Those who see this image are considered willing to transmigrate and serve the Empire.
“So what you’re saying is, as a reward for fighting wars all my life and promoting galactic unity, I can be sent to a Terra with elves, beast girls, and female angels?” Alex asked within the void of his consciousness.
At this moment, his physical body no longer existed—to be precise, it was being blasted into mincemeat by the crossfire of more than twenty Titans.
But as a legendary Pilot who had undergone nine body reconstructions, he was long accustomed to this floating sensation of “temporary death.” This was his ninth reincarnation, and it was also the end he had actively chosen.
The moment he saw through the enemy’s trap, he didn’t choose to evade.
Instead, he piloted his Titan and plunged headlong into the encirclement.
After his Titan was scrapped, he took out nine more enemy mechs on foot before being completely torn apart.
It wasn’t for any glory.
He was just tired.
[Correct.] The lazy female voice in his head responded, [As a reward, I’ll send you to a wonderful different world~] “Send me somewhere with lots of girls!
Let’s do this!
Thanks!” He had been too suppressed.
In this damn galaxy, it was either large-scale landing operations or small-scale infiltration missions.
He’d finally get to know a few girls, only for them to either die in battle the next day or be modified into mechanical Pilots where you couldn’t even tell their gender.
Or someone would get stuck in a wall during a phase shift—stuck vertically, no less.
[Then shall we go?] “Let’s go!” — Calderis.
The air was scorching.
That wasn’t a metaphor; it was the earthy smell of rocks cracking under the blazing sun, the sulfurous scent of burning Promethium, and the stench of decay mixed into the hot desert wind.
Alex, who had transmigrated a while ago but had actually been walking for a while, crouched in a trench, his back pressed against the burning hot Plasteel wall.
He squinted at the sky; there were no beast girls here, only endless yellow sand and infinite xenos.
Where the hell did she send me?
Did I do something bad?
Was it because I participated in a few APEX Games disguised as a Rifleman?
[Um…] That female voice rang out in his head again, her tone clearly guilty.
[There was a slight accident…
the art style here might be…
a bit more hardcore…] Alex looked down at the set of Guard armor that didn’t even fit him properly, then looked at the green tsunami surging across from the trench.
“I can see that.” This idiot goddess, after his first death, was supposed to have chosen the peaceful timeline on the day “Titanfall 3” was released, but instead she threw him onto Typhon.
Sometimes he even wondered if he should be called Jack Cooper.
[But don’t panic!
I have a backup plan!] The goddess’s voice rang out urgently, with a “as long as you do what I say, I can fix this mess” kind of certainty.
[Don’t panic, transmigration follows the law of conservation of energy.
You can’t just quit whenever you want, but we can go through the insurance claim mechanism.
As long as you die in this world…] Alex didn’t wait for her to finish.
His right hand drew the P2020 pistol that had come with him from his waist holster, pressed the muzzle against his temple, and decisively pulled the trigger.
Click.
He frowned and skillfully ejected the magazine.
It was full, but the metal surface was covered in rust.
He pulled back the slide to check the chamber; the bullet was jammed inside, the primer dented but unfired.
“I knew those vermin in the Departmento Munitorum all deserved to die.” […Wait for me to finish!
You can’t commit suicide!
Suicide will be judged by the system as insurance fraud, and you won’t be able to restart!] [Sorry, sorry, I’ll definitely compensate you!] “Fine then.” Alex shoved the magazine back in, racked the slide, and ejected the jammed bullet.
Then he stood up.
Outside the trench, a red and green tide was surging from the horizon—countless large trucks painted bright red and pieced together from scrap metal were spewing black smoke…
The Orks of the Evil Sunz Clan driving them were howling and waving their Choppas.
The sound was like throwing metal plates into a meat grinder—piercing, violent, and full of primitive bloodlust and excitement.
“Waaagh—!!!” Fine, fine, beast girls, right?
Alex raised the P2020 with its rusty bullets, aimed at the Ork on the lead warbike, and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
This time it fired successfully.
For a Pilot, a headshot at this distance wasn’t difficult, but he just wanted to attract the enemy’s attention.
The 9mm bullet bloomed into a blood flower on the Ork’s shoulder two hundred meters away—to such a thick-skinned creature, this amount of damage was about the same as a mosquito bite.
But it was enough to make it notice this brave Humie.
The Ork grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth, raised its absurdly large Big Shoota, and fired a burst at Alex.
Rat-tat-tat-tat—!
Thick solid rounds came whistling in.
Alex watched the bullets enlarging in his retina.
Although he was slightly surprised by the opponent’s “newborn” caliber, a relieved smile still curled at the corner of his mouth.
He closed his eyes and didn’t make any attempt to evade.
I’m coming, beast girls.
“Aaaaaah!
I’m not fighting anymore!
I want to go home!!” At this critical moment, a recruit whose mental defenses had completely collapsed suddenly scrambled out from the bottom of the trench.
The deserter, blinded by fear, passed behind Alex in a panic.
In the process, he stepped on and broke a rotten wooden board at the bottom of the trench.
“I want to go home too, you bastard—” Alex’s foot slipped as the ground gave way, and he lost his balance.
His far-beyond-human reaction speed allowed him to steady himself in the next instant.
Whoosh—!
That burst of bullets that should have been a certain kill whizzed past the tip of his nose where he had just been standing, only singeing a few stray eyebrow hairs.
Before Alex could even curse, a dull thud came from behind his head.
Squelch.
Huh?
