After the last wave of tunnel raids was repelled, the battlefield temporarily returned to a fragile calm. The cultists in the distance seed to be regrouping, with only sporadic gunshots and the wails of the wounded echoing across the position.
Commissar Walter wiped the blood from his Chainsword with his sleeve, his sharp gaze sweeping across the entire position, finally landing on the ogryn player, Cain, who was like a small giant. In the close-quarters combat just now, this big guy's performance was nothing short of heroic.
"Big guy, you co with !" Commissar Walter's voice was loud and decisive.
Cain, who was squatting on the ground checking his fists, paused when he heard the call. His huge head scanned his surroundings, his gaze searching the ground, apparently intending to pick up the Lasgun he had dropped in his excitent earlier.
Seeing this, a barely perceptible hint of surprise flashed in Commissar Walter's eyes. He was once again taken aback by the ogryn's intelligence level; ordinary ogryns wouldn't have such clear tactical thinking as "retrieving one's weapon."
"No need to look for that Lasgun," Commissar Walter's voice softened slightly, "Just co with ."
Cain imdiately realized that his subconscious action just now seed a bit too clever. He quickly withdrew his gaze, forced a simple and honest smile, scratched the back of his head, and then strode clumsily towards the Commissar, trying to cover up his "intelligence leak" with his actions.
The remaining players watched Cain follow the Commissar towards the rear of the position and involuntarily gathered together again.
"What should we do next?" one of the players asked blankly, "Neither the Commissar nor the system has given new quests?"
Everyone's eyes turned to Robert in unison. His performance in previous analyses and battles had left most players with a deep impression of him as a "reliable smart person." Upon discovering such a brain in the team, many players naturally gave up on trying to think for themselves.
Robert didn't answer imdiately. He first observed the surrounding environnt, then pondered for a mont before speaking: "First, based on my observations, this production team is clearly trying to create an extrely realistic ga; otherwise, they wouldn't put so much effort into so... disgusting details."
Recalling their journey so far: the troop transport vehicle that bounced enough to make them vomit, the extrely chaotic battlefield filled with explosions and screams, and the piles of corpses with bizarre thoughts and foul slls... the players subconsciously and wholeheartedly agreed with Robert's point.
Robert continued, "If we follow this logic, then what we should do next is naturally what one truly does on a warhamr battlefield after a battle... As for warhamr battlefields, according to the original descriptions, at least for the Astra Militarum, most of the ti it hasn't escaped the scope of World War I trench warfare. Occasionally, there are armored cluster assaults, but at least in the Lower Hive slums where we are now, we certainly won't see such grand scenes."
He paused, then concluded, "That is to say, we should learn from our World War I trench warfare predecessors; whatever they did, we do."
"So what were our World War I trench warfare soldiers doing at this ti?" a player asked cooperatively, raising his hand.
Robert slowly uttered two words: "Rest, and eat."
"Huh?" The questioning player and those around him were stunned.
"Trench warfare isn't about just squatting in a trench, with the enemy constantly charging and you constantly defending until one side is completely wiped out," Robert patiently explained. "In fact, the actual combat ti is quite short compared to the periods of inactivity and boredom in the trenches.
Within a day, it's already impressive if the enemy can organize one or two decent charges. Perhaps warp daemons can charge continuously with unnatural power, but these flesh-and-blood cultists clearly cannot. In fact, the more organized a unit is, the more likely it is to retreat after realizing a situation is unwinnable, to plan the next attack, rather than blindly charging and exhausting its effective strength."
Robert's lengthy explanation left the players half-understanding, but one thing they did grasp.
"So," soone summarized, "we're likely to have nothing to do for the next few hours in this ga?"
Robert was silent for a while, then finally replied with so uncertainty, "I think... yes."
Just then, a rough, strong hand rested on Robert's shoulder. An Astra Militarum veteran with a scarred face and tired but steady eyes had appeared beside their small circle at so point.
"No," the veteran said in a hoarse voice, "There's one thing you must do."
The players imdiately tensed up. While the extre realism of this ga was sowhat torturous, they had to admit that they were already sowhat imrsed in their roles. In an instant, the classic "veteran rookie crusher" trope flooded their minds.
