Cold rain mixed with mud pattered against his face.
Rod suddenly sucked in a breath of air thick with the taste of rust and jolted awake from his haze.
Half his body was still submerged in the murky water pooled at the bottom of the trench.
Instinctively, he raised a hand and wiped his mud-caked face.
As he moved, his elbow bumped against something heavy pressing against his abdomen.
It was a snow-white thigh.
Round, smooth, and gleaming with an ivory-like luster beneath the gray curtain of rain.
Rod’s heart skipped a beat.
By instinct, he reached out and shoved it away.
Clatter, clatter.
The thigh rolled into the mud, flipped over, and revealed jagged broken bone and a marrow cavity that had already turned black.
It stopped beside an autogun wrapped in layers of black insulating tape, looking especially pale in this trench filled with smoke and death.
That was…
half a femur.
According to the fanatics in the company, the thing was supposedly the “holy relic” of some saint.
Normally, it was enshrined and worshiped.
But now, on this position that had been plowed over countless times by artillery fire, that holy relic looked no different from the half-rotten chunks of corpse around it.
Rod stared at the bone, his eyes stinging.
Fragments of memory flashed through his mind.
He still remembered that absurd transition.
A golden angel.
A giant roulette wheel.
And the dart that would decide his fate.
“If you hit Azur Lane, I’ll send you to that world.
It has your favorite big guns.”
He believed it.
The dart struck the Azur Lane section with perfect accuracy.
Before the joy of success could fade, he watched the corner of the sticker labeled “Azur Lane” peel upward.
Under the force of the dart, it slowly slid down, revealing the blood-red Gothic letters beneath it.
Warhammer 40K…
That damned golden birdman…
He tricked me into climbing the mountain, didn’t he?!
A bleak chill soaked into his bones like the cold rain pouring from the sky.
He lowered his head and looked at himself.
Ill-fitting flak armor.
A dog tag marked D-9982.
And a pile of Astra Militarum crash-course training knowledge that had been forcibly stuffed into his brain, limited to things like “point the muzzle at the enemy and pull the trigger” and “which posture is more effective when praying to the Emperor.”
This was not one of those famous regiments written about in lore books, like the Catachan Jungle Fighters, the Cadian Shock Troops, or the Armageddon Steel Legion.
There were no Rambo-tier macho squadmates, no mountains of supplies, and no endless artillery support.
If he had landed there, maybe he could have survived a couple more episodes.
But here…
This was the regiment’s infamous “problem company.” Supposedly, the previous company commander had slept with the mistress of some high-ranking official in the Departmento Munitorum.
Not only had that bastard been sent here as cannon fodder, he had also dragged the entire company’s supply priority down to rock bottom.
As for the quality of the soldiers…
Rod glanced at the muddy, ash-covered troops crouched beside the trench wall.
They did not even know how to shoulder their weapons properly.
They just raised their guns high over their heads and pulled the triggers blindly, sending las-beams and solid rounds flying everywhere.
These guys are definitely fresh recruits!
They can’t even aim.
They’re about as accurate as random militia spraying into the sky.
As a military enthusiast, Rod was busy ranting internally when the corner of his eye caught a striking flash of red and black.
Not far away, at the bend of the trench, a Commissar in a peaked cap was staring coldly in his direction.
That gaze was like two ice picks piercing through Rod’s body.
The Commissar’s leather-gloved hand was already resting, intentionally or not, on the holster of the bolt pistol at his waist.
Not wanting to become a “consumable” used to boost morale, Rod shouted, “For the Emperor!” Then he scrambled up from the mud, grabbed the autogun wrapped in tape near his feet, and dramatically lunged toward the edge of the trench, ready to fire a few shots for show.
The instant he poked his head out of the trench…
Whoosh!
A bullet screamed past the top of his head.
Rod felt a burning sting across his scalp.
A moment later, warm liquid flowed down his forehead and into his left eye, turning his vision blood-red with pain.
He pulled his head back, gasping hard.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
In all eighteen years of his life, this was the closest he had ever come to death.
The teammate beside him was still holding his gun over his head and firing with great enthusiasm, without even glancing at him.
Damn it.
So this is what real veterans do!
Your life is your own!
Rod understood.
He quickly copied the others, shrinking beneath the trench wall and raising the autogun high above his head with both hands.
Whether he was aiming or not no longer mattered.
He simply fired blindly outside.
The smell of gunpowder choked his throat.
Every jolt of recoil reminded him that this was no longer the country where he could lie around safely with air conditioning and cola.
Although he could not see what was happening outside, sound never lied.
The dull gunfire in the distance was growing denser.
The ground beneath his feet trembled faintly.
That was the sound of countless heavy boots pounding against the earth.
And within that chaotic background noise, wild roars that sounded as though they were tearing apart their own throats were rapidly drawing closer.
“WAAAAAGH!!!”
Greenskins…
Orks.
As a veteran Warhammer fan, Rod was far too familiar with that sound.
It meant the green tide was sweeping in.
It meant those mushroom bastards waving choppas and shootas were about to turn this place into a slaughterhouse.
In the air, a club-like object as thick as a thigh traced an arc and flew into the neighboring trench.
Boom!
A deafening explosion erupted from the next trench.
Mud mixed with severed limbs flew into the air.
A twitching arm landed beside Rod’s foot with a wet slap.
An Ork stikkbomb…
The Greenskins were already close enough to throw grenades!
It was only a matter of time before they stormed the trench!
At that fatal moment, the autogun in Rod’s hands suddenly made a sound that filled him with despair.
Click.
The trigger would not move.
Rod froze.
Cold sweat instantly broke out across his body.
He hurriedly pulled the gun back and anxiously pressed the magazine release.
The magazine slid out, and he could clearly see the brass rounds still loaded inside.
There were still bullets?
Then…
it was jammed?
The crammed knowledge in his head included how to load bullets, how to pull the trigger, and even how to pray to the machine spirit.
But it had never taught him how to clear this kind of deadly mechanical failure within two seconds.
He held the gun as the roaring beyond the trench drew closer and closer.
Through the rain, Rod could even see several massive green figures jumping into the trench dozens of meters away.
The sound of axes tearing through flesh was still clear despite the chaos of the battlefield.
I can’t die…
I can’t die here for no damn reason!
Rod refused to give up.
He forced himself to calm down, widened the eye that was not covered in blood, and brought the gun close to his face.
Through the ejection port, he saw an irregular shard of broken metal jammed inside the dark chamber, wedged firmly against the feed ramp.
As long as he picked that thing out…
He looked around and locked his gaze on the severed arm that had just fallen beside him.
A serrated combat knife was still hanging from the upper part of the arm.
Rod lunged over, yanked out the combat knife, and wiped his mud-covered hand against the corpse’s chest armor.
“Brother, I’m not the one who got you killed.
This damned world did.”
“May you return to the Golden Throne…”
He muttered like a lunatic, but his hands moved quickly.
The sharp tip of the blade carefully slid into the ejection port, pressed against the deformed metal shard, and flicked outward with force.
Clink.
The metal shard flew out.
Under the force of the recoil spring, the bolt slammed back into place with a crisp and pleasant locking sound.
At that moment, a pale golden screen suddenly unfolded across Rod’s retina.
Lines of text appeared one after another.
[Successfully cleared a malfunction within one minute]
[Acquired Trait: Rapid Firearm Maintenance]
[Effect: Grants a 10% chance to instantly clear firearm malfunctions]
[Skill Unlocked!]
[Firearm Maintenance LV1]
[Experience: 20/50]