Accompanying the heavy roar of servo-motors and the thunderous vibration of power armor striking the ground, a flash of bright, brilliant yellow pierced through the smoke and dust that blanketed the battlefield.
The Lamenters—those sons of Sanguinius who, though cursed by fate, never lost their capacity for mercy—had finally arrived at the fiercest frontline of the conflict.
The Lamenter battle-brothers, having just stepped onto the field, were immediately stunned by what they saw.
They had anticipated that the mortal auxiliary forces, facing enemies as renowned for their blistering speed and terror as the Drukhari, would have long since seen their lines shattered and their ranks turned to corpses.
Yet, in reality, the air was thick with the suffocating scent of gunpowder, and the deafening cacophony of gunfire had not ceased for even a second.
Behind the makeshift barricades ahead, the soldiers known as Helldivers were displaying a level of tactical discipline that bordered on insanity.
Their heavy stubbers, heavy bolters, and even crude autoguns were pouring an endless rain of lead toward the general sectors where the Drukhari might appear, as if they had no need to worry about overheating barrels or ammunition consumption. It was a pure, overwhelming blanket of fire.
"The Emperor protect us..." a Sergeant of a Lamenter tactical squad muttered into the comms channel, staring at the wall of kinetic fury. "This density of fire—do they not care if their barrels melt, or if they run dry?"
To the Astartes' tactical eye, this approach was crude, wasteful, and lacked any aesthetic grace.
But when dealing with the highly mobile Drukhari, it was the clumsiest, yet most effective, solution: If I cannot match your speed, I will fill every inch of this space with bullets so you have nowhere to hide!
"Look over there!" another brother shouted, pointing toward the flank.
A few Drukhari attempting to skirt around the shadows were spotted by the Helldivers waiting in ambush. These mortals did not hesitate—they didn't even bother to find cover.
They stood up straight, pinned their triggers, and soaked up the aliens' poison-crystal shards with their own bodies, simply to pin the enemy in place for those critical few seconds.
"They are trading their lives to create an opening for us," the Sergeant's voice turned solemn and respectful. He pulled the charging handle of his bolter. "If mortals can be this heroic, how could an Astartes dare to lag behind?"
Chapter Master Malakim Phoros's voice boomed across the Lamenters' comms, filled with long-suppressed fury and resolve: "Brothers! The Helldivers have forged the anvil for us. Now, let us be the hammer!"
"For those we cherish, we die in glory!"
Accompanied by that tragic yet powerful battle cry, the yellow-clad steel giants lunged onto the battlefield like tigers descending from the mountains.
The Drukhari, who had been toying with the mortals and enjoying the thrill of the hunt, suddenly felt crushing pressure.
A Drukhari Incubi, having just dodged a volley of fire with unnatural grace, was preparing to smile as he went to reap the heads of the "suicidal" mortals, when a shrill whistle of air suddenly struck him.
He looked back in horror, seeing only a high-speed rotating chainsword expanding rapidly in his vision.
"For the Emperor!"
—Squelch!—
The Lamenter assault marine, propelled by his jump pack, sliced the alien clean in two from the shoulder. Before the blood could even hit the ground, he didn't stop, raising his bolt pistol to fire two precise shots, turning another alien attempting to ambush the Helldivers' position into a spray of gore.
The Drukhari, who had held the upper hand due to their mobility, suddenly found themselves in a desperate situation.
When they tried to use their speed to reposition, the Helldivers' suffocating curtain of fire locked down their movement; and whenever they were suppressed and forced to pause for even a second, the bolters and chainswords of the Lamenters would descend like the Grim Reaper himself.
"Left, two o'clock! Suppressing fire! Don't let him run!" a player roared, the barrel of his heavy machine gun glowing red-hot.
"Copy that!"
A member of a Lamenter Devastator squad stepped over the rubble, and guided by the player's fire, directed the heavy multi-melta toward that corner.
BOOM!
The intense heat instantly evaporated everything in that corner, turning the hiding Drukhari into nothing but ash.
This unprecedented infantry-tank coordination—mortals recklessly restricting movement, Astartes responsible for the killing blow—erupted into staggering combat effectiveness. The arrogant Drukhari squad, trapped between two vastly different but equally fearless forces, was rapidly heading toward total annihilation.
But the Drukhari were not entirely helpless. In a corner of the battlefield, an agile Wyche keenly spotted a gap in the chaos.
It was a veteran Lamenter, currently changing his bolter magazine. He had just cleared a threat to his front with precise fire, but due to that split-second pause, his flank was left exposed.
Cruel, bloodthirsty light flickered in the Wyche's eyes. She moved like a bolt of black lightning, leaping through the shadows of the ruins, her poisoned dagger aimed straight at the unarmored joint of the Astartes' neck.
"Oh no! That guy's about to get backstabbed!"
The four-man Helldiver team, circling in low altitude looking for an opportunity, spotted the scene instantly.
"Support! Support! Dive-bomb them!"
Without a second's hesitation, the four players adjusted the angle of their gravity chutes and dove toward the Drukhari like human missiles.
However, reality was not as kind as a game cinematic. They were currently facing the near-impenetrable web of heavy fire woven by their own side to suppress the enemy.
—Dakka-dakka-dakka—
The moment they entered the low altitude, a dense storm of heavy stubber rounds and stray fire swept through them mercilessly.
"Dammit! Stop shooting your own guys!"
"The collision physics are way too realistic— gack!"
Screams and curses filled the comms channel. Three of the Helldivers were shredded by friendly fire before they could even land, their bodies exploding into mists of blood in mid-air, falling like kites with severed strings.
But their sacrifice was not in vain.
Precisely because of the massive volume of fire, combined with the immense pressure exerted by the Astartes, the ambushing Wyche was forced into a narrow, dead-end corridor—the only path not being torn apart by bullets.
And that became her grave.
The last remaining Helldiver player, riddled with bullets, his armor shattered and blood blurring his vision, kept his eyes locked on that black shadow.
"SIT THE FUCK DOWN, YOU GOD DAMN TROGLODYTE!!!"
Lacking the thick armor of an Astartes and the supernatural agility of the alien, the player relied solely on gravitational potential energy and sheer, stubborn grit.
Thud!
A heavy, dull impact echoed.
The Wyche looked up in terror. The split second before she could plunge her dagger into the Space Marine's neck, a blood-soaked mortal dropped from the sky, slamming into her like a heavy sandbag with such immense force that it pinned her flat to the ground.
"Gotcha, you little shit!" the player coughed blood, locking his hands firmly around the Wyche's slender yet explosive waist and her knife-wielding arm, clinging to her like an octopus.