A few weeks later.
The surface of Perditia, Industrial Core Zone.
A deafening roar filled this newly expanded military-industrial complex, the air heavy with the distinct scents of machine oil, promethium, and cooling steel. Automated assembly lines slithered continuously like tireless metallic serpents, spitting out brand-new lasrifles and carapace armor without end.
Planetary Governor Robert was accompanying a heavy-hitting figure—Cato Sicarius, Captain of the Ultramarines 2nd Company—on an inspection along the factory's high walkways.
Thanks to a massive influx of resources and technical assistance from the Realm of Ultramar, the operating efficiency of this factory was astonishingly high. Looking at the uniformly aligned robotic arms and assembly lines, even the widely experienced Sicarius couldn't help but nod slightly in approval.
Yet, the confusion in the Astartes' eyes had not dissipated; rather, it grew heavier as the tour progressed.
"Governor Robert," Sicarius paused, his blue power armor gleaming beneath the industrial lights. He turned his head toward the mortal governor beside him. "No matter how many times I see it, I feel astonished and perplexed: How exactly did you get those stubborn Tech-Priests to exchange technical insights, or even actively collaborate to upgrade production techniques?"
Elsewhere in the Imperium, Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus often guarded knowledge as private property, even bickering endlessly over a prayer for a single bolt—let alone unreservedly sharing blueprints and optimization plans as they did here.
Robert remained impassive. As usual, he offered an explanation that sounded plausible and full of human nobility, but had absolutely nothing to do with the truth.
This kind of misdirection had long become second nature to him.
"Perhaps it's due to our planet's unique culture?" Robert looked down at the bustling production lines below, a hint of weary experience in his tone. "Perditia once faced an existential crisis—isolated and under siege. In that desperate plight, if every single person hadn't contributed all their wisdom and strength to gather these faint sparks together, the only outcome would have been death. For survival, narrow parochialism had to be cast aside."
Sicarius fell silent for a moment upon hearing this.
As a warrior who viewed honor and duty as his life, these words touched him deeply. Moreover, he had personally witnessed the combat style of the Helldivers in previous battles; that spirit of sparing no cost for victory, even regarding death as a journey home, indeed corroborated this "survival-above-all" culture.
"Truly inspiring respect," Sicarius nodded, accepting the explanation. "If more worlds in the Imperium possessed such resolve, humanity's plight might be far better."
The two walked out of the factory. Though the outside air still carried the scent of industrial exhaust, it was somewhat fresher than inside the workshop.
Sicarius stretched his neck, his power armor emitting a soft hum from its servos. Now that the inspection was over, he wondered if he should visit Perditia's famous "specialized noob training ground"—the place out in the wastes where a mob of Orks was kept in captivity.
He had heard that countless recruits honed their skills against those Orks every day. He was curious to see the difference between these newly minted Helldivers greenhorns and the battle-hardened veterans who had already left Perditia and made a name for themselves in the Astra Militarum.
Besides, he hadn't enjoyed pure melee slaughter in a while; killing a few Ork Nobz would be a good way to stretch his muscles.
However, he quickly realized that this leisure activity was about to fall through.
Robert, who just moments ago was composed and conversing with ease, suddenly underwent a drastic shift in expression without any warning.
It was not mere surprise, but a look laced with shock, disbelief, and extreme gravity—unseemly composure completely broken.
Robert turned sharply and barked a command at Mua'dib behind him: "Contact Joker and Archer immediately! No matter what they are doing—even if they are on the toilet—tell them to drop everything and get to the Governor's Palace right now! I'm heading there immediately as well!"
Sicarius narrowed his eyes slightly.
He knew those two names. Joker was the supreme military commander of the Helldivers, while Archer was the head of industry and logistics and sometimes temporary governor.
Those two, combined with Robert, were the troika of Perditia; it could be said that they were Perditia itself.
For Robert to urgently summon both of them at once meant whatever had happened was definitely no small-scale rebellion or xenos skirmish.
"Do you need me to step aside?" Sicarius asked politely.
Robert took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing the raging storm in his heart, and turned to the Astartes Captain.
