The transport ship on orbit finally broke through the atmosphere, its hull burning violently from friction, dark red molten metal flowing like lava, cutting scorching trails across the pitch-black night sky.
The thick armor plates twisted and deformed from the extreme heat, emitting a grating metallic groan, but the million warriors inside the ship had no time to spare—they were about to step into hell.
As the hatch roared open, the hydraulic system shrieked shrilly, and an icy blizzard instantly poured into the cabin, lashing against every taut face.
Five hundred thousand new recruits and five hundred thousand Holy War Army soldiers surged out like a tide, their heavy military boots crushing the ice, a steel torrent pouring onto this war-torn ice plain.
Their breaths condensed into white mist in the extreme cold, only to be torn apart by the howling gunfire.
This was a peculiar mixed unit—female new recruits fresh from training camp, their brand-new uniforms strikingly visible in the snow, their frostbitten fingers tightly gripping Lasguns; fanatical and devout Holy War Army soldiers, shouting the Emperor's name, their golden holy seals gleaming on their battle robes in the firelight; and those grizzled veterans, silently checking their weapons, their calloused fingers skillfully manipulating the bolt, as if they had never left the battlefield.
However, the battlefield did not care about their origins.
The biting cold wind, laden with artillery fire, howled past, shrapnel and ice crystals intertwining into a deadly net in the air.
A white-haired Rostov veteran knelt on one knee on the frozen ground, his heavy cold-weather cloak flapping in the wind.
His scarred face contorted behind the scope, his cloudy single eye locked onto a charging Green-skinned Orc.
"Remember! The Orcs' heads are their weakness!" His roar pierced through the explosions, and he immediately pulled the trigger.
Amidst the roar of the heavy Bolter, a string of bolts precisely tore through the Orc's skull, and green brains sizzled into the snow, leaving smoking craters.
"Aim true, girls!" he roared, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing: "Aim true if you don't want to become minced meat!"
The female new recruits initially scattered in disarray amidst the deafening artillery fire: some knelt on the ice, vomiting, their light-gold braids stained with stomach acid; some trembled, repeatedly pulling the safety catch but unable to fire; even more stood rooted to the spot, their pupils reflecting the distant shadows of comrades vaporized by plasma cannons.
Until they witnessed with their own eyes the young girl who had taught them military songs on the transport ship, being diagonally cleaved in half from the shoulder blade by a Green-skinned barbarian with a rusty cleaver.
Her severed body traced a ten-meter-long crimson trail on the snow, her unclosed eyes still looking in the direction of her sisters.
"For her! For the Emperor!"
That roar erupted from the center of the battlefield, like a blunt knife cutting through the wind and snow.
No one saw who shouted it first, perhaps it was the blonde girl who always secretly mended her sisters' uniforms in the barracks, or perhaps it was the short-haired girl who had silently carried an extra box of ammunition for a tired companion during training.
Now her voice was raspy as if sanded, her crying laced with burning hatred, as if to tear her vocal cords apart.
The next second, a combat instinct sleeping deep in their bloodline awakened.
The female soldiers' pupils suddenly contracted, their knuckles turning white from excessive force.
They formed groups of three, backs against ice fissures, boot heels pressed firmly into the frozen ground, Lasgun stocks against their shoulders, just as their fathers and grandfathers had practiced thousands of times.
"Crossfire!"
Thirty crimson beams pierced through the blizzard, precisely converging on the fuel tank of that Green-skinned war machine.
The monster was charging, spewing black smoke, crude pipes exposed beneath its rivet-sprung armor plates, as if mocking humanity's weakness.
But the next second, the ignited fuel blew it into scattered scrap metal, the giant fiery claw tearing open the snow curtain, vaporized ice crystals hissing and dissipating in the high temperature.
The towering flames illuminated their faces—frostbitten cheekbones stained with comrades' blood, eyelashes encrusted with frost, but their gazes had been forged into steel.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield, the Holy War Army's fanaticism transformed into a bloody hurricane.
A tattooed zealot lunged directly at the Orc boy in front of him, his teeth sinking deep into the opponent's neck, tearing out half a windpipe; another warrior who had lost his right arm clamped a Thermo-meltdown bomb with his stump, his maniacal laughter even overpowering the Orks' war cries, then turned into a spectacular explosion.
Under the Emperor's banner, they were all blades.
—
On the other side, the assault team led by Yorl, the Blood Knights Chapter Master, was embroiled in a bitter battle on the outskirts of the ancient ruins.
Those ancient Orks that had awakened from the ice were more troublesome than expected; they not only possessed larger and more robust physiques but also had powerful weapons and equipment, and combat experience that modern Orks lacked.
Can you believe that two Orks would execute a precise coordinated attack?
This completely overturned the Empire's previous understanding of Orcs as merely savage and crude!
Yorl's Chainsword chopped off one Orc head after another, but more Orks crawled out of the ice fissures, seemingly endless.
"Chapter Master! Their numbers are too great!" a Blood Knights roared in the comms channel; his Power Armor had been cleaved open by a Green-skinned Orc's axe blade, blood seeping from the cracks and freezing into ice in the extreme cold.
Yorl did not answer, his gaze fixed on the depths of the ruins—there, Green-skinned Mekboyz were frantically chiseling at the ice encasing Kroak with crude welding tools and ancient xenos devices dug up from who knows where.
With each strike, a crack appeared in the ice, and an eerie green light seeped from the fissure, as if some sleeping will was awakening.
"It must be destroyed…it must!" Yorl gritted his teeth, but the Warlord in front of him blocked his path.
It was a behemoth comparable in size to a Dreadnought, clad in rusty metal plates, with crackling electricity coiling around the Power Hammer in its hand.
It grinned, roaring in broken Gothic: "Human shrimp…die!"
At the same time, the mixed force of new recruits and the Holy War Army stabilized their position on the main battlefield.
The Rostov veterans played a crucial role, shouting the Valhalla war cry, directing the female soldiers and the Holy War Army to construct crossfire points together.
The terrain of the ice plain was cleverly utilized, every ice fissure becoming a natural cover, every ice mound equipped with heavy weapons.
The Orks' charges were torn apart by precise bolts and Lasguns, and the snow was piled high with green corpses.
"Maintain suppressive fire! Don't let them breathe!" a one-eyed veteran roared, his heavy Bolter spitting fire.
Beside him, a young female soldier trembled as she pulled the trigger, the laser beam grazing the Orc's shoulder, failing to be lethal.
The veteran cursed, but still pulled her by her collar close to him: "Aim for the head! Don't waste ammunition!"
The female soldier bit her lip and nodded, her second shot finally piercing the Green-skinned Orc's brow.
Her gaze gradually hardened, as if she had finally understood the brutality of the battlefield.
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