Alex turned around blankly.
He saw the Political Commissar in the black greatcoat freeze.
Less than two meters away, a ripple of distortion failed, revealing a massive figure— An Ork covered in purple paint.
(Just this once.) This assassin, who firmly believed “I fink I’m invisible,” was holding a poisoned Choppa, the tip of the blade only 0.01 centimeters from the back of the Political Commissar’s neck.
And that large-caliber solid round from the enemy Ork, which should have blown off the top of Alex’s skull, was now deeply embedded in this invisible Ork’s cranium.
The Ork died with its eyes open, its massive body crashing backward to the ground.
At the same time, the Bolter in the Political Commissar’s hand roared.
Bang!
The Bolter round drilled into the deserter’s skull and detonated inside, spraying skull fragments and brain matter like buckshot against the trench wall.
The Political Commissar observed the gradually shrinking battle line and turned around, his eyes as sharp as an eagle’s.
He had to boost morale now.
The veteran Tros grabbed Alex, who was still lying on the ground, his eyes full of terror and worship: “God-Emperor above!
How did you spot this invisible filth?
The auspex didn’t even react!” The Political Commissar strode over, his black leather greatcoat snapping in the hot wind.
He walked up to Alex and gave a standard aquila salute.
“Name, Soldier.” “…Alex.” “Alex.” The Political Commissar made a heavy note on his data slate.
“If we survive today, I will personally apply for a Steel Aquila Medal for you.” Alex’s mouth twitched.
No, I really just wanted to die…
“Um, sir, actually I…” Alex tried to explain, maybe he could still earn a spot for an execution.
“Don’t move.” The Political Commissar suddenly reached out and grabbed the edge of Alex’s helmet.
Before Alex could react, the helmet was roughly ripped off.
The Political Commissar looked with disgust at the helmet—there was a prominent white stripe right down the center.
“This mark is an insult to a warrior like you.” The Political Commissar casually tossed the recruit helmet out of the trench.
It traced an arc through the air, landed in the crater-filled no-man’s-land, and was blown away by a falling mortar shell.
Then, the Political Commissar turned and walked toward a nearby corpse.
That was Sergeant Hark, who had been sliced through half his shoulder by an Ork charge two minutes ago, but the dark green flak helmet on his head was still intact.
It was a battered veteran’s helmet with a skull icon carved on it, and a prayer scrawled on the side in marker: The Emperor Protects.
The Political Commissar expressionlessly bent down and forcefully unbuckled the helmet from the dead man’s stiff jaw.
He walked back and slammed the blood-scented helmet directly onto Alex’s head.
“Wear it.” The Political Commissar’s voice left no room for doubt.
Alex straightened the crooked helmet, his nose filled with the scent of the previous owner’s death.
“From now on, you are no longer a consumable to fill the trenches.” The Political Commissar patted his shoulder hard.
“You are a veteran of the 78th Argus Guard Regiment.
Hold onto your gun.
As long as you are alive, you must be worthy of this helmet’s owner.” The Political Commissar turned and roared at the stunned recruits around him.
“What are you looking at!
Fight like Veteran Alex!
Or I’ll personally send you to meet the God-Emperor!” Wearing a dead man’s helmet, holding a gun from another world, and listening to the reverent whispers of the Soldiers around him, Alex felt only infinite sorrow in his heart.
— Interlude.
Meanwhile, in some unspeakable dimension.
A woman wearing otaku comfort clothes was slumped at her workstation.
Her attention was not on the screen at all—her left hand was grabbing potato chips, and her right hand was scrolling through short videos.
The game content about “possessing gear” was clearly more attractive than her boring work.
She didn’t notice the pop-up window flashing frantically in the corner of the system: [Target world ark Terra data index corrupted.
Start wide-range search and intelligent replacement matching?] “Bring it!” Without even looking up, she casually clicked confirm.
So the system faithfully executed the command, automatically searching all worlds in the multiverse containing the keyword “Terra,” and performed a weighted match based on the user’s core demand of “let’s do this.” [Intelligent search complete.] [Best Match: Holy Terra] [Universe Number: WH40K-M41] [Characteristic Keywords: War, Death, More War.] “?” The woman finally noticed something was wrong and snapped her head up.
The progress bar on the screen had finished, and the green “Transmission Successful” text was exceptionally eye-catching.
“No no no no no—” She threw away her chips and frantically hammered the keyboard, trying to terminate the process.
But the cold system prompt had already ruthlessly popped up: [Transmission complete.
Host has been deployed to the war zone.] “???” The woman’s pupils dilated, and she froze in her chair.
It was over.
This was a very serious and major work error.
However, something even worse happened.
The moment Alex landed in this malicious universe, a red light lit up without warning on her originally calm monitoring panel.
Five massive red dots, so bright they seemed to drip blood, were staring at those coordinates.
[Warning: High-dimensional entities watching] [Warp strong reaction detected: Khorne is thirsting for blood.] [Warp strong reaction detected: Nurgle is spreading love.] [Warp strong reaction detected: Tzeentch is weaving fate.] [Warp strong reaction detected: Slaanesh is pursuing perfection.] [Psychic extreme value detected: The Golden Throne projects its gaze.] Woman:?
Woman: Boom?
She reached out and lifted the dusty red protective cover on her desk, hovering her finger over the button engraved with—Impact Spacetime Annihilation Bomb.
?????
The gods withdrew their gaze.
[System command confirmed.] [Loading compensation protocol.] [Loading compensation protocol.]