"No, Captain Sicarius, you come along too," Robert said. Though his voice had regained its composure, he spoke at a rapid pace infused with an unquestionable sense of urgency. "This trouble is too immense... Ultramarines are crucial, and we need you."
He paused, adding in a low voice: "If we don't act immediately, I'm afraid Perditia won't survive today."
---
Outside the Governor's Palace, the engines of the anti-gravity shuttle were still hissed with intense heat. The moment the hatch opened, Robert charged out like a whirlwind, abandoning all propriety. Cato Sicarius followed closely behind, his heavy power armor crashing down on the marble steps of the palace with rapid, heavy thud-thud-thuds, echoing like war drums.
The two burst into the strategic command center on the top floor at top speed, slamming the heavy doors open.
Archer, responsible for industry and logistics, was already standing before a massive holographic star chart. Hands propped on the table, his face was as pale as a sheet of paper—clearly having just processed the suffocating news.
The moment Robert entered, before he could even catch his breath, he asked point-blank: "You know already?!"
Archer whipped his head up, a sense of absurdity in his eyes as if he had seen a ghost, and shouted back: "Yes, I know! I am utterly shocked!"
"Yeah, I'm shocked too!" Robert strode over in a few quick steps and collapsed heavily into his main chair, burying his head in his hands as if his skull were about to burst.
Sicarius chose to stand beside Archer. Watching these two leaders of the Helldivers—who usually laughed in the face of Tyranids—losing their composure so completely made his own heart sink.
Robert was still muttering to himself: "I simply can't believe it! How is this possible? Is the Emperor playing a joke on us?"
Right then, the heavy mahogany doors were slammed open again as Joker rushed in like a hurricane.
Robert hadn't even warmed his seat before springing up like a coiled spring upon seeing Joker enter. He stared at his military commander with desperate hope: "Did you hear the news? Is there any way out? That's your domain!"
Joker stopped in his tracks, panting heavily, his face equally painted with disbelief. As a battle-tested professional soldier, he was currently speechlessly mouth-agape, unable to offer a single piece of useful advice.
After choking for a long moment, Joker said in despair: "I can't think of anything... This is completely out of bounds... I am shocked!"
Looking at these three who could do nothing but repeat the word "shocked," Sicarius finally couldn't hold back anymore. As an Ultramarine, he was accustomed to remaining calm before any threat and formulating tactics swiftly, but this atmosphere of speaking in riddles was making him irritable.
"So," Sicarius asked in a deep voice, a note of authority in his tone, "can someone explain specifically what this is about? What could make the three of you panic like this?"
The three looked at one another. Finally, Robert took a deep breath, turned to Sicarius, and said in a grim tone: "A Plague Fleet... is heading right for us."
"A Plague Fleet?" Sicarius frowned tightly, finding it unbelievable. "Is it what I think it is? The Death Guard? What scale? A few cruisers? Or a battleship?"
If it were a conventional raid, with Perditia's current defensive forces and the Ultramarines present, they could easily handle it.
"I'm afraid it's larger than either you or I could imagine," Robert pointed at the star chart screen beside Archer, his voice dry. "Our warriors sighted an entire main battleship fleet, a scale massive enough to launch a Black Crusade... and the lead vessel, according to feature matching, is very likely the Terminus Est."
"The Terminus Est?!" Sicarius's resolute face instantly changed color, utterly astounded. "That's Typhus's flagship! That means the Death Guard 1st Company—no, that means the main force of the Plague Host has mobilized in full force! For Perditia, a world with just a single Hive City? But... why?"
This defied all strategic logic! The main force of the Death Guard should be near the Eye of Terror, or spreading despair somewhere far more critical. Why make such a massive effort to travel to this remote corner just to crush an ant?
"Yeah, why?" Robert spread his hands, a look of complete resignation on his face. "Why do you think, Captain Sicarius? You're a tactical master—can you tell me what on earth we did to deserve that old bastard Typhus personally bringing the Terminus Est to flex on our doorstep?"
