The convoy bumped along the wasteland, the kicking dust trailing long tails in the rising sun.
White Scars stuck his head out of the back of the transport truck. The wasteland wind blasted his face, making him squint.
He shouted into the regional channel at the top of his lungs:
"When are we going to get to drive proper tanks? Spacious helicopters? Or those massive armored personnel carriers that can fit a whole platoon without feeling cramped?"
He slapped the inner wall of the truck bed, the metal echoing with a dull thud.
"This piece of junk—all of us are augmented muscle-heads now! We're packed in here like a tin of sardines! I can't even stretch my legs!"
A chorus of agreement instantly erupted in the truck bed.
"Right?!"
A player with the ID [I Want to Drive a Baneblade] was curled up in a ball. "I'm 1.75 meters in real life, but I'm 1.93 meters in the game! They definitely didn't factor in our size when they built this truck bed!"
Another player, [Slaanesh's Chosen Still Not Chosen Today], rested his head against the side panel, looking completely drained.
"Right now, I feel like mutant beast meat stuffed into a can... the expired kind."
"You guys should be grateful!"
[I Finks Dis Truk Kan Fly], who was manning the machine gun mounted on the roof, poked his head down. His helmet was caked in a layer of dust. "At least you get to sit inside! I've been hanging outside in the wind for half an hour! My mouth is full of sand!"
"Then come down and let me go up!"
"In your dreams! The gunner seat is mine!"
Laughter and banter exploded across the regional channel.
This convoy was carrying over three thousand warriors heading into battle, yet the atmosphere was as relaxed as a weekend picnic.
This was the unique trait of players. In combat, they could be as precise and disciplined as a machine, but during downtime, they completely lacked the suffocating tension typical of a regular army.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Paul listened to the chatter in the channel, the corners of his mouth unknowingly curling up.
He keyed his mic. His deep voice, processed by the Power Armor's vox-speakers, carried a reassuring magnetism.
"Think the trucks are junk? Then work harder."
The channel instantly went quiet. Everyone perked up their ears.
"Don't forget, the potatoes we grow can be salvaged and exchanged for Imperial Coins."
"Once we've saved more civilians, scaled up our farming, and planted potatoes across the entirety of Aurelian IV..."
Paul paused, deliberately drawing out his words.
"Never mind heavy personnel carriers, assault dropships, gunships, or fighters..."
"Even a Baneblade super-heavy tank. Or a Gloriana-class battleship."
"The shop can give you whatever you want."
BZZZT!
The channel exploded.
"Holy shit! A Gloriana-class?!"
[Omnissiah I Request to Drink Promethium]'s voice was shaking. "Just one of those is enough to suppress an entire solar system! The shop actually sells that?!"
"I want the Macragge's Honour! The Smurfs' flagship is the coolest!"
"Bullshit! The Vengeful Spirit is way more badass! Even if it is Horus's flagship right now..."
"You guys are dreaming! Even if there was a Gloriana-class, how many Imperial Coins would that cost? You could sell all of Aurelian IV and it still wouldn't be enough!"
Paul chuckled. "That's why we take it one step at a time."
"First, we secure these three towns, ensure more people have food to eat, and get more land to farm."
"The Imperial Coins will come. The gear will follow."
"Hey, Paul!"
A player with the ID [I Wanna Marry a Psyker Wife] laughed mischievously. "When we actually get our own fleet, do you think... some noble lady from a wealthy Paradise World might take a fancy to me?"
"Give me a break!" [Have You Been Loyal Today?] laughed and cursed. "With a name like that, psykers would cross the street to avoid you! Marry a psyker? Aren't you afraid she'll sleep-strangle you with her mind in the middle of the night?"
"I could teach her how to game! I'm a Grandmaster in real life!"
"There's no League of Legends in the Warhammer universe, you idiot!"
Amidst the laughter, the convoy crested the final hill.
The silhouette of Red Town appeared on the horizon.
It truly was just a small town.
As a semi-Hive world, the true essence of Aurelian IV was concentrated in those massive Hive spires reaching tens of kilometers into the sky.
A settlement like Red Town—situated on the fringes of the wasteland, surviving on trade routes and fragmented mining operations—was more like the very end of a capillary in the Hive system.
The walls were built from wasteland stone quarried locally, roughly three-and-a-half meters high and less than two meters thick.
The surface was pitted and uneven, patched up in numerous places with scrap metal and wooden planks.
A few faded flags fluttered atop the walls: the gear-and-vial emblem of the Aru Group, the simplified Aquila of the Aurelian Planetary Governor, and a few tattered rags of unknown origin.
It was time for the morning shift change, and the guards on the walls were yawning incessantly.
Most of these guards were actually local civilians recruited into service. They wore a chaotic mix of clothing—worn-out utility suits, homemade leather armor, and some were even wearing scraps of uniforms scavenged off dead bodies.
Their weapons were a grand exhibition of a ragtag militia.
Antiquated solid-slug rifles, a few lasguns with rusted barrels, and homemade muskets cobbled together from steel pipes and black powder.
