventh Squad, who loved close combat and charges.
Cold tal, dripping pipes, the distant roar of unknown machinery—everything was as before. However, as they rounded a massive support pillar that held up the upper structure, the vanguards of both sides clashed without warning.
On one side were Astra Militarum players, clad in standard military uniforms, holding weapons, and exuding the aura of "I am a loyal lackey of the Imperium."
On the other side, swarming from the shadows, was a group of monsters with extrely obvious mutations and distinctive features that made them impossible to mistake.
There were no shouts, no warnings, not even a mont of hesitation. There was no possibility of misidentification for either side, so they imdiately engaged without a word.
"For the Emperor!"
Accompanied by a furious roar, the leading player vanguards did not open fire. Instead, they drew their gleaming combat knives and humming chainswords.
The roar of the chainsword engines instantly drowned out all other noises, replacing the gunshots that should have sounded. Without the slightest hesitation, they charged towards the group of deford monsters.
The opposing genestealer cult vanguard, on the other hand, was a living, alien tableau crawled out of a nightmare. Its main components were first and second-generation hybrids and Aberrants.
Leading the charge were the first-generation hybrids, those most closely resembling their alien ancestors. These creatures were deford and terrifying, hunched over, charging at high speed in a posture sowhere between crawling and running.
Beneath their pale or light purple skin, the twisted contours of muscles were faintly visible, with scattered insect-like chitinous scales covering their backs and shoulders. Most horrifying were their arms; almost all first-generation hybrids possessed three, or even four, arms.
Two main arms might still grip rusty autopistols or bolt pistols, while the other one or two extra appendages, erging from their ribs or shoulder blades, had evolved into sharp, scythe-like bone claws. Their large, smooth heads were devoid of any hair, replaced instead by cold, lifeless, obsidian-like compound eyes that reflected only the desire for slaughter.
Following closely were the second-generation hybrids, more human-like in form than the first-generation. They could barely walk upright but still retained obvious alien characteristics.
Their bodies were generally larger than normal humans, their skin covered in unnatural textures and blotches, and their foreheads were high with signs of chitinous hardening. Most only had two arms, but their fingers were long and sharp, their nails like blades.
Unlike the pure bestiality of the first-generation hybrids, the eyes of these second-generation hybrids glead with inhuman cunning and intelligence; they would utilize cover, using their weapons to provide suppressive fire for their brethren ahead.
And within this vanguard, the most striking and terrifying were undoubtedly the beings known as "Aberrants." They were the "failures" of genetic mutation, yet also the purest tools of destruction on the battlefield.
These creatures were like bloated, massive lumps of flesh, their bodies piled with asymtrical, wildly overgrown muscles, one arm possibly twice as thick as the other. They wielded heavy industrial tools—giant power hamrs, humming rock drills, or even tal pipes torn directly from walls.
They were low in intelligence, emitting aningless roars from their mouths, with only pure brute force and savagery in their eyes. Each step made the tal floor rumble heavily as they charged purposefully towards the players' line, ready to smash everything into pulp with their "weapons."
The genestealers let out shrill roars; most of their intelligent hybrids believed this battle would end quickly.
After all, whether in terms of numbers or individual combat prowess—especially the imnsely strong Aberrants and the fierce, swift first-generation hybrids—they held an absolute advantage. The fleshy bodies of these mortal Astra Militarum, in their eyes, were no different from lambs to the slaughter.
In fact, this skirmish did end quickly—but it was *they* who were ended.
At the center of the storm was an ogryn wielding a massive iron bar.
The leader of the Seventh Squad, the player "Cain," plunged into the densest ranks of the genestealers like an out-of-control battering ram, with an agility and precision completely unsuited to his massive physique.
He displayed a terrifying combat intelligence utterly uncharacteristic of an ogryn.
An Aberrant roared, swinging its heavy power hamr in a deadly arc, the wind pressure it generated making the air wail. Any normal ogryn would likely choose to endure the blow. But Cain did not.
Just as the power hamr was about to strike his waist, the core muscles of his massive body suddenly tensed, and he stepped back, pivoting on his heel, his body slightly angled. This exquisitely precise dodge allowed him to narrowly avoid the heavy blow that could have smashed him in two.
And as he retreated, the massive iron bar in his hand had already swung up, using the centrifugal force of his body's rotation, striking upward, precisely and viciously, at the Aberrant's outstretched head. With a sickening crunch of bone and chitin, the Aberrant's head was completely caved into its own chest.
His application of his strength had reached a pinnacle of mastery. When facing the thick-skinned, heavily muscled Aberrants, he would use all his might, each blow powerful and heavy, stirring up a vicious wind; yet, when facing the relatively "fragile" first and second-generation hybrids, the force with which he swung the iron bar would suddenly diminish, without any wasted effort.
A swift horizontal sweep, just enough force to shatter a second-generation hybrid's skull, yet allowing him to retract his weapon in an instant, without exposing any openings due to overexertion. His attacks seed to be precisely calculated; an ounce more force was wasted, an ounce less would not be fatal.
He also processed the chaotic information on the battlefield at high speed. In the midst of the fierce fighting, his ears suddenly twitched slightly, catching the almost imperceptible shriek of a grenade tearing through the air after a tal pin was pulled. It was a frag grenade thrown by a cunning second-generation hybrid from behind the front line.
Cain didn't even turn to look; he swung his hand back, and the massive iron bar, like a baseball bat, arced perfectly through the air, hitting the grenade with a crisp "thwack," accurately batting it back while it was still airborne.
The grenade landed back in the genestealers' own crowded formation, and with a loud explosion and several screams, the blast wave sent several hybrids flying.
Single-handedly, Cain cut through the genestealer vanguard's formation like a red-hot blade through butter. When the dust of battle settled, his massive figure stood amidst the scattered wreckage, purple blood still dripping from his iron bar.
Nearly two-thirds of this alien vanguard, which could have severely wounded any regular Astra Militarum regint, had fallen beneath his iron bar alone.
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