Sicarius opened his mouth, attempting to use the Codex Astartes he had mastered and his experience from countless campaigns to analyze the enemy's strategic intent.
Was it for resources? Perditia had developed well, but it wasn't worth the movement of a full Legion's main force.
Was it for a strategic location? This place was a dead end with zero strategic value.
Was it for revenge? Although the Helldivers had killed Chaos Space Marines before, it hadn't reached a level of hatred this astronomical, right?
All logic collapsed at this moment. Facing such an utterly unreasonable, higher-dimensional strike, even the glorious Captain of the 2nd Company, Cato Sicarius, could ultimately only lower his head and join the chorus of repetition.
"I... I don't know," Sicarius murmured. "I am shocked!"
The dead silence inside the command room dragged on for a few seconds before Robert slammed his palm heavily onto the desk, the sound crashing down like a sledgehammer shattering ice. Taking a deep breath, he gritted his teeth and declared, "No, we cannot just lose heart like this! Things haven't reached the absolute worst yet!"
Mua'dib casually chimed in, "Yeah, at least Abaddon hasn't shown up."
The moment those words left his mouth, Joker, Archer, and even Sicarius whipped their heads around, six eyes glaring at him as if ready to spew fire.
Robert rubbed his throbbing temples, forcibly pulling the conversation back on track. "Listen, the worst-case scenario is that Perditia gets orbitally bombarded into cinders, turning this planet into a Dead World. But that doesn't mean it's over! As long as we're breathing, we will hunt those plague-ridden bastards across the galaxy! Even if there's only a single Helldiver left, we will wage guerilla warfare against the Death Guard until the ends of the universe!"
"Either way, we will resist on Perditia until the very last breath! Even if we truly get devoured, we're going to knock out a few of Typhus's teeth on the way down!"
"I'll start mobilising immediately," Joker quickly snapped into military mode. "I estimate we can get roughly one million Helldivers reservists to join the battle right away. As for the Planetary Defence Forces, without pulling skilled workers away from running the factories, I can muster a force ten million strong."
"Can we push for more?" Robert pressed. "A million Helldivers... facing Typhus's main fleet might not be enough."
"I can't guarantee how many Helldivers will immediately drop their current assignments to rush back the moment they hear the news," Joker said with a furrowed brow. "A lot of them are scattered across different sub-sectors. That's the most conservative estimate."
By "immediately," Joker naturally meant the crude and straightforward "suicide back to home base" method. Not all players were willing to do that, especially those who were currently running uninterrupted multi-stage questlines.
"You're right. We have to prepare for the worst and can't pin all our hopes on reinforcements," Robert said, turning his gaze toward Archer, his expression hardening into ice.
Archer nodded, a look of solemn resolve surfacing on his face. "Understood. Looks like we no longer have the luxury of planning for long-term development. I'll issue orders right now for every factory on Perditia to switch to a three-shift rotation immediately—workers will rotate, but the machines won't stop, running 24 hours non-stop."
He paused, his tone turning bone-chillingly cold. "As for resources... to hell with sustainable development. I'll order the mining sector to blow open the mountains with high explosives, extracting raw materials in the roughest, most environmentally destructive, but fastest way possible. Convert every usable piece of ore into ammunition and armor plating."
Listening to this group layout a desperate, near "scorched-earth" battle plan, Cato Sicarius had remained silent off to the side, contemplating and weighing their options.
From the perspective of camaraderie, these Helldivers had fought alongside him on Plantim, making immense contributions to defending the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar—many even paying with their lives (though they didn't seem to care much about dying). As Ultramarines who held honor above all else, they had every reason to shield these brave allies.
From a political standpoint, this went far beyond Perditia's survival; it directly concerned the pride of the Ultramarines.
Calgar had only recently announced assistance for Perditia with great fanfare. Massive amounts of supplies and technical personnel had just touched down, and the smoke had barely begun to rise from the factories symbolizing the friendship of the Five Hundred Worlds. If the Death Guard's Plague Fleet flattened this place right now, it would be equivalent to slapping the Ultramarines across the face in front of the entire galaxy, stomping their honor into the dirt, and spitting on it for good measure.