They began to secretly brace themselves: Was this about to be a shakedown? If so, they would have to fight back. Dying in the ga was acceptable, but being humiliated by an NPC was absolutely not!
However, the veteran made no further moves, rely pointing with his other hand in the direction behind them, where soone was boiling sothing unknown in a pot: "It's ti to eat, recruits."
As soon as the veteran's words, "It's ti to eat, recruits," ca out, it was as if a switch had been flipped, and the players belatedly felt a strong sense of emptiness in their stomachs. The previous tense battle and adrenaline rush had masked everything, but now that they relaxed, hunger surged like a tide.
"Damn it, even the hunger is this realistic?" a player exclaid, clutching his stomach, marveling once again at the ga's realism.
They followed the veteran to a relatively safe spot behind the position. There, a huge field cauldron was set up, with firewood scavenged from who-knows-where burning underneath, and a quartermaster, also with a weathered face, was stirring the pot with a large iron ladle.
The players each took a dirty tal bowl from the supply crate and lined up to approach. The pot contained a thick, grayish-brown paste, all blended into one color, with so unidentified oil slicks floating on top, and a strange sll, a mixture of fishiness and so kind of spice, wafted towards them.
"What... what is this being cooked?" The player at the front cautiously peered into the pot and asked the veteran in charge of cooking, "The legendary corpse starch?"
Upon hearing the question, the veteran holding the ladle grinned, revealing a missing front tooth, and chuckled, his voice hoarse: "at!"
"at?"
The player shook the bowl he had just filled; in the viscous soup, there indeed seed to be a few pieces of coarse, unidentified at. At this point, the other Astra Militarum Soldiers waiting in line began to urge them impatiently, so the players had no choice but to stop asking questions, quickly filled their bowls, and walked to the side.
They gathered in a circle, looking at each other and at the extrely unappetizing "food" in their bowls.
A player with the ID Pvt. Forest Maverick took a deep breath, an expression of facing death etched on his face: "I'll go first! Wish luck guys!"
He closed his eyes, scooped a small mouthful of soup with his spoon, and tremblingly brought it to his mouth.
A few seconds later, he froze, then opened his eyes in disbelief: "Huh? It seems... there's nothing wrong with it?"
"Really?" The other players expressed their doubts, "How could Warhamr food be fine? Shouldn't it be made of engine oil and sawdust?"
However, seeing Maverick take another big gulp, even smacking his lips as if it tasted quite good, everyone's doubts wavered. With the first person to try it, the others also plucked up their courage and, half-believing, took a sip.
A salty, sowhat coarse but definitely aty broth taste spread in their mouths.
The taste was actually... quite normal?
Their tense nerves and empty stomachs were greatly soothed by the warm soup. So, everyone no longer hesitated and began to drink heartily. By the ti the players had all drunk at least half, and so bolder ones had even started chewing on the rather tough pieces of at, Robert suddenly let out a short, sharp shriek.
"Ah!"
This scream made everyone's movents freeze. They looked over with a bad premonition, only to see Robert holding sothing between two fingers, but then quickly throwing it to the ground. It wasn't a piece of at, but a piece of shredded cloth.
A piece of cloth they were very familiar with, a gray-green camouflage fabric. To be precise, it was a piece of the Astra Militarum uniform they were currently wearing, beneath their flak armor.
Generally speaking, if a piece of uniform is found in a soup pot, then its owner should also be nearby.
A terrifying thought struck all the players' minds like lightning. They stiffly lowered their heads, looking at the so-called "at chunks" in their bowls.
"Ugh—!"
Maverick, the first to react, was the first to lose it. He spun around abruptly, clutching the dirt wall of the trench, and began to retch violently.
His reaction was like a signal, instantly triggering a chain reaction.
"Ugh..." "Wah—!"
A chorus of dry heaves rose from a corner of the position. The players threw down their bowls, their stomachs churning. So vomited the soup they had just drunk, while others rely retched sour bile in vain, their faces pale.
Coming from an era of peace, they now deeply felt the undisguised, nauseating, extre malice of this universe.
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