The guard captain was a middle-aged man in his forties with a scar on his cheek. He was crouching behind a battlement, smoking a cigarette.
The cigarette was rolled with cheap, locally grown tobacco. The smell was acrid.
"Captain, whose turn is it to patrol the water station today?"
A young guard wandered over and asked.
"Draw straws."
The captain blew a smoke ring. "Dammit, there are too many mutant beasts out there. Last month, a three-man patrol went out, and only one came back. He's still screaming in the medicae tent."
"Then if I draw the short straw..."
"Tough luck."
The captain had barely finished speaking when he caught something out of the corner of his eye.
He stood up, squinting toward the west.
The rising sun was in that direction, making the light a bit blinding. But he saw it—kicking dust, an endless trail of it, wriggling across the wasteland like a giant, earth-yellow python.
Then came the roar of engines. Deep, dense, and getting closer.
"What is that..." the captain muttered.
At the front of the dust cloud, the silhouettes of the vehicles emerged.
One, two, ten, twenty... too many to count!
Modified transport trucks topped with welded armor plates and mounted machine guns, the truck beds packed entirely with people!
Even more terrifying were the two engineering mechs in the middle of the convoy, towering over four meters tall. Though they walked slowly, the ground trembled with every step!
Yeah, it had a bit of a budget-Astartes-Legion vibe to it!
The cigarette dropped from the captain's mouth.
"En... Enemy attack!!!"
A shrill roar tore through the morning peace.
The guards on the walls fell into a panic. Someone rushed to pull the alarm bell—a makeshift contraption built from a scrapped speeder hubcap that clanged loudly when struck.
Some raised their guns, their hands shaking too much to aim. Others immediately bolted for the stairs, trying to slip off the wall.
"Don't fucking panic!"
The captain drew the antique laspistol from his hip and fired a shot into the air. "Get back to your posts! Prepare for combat!"
He then grabbed the deputy captain—a man in his early thirties whose face had gone deathly pale.
"You! Keep an eye on things here!"
The captain spoke rapidly. "I'm going to report to the Consul! I'll have him contact the Kent Mining Hive immediately and request troop reinforcements!"
"Captain, I—"
"That's an order! Hold the wall!"
Having said his piece, the captain turned and bolted for the stairs. He moved with a speed that entirely belied his age, vanishing from the wall in seconds.
The deputy captain opened his mouth, watching the rapidly approaching convoy, his calves cramping from fear.
He thought of his family—his wife and two kids, who lived in the underhive residential sector of the Kent Mining Hive.
It had cost him ten years of savings and bribes to three different officials to secure that residency.
If Red Town was lost under his watch...
According to the rules of the Aru Group, the families of officers who lost territory would have their residency revoked. They would be exiled to the bottom-most levels of the underhive, or simply subjected to 'humane disposal.'
A shiver ran down the deputy captain's spine.
He suddenly whipped around and roared at the chaotic mob of guards on the wall.
"Open fire! Fire at will! Don't let them get close!"
The convoy slowly ground to a halt eight hundred meters from the wall.
This distance was already within the effective range of most laser weapons, but it was far beyond the accurate range of the rusted solid-slug rifles held by the Red Town guards.
Paul pushed the vehicle door open. The heavy boots of his Power Armor crunched against the gravel, letting out a dull thud.
He looked up at the wall.
Scattered gunfire rang out. The guards were firing.
Solid-slug bullets traced chaotic paths through the air. Most lost their kinetic energy and dropped to the ground four or five hundred meters out. The few that made it across were weak, leaving only faint white scratches on the transport trucks' armor plates.
"Is that it?"
White Scars sneered over the channel. "My grandma shoots better than them."
Paul didn't respond.
He stepped forward.
One step, two steps, three steps—gradually accelerating!
The servo-motors of the Power Armor ran at maximum capacity. The dark grey armor left a blurred afterimage in the morning light!
Eight hundred meters. For an augmented Astartes physique, a full-speed sprint took only a dozen seconds!
The guards on the wall were completely stunned.
They watched this three-meter-tall giant of metal charge at them at a speed that defied the laws of physics!
The bullets that hit him were deflected by his armor in a shower of sparks.
"M-Monster!"
A guard's nerve broke. He dropped his gun and bolted for the stairs.
With bloodshot eyes, the deputy captain shot the deserter dead. "Anyone who runs dies! Think of your families!"
Fear overrode reason, and the guards continued firing. Two heavy stubbers swung their barrels around, the thick ammo belts roaring to life!
Paul had already closed the distance to within a hundred meters of the wall.
He didn't slow down.
His right foot slammed violently against the ground!
BOOM!
The gravel blasted out into a shallow crater. The leg muscles, amplified by the Power Armor, exploded with terrifying force, launching his entire body into the air like an artillery shell!
A three-and-a-half-meter wall required a ladder or rope for a mortal.
For an Astartes, it was nothing more than a slight jump!
"He's jumping up here!!!"