It was an overt provocation against the core leadership and unifying bond of the Sons of Guilliman Alliance that had just been forged—a direct insult to Ultramar's authority. This could never be tolerated! No matter the cost, Perditia had to survive!
Sicarius snapped his head up, a resolute and commanding voice echoing from beneath his blue helmet. "Governor Robert, the resolve of the Helldivers moves me."
He stepped up in front of the three men and said solemnly, "I will immediately contact Chapter Master Marneus Calgar. The Ultramarines will spare no effort and stand firmly behind our allies. This is not just a debt that must be repaid, but the very honor of Ultramar!
"Until true reinforcements arrive, I, Cato Sicarius, along with my 2nd Company, will fight alongside you to the bitter end. We will not yield an inch!"
"You have our deepest gratitude, Captain," Robert stood up and firmly grasped Sicarius's massive armored gauntlet.
Both sides knew that now was not the time for formal pleasantries; every passing second brought the threat of countless Plague Marines launching drop pods. After a quick farewell, Sicarius strode briskly out of the strategic room to assemble his battle-brothers and set up astropathic communications.
As the heavy footfalls faded into the distance, the thick doors of the command chamber sealed shut once more.
Only Robert, Archer, and Joker remained in the room. Now that the outsider was gone, they could discuss their real operational plan.
"Joker, figure out a way to get out into the wastes and talk to those Orks after this," Robert instructed at a breakneck pace, issuing a task that sounded completely absurd. "See if we can form a temporary alliance with them. Those war-crazed lunatics don't give a damn about who their allies are; they only care if the fight is big enough."
He paused, adding a specific emphasis: "Make sure you stress that this is a Waaagh!—an ultimate, world-shattering brawl! Tell that Ork Warlord the enemy is coming to wipe out everything. If we lose this one, Perditia becomes a dead world, and there won't be any fights left, nor any humies left for them to chop."
Joker stroked his chin, nodding thoughtfully. "Tempting them with a 'Sustainable Waaagh!'? That's very Ork-like. Got it."
"Also," Robert continued, his tone turning even darker, "mobilize all the Warp-related knowledge in our database. See if we can find a way to get in touch with Tzeentch demons who might want to screw over the Plague Fleet."
"Nurgle and Tzeentch are mortal enemies—that's common knowledge. The enemy of our enemy is a temporary friend. Even if it's a pile of crap, as long as it can disgust Typhus, we'll use it. But be careful not to get played; making deals with the Changer of Ways is dancing on a razor's edge."
Joker frowned, looking somewhat hesitant. "I'll try my best with the Orks. They look like muscle-brained idiots, but they're surprisingly sharp inside. As for Tzeentch... even though we have plenty of lie-detection tools, there's no guarantee they won't just tell 'partial truths.' You know how those blue bird-men operate—they excel at weaving lies out of actual facts."
"Just do what you can. If it doesn't work, don't force it, and don't end up dragging yourself down with them," Robert nodded before turning to the quiet industrial director. "Old Li, can the 'Martyrs' Chapter deploy right now?"
"Deploying isn't a problem; we have several dozen of them operational now, all outfitted with the best power armor," Archer answered, though a clear look of concern lingered on his face. "In truth, it'd be best to deploy them after rebuilding a full company scale. That way, they can form tactical synergies for maximum combat efficiency."
Archer paused, voicing his biggest worry: "After all, we still aren't sure if Astartes players retain their Astartes body after respawning. If dying means going through the gene-seed augmentation all over again, the loss would be devastating. They are currently our highest-tier combat force."
"We don't have that kind of time," Robert cut in decisively. "Even if we burn through our entire reserve, even if they revert back to mortals upon death, they have to hold the line now. Against the Death Guard, we need superhuman warriors to maintain the front lines until real reinforcements arrive."
Archer remained silent for a second before nodding heavily. "You're the boss. Whatever you say. I'll issue the assembly order right away. It's an epic quest they've been dying for anyway—they'll be driven mad with excitement."
