The tal carriage violently jolted with the rugged terrain, and the players were tossed around like sardines in a can.
The silence brought by the Commissar's reprimand didn't last long; after confirming that he didn't seem to genuinely intend to kill them, the players resud a new round of whispered discussions.
"Speaking of which," a player lowered his voice, cleverly avoiding the Commissar's hearing range, "do we still not know how to level up in this ga?"
This question was like a stone thrown into a pond, imdiately creating ripples.
"Yeah," another person echoed, seemingly constantly operating on his virtual panel, "I've practically worn out the panel, and besides body data and ID, there's nothing else. No experience bar, no skill tree, nothing."
Robert steadied himself amidst the jolting, holding onto the cold tal inner wall, and after a mont of contemplation, said, "It's normal for chanisms to be incomplete during the closed beta… However, I do have a guess."
Everyone's gaze converged on him.
"Since the developers have made every aspect of this world so realistic," Robert slowly articulated his thoughts, "then for us to 'level up,' will we also have to operate like in reality?"
"Reality?" The ogryn player in the corner scratched his head, looking puzzled. "Which reality? This Warhamr world isn't realistic, is it?"
However, other players quickly understood Robert's implied aning.
One player's eyes lit up and he interjected, "You an… we have to climb the ranks ourselves within the Astra Militarum system? If we want to get stronger, we have to earn rits and awards. If we want to change equipnt, we have to get it ourselves. If we want to beco space marines, we have to find a way to get gene-seeds and undergo the Chapter's trials?"
This guess caused the atmosphere in the carriage to freeze.
"But wouldn't that be too hardcore?" a player questioned. "No guidance, no clear objectives, all relying on self-exploration? How many people would be willing to keep playing like that?"
"This ga has been on a hardcore path from the very beginning," Robert shook his head, his tone resolute. "Don't forget, just the blood and gore splattering across the screen in the promotional video was enough to scare away a lot of people, wasn't it?"
In the depths of the warp, imperceptible to mortals, Terrabyte quietly observed all of this.
This mortal, nad Dr. Dixy Normous, had guessed correctly.
The existence of players was itself a product of its sudden whim.
It had not placed too high expectations on these fragile souls; their wisdom and power were negligible on a cosmic scale.
However, their numbers and immortal characteristic could bring a turning point for the humans of Perditia, who were in dire straits. On this point, Terrabyte had no doubt. rely helping to hold a battle line or clear an area occupied by xenos, the immortal players could play a role far exceeding an equivalent number of mortal troops.
Yet, when looking at the entire galaxy, this effect seed quite limited. Even if tens of millions of players could be mobilized at once, their influence could at most decide the fate of one or two planets. Not to ntion the tedious journey, often spanning years or even decades, from one star system to another, which would likely cause over half of the players to choose to log off.
Unless its future power could beco stronger, strong enough to tear the veil of reality, allowing players to log on and off freely in any corner of the galaxy, at any point in ti.
Then they would no longer be simple "reinforcents," but a ghostly force capable of appearing at any critical historical juncture, enough to turn the tide… Thinking of this, Terrabyte's thoughts produced a strange fluctuation.
Then… wouldn't this beco a second Cursed Legion?
An immortal ghost legion, composed of countless mortal souls, obeying its command.
Well, now mortals also have their own Cursed Legion prepared by.
Terrabyte temporarily placed these slightly strange whims in a corner of its mory palace. Now was not the ti to ponder such distant questions.
Its attention returned to the bumpy troop transport, and to these ten vibrant yet fragile souls.
The rear hatch of the troop transport slamd down, accompanied by a harsh tallic screech, and a hot blast of air, mixed with gunpowder, ozone, and a strong sll of blood, rushed in.
Before the players inside could complain, Commissar Walter kicked each of them out.
"Get out! Quick! All of you, move it!"
What lay before them was a living painting of hell. They were behind a crude trench line, with tal barricades and sandbags scattered across the scorched earth. In the distance, dazzling energy beams occasionally cut through the dim sky, each explosion shaking the ground. And nearby, at their feet, lay layers of bodies dressed in identical uniforms.
"By the Emperor! You lot are too green!"
Commissar Walter covered his face, letting out a nearly despairing groan. He looked at the ten figures before him, who were looking around like headless chickens, and felt his temples throbbing.
Indeed, it was the worst-case scenario Robert had anticipated. Walter extended his gloved hand, pointing to the horrifying carpet of corpses, dirt, and broken equipnt, and said in an unchallengeable tone of command, "Your weapons are over there!"
Almost simultaneously, a crimson system prompt box popped up in all players' vision.
"Ergency Mission: Battlefield Preparation"
"Mission Objective: Within 15 minutes, find a usable weapon for yourself."
"Mission Countdown: 14:59"
"Failure Penalty: You will face the Emperor's enemies unard."
"Holy crap, seriously, a nightmare start?"
"Scavenging equipnt from corpses? This ga is insane! I'm reporting it, there's player abuse!"
Despite their frantic complaints, watching the countdown tick away, the players still suppressed the churning nausea in their stomachs and bravely plunged into the pile of corpses. They clumsily rummaged through the grotesquely deceased predecessors; so bodies were half-lted by energy weapons, while others were blown to pieces, their faces frozen in pre-death terror.
Robert was among them. He held his breath, trying not to look at the distorted faces, and focused all his attention on finding a weapon. Soon, his luck seed good; beside a relatively intact corpse, he found a lasgun that appeared almost undamaged.
He was delighted and quickly picked up the gun. It felt heavy in his hand, with the cold tallic texture characteristic of tal. The mont he grasped the grip, a detailed data panel appeared on the right side of his vision.
"Mars Mk3 'Stub' Pattern Lasgun"
"Type: Weapon"
"Quality: Damaged"
"Attack Power: Strong"
"Attribute: Laser"
"Effect: None"
"Note: As a standard weapon for many Astra Militarum regints since M36, she is very sturdy and easy to use, referred to in the 'Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Prir' as the 'Friend of the Guardsman,' so much so that she can continue to fire even with a damaged internal power structure… as long as you're not afraid of a barrel explosion."
Robert looked at the last line of the note and fell into a long silence.
He imagined himself holding this "Friend of the Guardsman," and at the mont of firing at the enemy, the barrel exploding along with half of his face.
He silently and carefully put the gun back where he found it, then continued to search for the next one.
Commissar Walter, who had been supervising nearby, noticed this scene. The expression on his tense face relaxed almost imperceptibly.
"Good," he thought, almost reassuring himself, "these guys aren't complete idiots, for a mont i thought they gave their intelligence to that ogryn; at least they can tell a good lasgun from a bad one, so they won't blow themselves up with the first shot."
Although a qualified Astra Militarum Soldier would only need a quick glance at the subtle energy burn marks and distortions on the gun's casing to know that its power supply was unstable. These green recruits, however, still needed to foolishly pick it up and examine it for a long ti.
But in any case, being alive was better than instantly turning into a charred ss. Commissar Walter sighed, casting his gaze towards the battle line in the distance, which was gradually heating up. Ti was running out for these new recruits.
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