Having laid out the military deployments, Robert did not relax; instead, his expression grew even grimmer. He stared at Archer and suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question: "How's your mentor, that Tech-Priest Reditus, doing lately?"
Archer blinked, caught off guard. "Why bring him up all of a sudden? Same as usual—obsessed with his research, spending all day submerged in the data core. Other than occasionally requesting some bizarre materials, there's been nothing unusual. He's very pleased with the factory's high efficiency."
"Ever since we got the news about the Plague Fleet, I've been thinking: What does Perditia actually have that could attract an entire Plague Fleet, to the point where Typhus himself would show up?" Robert's fingers tapped rhythmically against the tabletop. "There's no STC here, no rare mineral deposits, and no critical warp lanes."
"Just now, a thought crossed my mind..." Robert narrowed his eyes slightly, recalling his earliest memories of this life. "When this game first started and I went to rescue Reditus, he mentioned he was protecting something. Back then, under siege by Genestealers and in sheer despair, he referred to it as a 'Holy Relic.'"
Archer's expression slowly turned serious as he caught onto something.
"Yet after we saved him, he never uttered a single word about this relic again," Robert continued. "Given that he never stepped out of line and later voluntarily handed over authority to you to focus entirely on building our industry, I never brought it up either. I thought it was just a throwaway plot device or that he had already safely hidden it away."
"But now... I think it's time to bring it up. If it isn't for that thing, I honestly can't think of a single reason why Typhus would travel millions of light-years to host a 'team-building event' here."
Archer chimed in, "So you suspect that holy relic might be something... Nurgle is interested in, or something extremely dangerous?"
"Exactly. Probe him as soon as possible, or even lay your cards on the table and ask him directly," Robert stood up and looked out the window at the overcast sky. "The Plague Fleet is only a few days away from us. If that thing really is the root of this disaster, we need to know whether it's here to save our lives—or end them."
*********
Omakes :
Gobi-Wan Desert, Acting Governor's Beach Resort
"I'm telling you, this sunscreen is an insult to the concept of skincare," Archer said, squinting through his sunglasses at the small plastic bottle in his left hand.
He was currently sprawled across a chaise lounge that cost more than most mid-sized sedans, located on a stretch of white sand in the middle of the Perditian desert.
It was his greatest creation, a triumph of architecture, all floating villas and infinity pools that bled seamlessly into the turquoise horizon. It was the kind of place where the staff anticipated your needs before you even knew you had them, providing chilled towels the moment a single bead of sweat appeared on one's forehead.
Archer sighed, leaning back and letting the sun bake into his skin. He had spent few months perfecting the art of doing absolutely nothing, a discipline he approached with the same intensity he brought to espionage.
His only real struggle had been the local cocktail menu, specifically the debate over what exactly counted as a fruit serving in this game. He closed his eyes, relaxing.
And he would have continued doing just that if it weren't for the vibration of his dataslate, cutting through the silence of his nap. He ignored it for three full rings, savoring the feeling of being unreachable, before curiosity finally won out. He flipped the device over. The caller ID read Reditto.
"Whatever it is, unless the world is ending, let me finish this drink," Archer said, not bothering to move an inch.
"The planet is under attack, Governor Sterling!" Reddito's voice module was showing panic.
"We've got breach teams in the upper hive and the perimeter alarms have been triggered in four different sectors. Where the hell are you?"
Archer didn't move, though he did shift his sunglasses a fraction of an inch to better admire the way the sunlight hit the rim of his glass. "I'm in the desert, Reddito. Keep up. Also, 'under attack' is such a vague term. Are we talking 'someone broke a window' under attack, or 'the city is collapsing into a sinkhole' under attack?"
"I've tolerated your frivolities for too long! Get back here now, or don't bother coming back at all!" The line went dead with a sharp click, leaving Archer in silence, save for the gentle clinking of ice cubes in his glass.
He stared up at the cloudless sky for a long moment, calculating the travel time.
Sighing, Archer sat up, the expensive fabric of the lounge chair clinging to his skin. He reached for his dataslate and dialed a number he only used when he needed something moved or a very specific type of high-end weaponry delivered to him.
"Yeah, it's me. I need a Valkyrie. Now. I don't care whose it is, just find me something with a decent wine list and a pilot who doesn't ask questions," Archer said.
He felt a genuine pang of loss for the cocktail he'd left half-finished, a masterpiece of bitters and citrus that would now go warm in the sun. As the ship lifted off, tilting the resort into a miniature of white and blue, he settled into the seat and immediately requested a drink.
*******
Commissar Walter's hand snapped to the ivory hilt of his power sword, the leather of his glove creaking under the sudden pressure. He stood atop a raised ammo crate, his spine straight as a lasgun barrel. The heavy crimson trim of his greatcoat caught the light, instantly cutting through the chaotic hubbub of the encampment.
Around him, a dozen noob players froze. Some had been inspecting their basic-issue equipment, others were clumsily trying to adjust the straps on their oversized carapace armor, and a few were just staring in awe, whispering about finally seeing the legendary OG beta test commissar in the flesh.
Walter opened his mouth:
"ATTENTION!"
The players snapped straight, feet slamming together in a ragged, mismatched salute—even the clumsiest noobs stiffened like statues.
"RECRUITS!"
"SIR YES SIR!" The response echoed off the ruined ferrocrete walls of the staging area.
Walter stepped off the crate. He paced down the line, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the trembling front row. He paused, unclasped his right hand, and gestured with two fingers toward the billowing smoke rising over the city line.
"I've got the perfect training exercise for you! Heretics think they can waltz around the city unimpeded! Give them a proper Imperial welcome!"
"For the merit po—" One overeager player caught himself mid-phrase, eyes widening in panic as Walter's head snapped toward him.
The player hastily corrected course, slamming a fist over his chest armor: "—I mean, for the Emperor!"
Walter let the silence stretch for one agonizing second, his hand resting casually on the butt of his bolt pistol, before giving a single, rigid nod of approval.
*******
Information was travelling fast, especially when distances of light years meant nothing when you can just access the player forums and chats. That's how Pyro and most other players found about the nurglite 'dlc' incursion.
Currently he was looking for some firepower and standing outside this dingy, dilapidated door made him question his decision. He opened the door.
"MUHAHAHAHAHA- ahem you've arrived early! Do come in, potential buyer! Welcome to the lair of Doctor EVIL!"
He then gestured to the table: "Behold, my prospective buyer!" Dr. Evil declared, throwing his arms wide. "I call it the Subatomiceradicationinator! Or, well, technically I'm marketing it as a flamethrower because 'Inator' doesn't test as well with the mechanicus. But make no mistake, this beauty doesn't just burn things. Oh no, standard fire leaves ash. Ash is messy! Ash gets on my boots! This little bad boy completely unravels matter right down to the subatomic particles. One squirt of this, and whatever you're aiming at simply stops existing in this dimension!"
Pyro picked up the weapon, inspecting the sleek, glowing fuel canister and the heavy nozzle.
"Damn, this is an arsonist's wet dream doc, I expected a good quality item, but this takes the cake!
"Right? Right?!" Dr Evil beamed, tapping his fingers together nervously. "It's top-tier evil! Now, before you sign the lease-to-own agreement, I do have to walk you through the primary control layout. It's very simple, very user-friendly. You have your high-density plasma ignition switch here on the side, your ergonomic grip, and your primary firing trigger right here.
And right next to the trigger—literally resting against the knuckle of your index finger—is the self-destruct button!" he added cheerfully.
"The... self-destruct button. THE SELF DESTRUCT BUTTON?!"
"Yes! Standard feature on all my builds," Dr Evil said, waving a hand dismissively. "You know how it is. You're out there, eradicating your enemies to a subatomic level, and suddenly you realize, 'Oh boy, what if the local enemies capture this high-grade hardware?' Boom! You press the button, the whole unit self-destructs, and no one gets your proprietary tech. It's practical!"
"It is one millimeter from the trigger man" Pyro reminded, his voice flat.
"Take or leave it! Dr. Evil has no patience for bargaining!"