Rod stood before the iron table, his gaze lingering for a second on the autogun wrapped in black insulating tape across his chest.
Then he raised his eyes and looked at the bolt pistol on the table, sitting in its leather holster.
The previous battle was still vivid in his mind.
The Ork Boss’s thick plate armor, and that layer of Waaagh field.
If he ran into Chaos Space Marines in ceramite power armor later, or the chitinous carapace of the Tyranids…
Armor penetration.
He had to have armor penetration.
In this universe where monsters and demons roamed everywhere, without high-penetration weapons, he would not even be able to break through the enemy’s defenses.
His gaze fell once more on that bolt pistol.
Bolters were mass-produced goods in the lore, right?
Surely they were not so rare that he could not get even one.
Besides, the captain right in front of him had one.
“Then give me a bolter.”
Rod spoke and pointed at the one on the table.
“Something like that is fine.”
When Captain Reno heard this, his movements suddenly stiffened.
After a long while, he let out a short bitter laugh.
“Kid, you sure know how to ask big.”
The captain leaned forward, bringing that granite-like face closer to Rod.
“If I had something like that, would I still let you suffer here?
What do you think this place is?
The Departmento Munitorum’s main warehouse on Holy Terra?
Or are you making a wish to the Emperor?”
He shook his head.
“We are a third-line force of the Imperial Guard, not the attendant army of the honored Astartes!”
After speaking, the captain’s gaze landed on the gun on the table.
His hand reached out, and his rough fingers gently rubbed the badly worn Aquila on the holster.
That was an old partner that had followed him for more than ten years.
From the talons of the Tyranids, from the bayonets of heretic rebels, this gun had saved him countless times.
The room was silent for several seconds.
Finally.
The captain took a deep breath.
“Since you want a bolt weapon…”
He grabbed the holster and flicked his wrist.
Clang.
The heavy bolt pistol slid across the table and struck the edge with a heavy thud.
“Then I’ll lend you my old partner first.”
There was reluctance in the captain’s voice, but he did not look at the gun again.
Instead, he leaned back into his chair.
“And stop carrying that scrap gun of yours.”
He waved his hand in disgust.
“Go with Phillips, that three-eyed clerk, to the armory and draw a new one.
If word spreads that our great hero is carrying junk, people will say I, Reno, mistreat men who have earned merit.”
Rod showed no hesitation.
He reached out and grabbed the bolt pistol.
It felt slightly heavy in his hand.
That solid, weighty pressure immediately made him feel much more secure.
“Karl.”
The captain turned and looked at the platoon leader, who had been standing silently beside them.
“When the Orks attack later, you may call in one extra round of artillery support.
I’ll notify the artillery position to prioritize your platoon’s direction.”
Platoon Leader Karl froze.
He opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something grateful, but in the end, he only nodded hard.
Just then.
Bang, bang, bang!
Bang, bang, bang!
Someone hammered on the rest room door so hard that it shook.
“Captain!
Urgent military report!
Emergency transmission from the outpost!”
Before the door had fully opened, an intelligence officer covered in sweat rushed inside.
He hurried to the captain’s side and whispered a few words in a low voice.
Captain Reno’s slightly relaxed body instantly tensed.
The exhaustion on his face vanished completely.
He stood up abruptly, grabbed the officer’s cap from the table, and put it on.
“Understood.”
He looked at the platoon leader and Rod.
The warmth from before was already gone from his eyes.
“Go back.
Hold the position.”
He raised his hand and gave a standard Imperial Aquila salute.
“Good luck.”
Platoon Leader Karl and Rod immediately stood at attention and returned the same standard Aquila salute.
There were no unnecessary words.
On this battlefield, every farewell could be the last.
The two turned and walked out of the smoke-filled little room.
Outside, the command hall was already in chaos.
The shouts of vox operators and the wailing of alarms rose and fell one after another.
Phillips, the monocle-wearing adjutant, was huddled in the corner.
The data-slate hanging from his chest glowed green.
Seeing the two come out, he immediately approached them.
His gaze lingered for two seconds on the holster at Rod’s waist, which had originally belonged to the captain, and his pupils contracted slightly.
The captain’s personal sidearm…
Looks like this kid has a bright future ahead of him.
“Gentlemen…”
Phillips’s smile was much more sincere than before.
“I’ve already received the captain’s order.
Rod…
ah, no, Brother Rod, please come with me.
The armory is this way.”
Platoon Leader Karl patted Rod on the shoulder.
“You go pick your gear.
I’m going to the repair station to find Iron Jaw.
That plasma gun still needs fixing, or next time it fires, it really will blow up in someone’s hands.”
After saying that, the platoon leader turned and strode off in another direction.
Rod followed Phillips through a narrow corridor and arrived before a heavy iron door deep inside the bunker.
Phillips removed his monocle and aligned his pupil with the panel.
Click…
Bzzzt!
The heavy hydraulic door slowly slid open to both sides.
A stale smell of old machine oil mixed with dust rushed out.
The space inside was not small, but most of the shelves were empty, as if they had been looted.
Only a few shelves near the entrance held scattered rows of lasguns, along with several crates of flak armor piled in the corner and covered in thick dust.
Phillips noticed Rod looking around and coughed awkwardly.
“Ahem…
As you know, supplies have been tight lately.”
To cover his embarrassment, he shifted the topic back to Rod’s waist.
“But with that, you’re already the envy of many.”
He pointed at the bolt pistol, his tone thick with sour jealousy.
“Captain Reno actually gave you the sidearm that’s followed him for more than ten years…
That’s rare.
Looks like he really values you.”
At this point, he seemed to remember something and pushed up his monocle, kindly offering a reminder.
“Oh, right.
That thing is powerful, almost like firing a hand cannon, but its recoil is brutal too.
You haven’t undergone gene-enhancement, and you don’t have servo-assistance.
When you fire, keep your wrist tight.
Don’t fracture your own bones.”
Rod said nothing.
His hand rested on the grip, his thumb gently rubbing the rough anti-slip texture.
Recoil?
Worst case, I’ll just train Strength a few more points.
He raised his head and looked at the empty weapon racks.
“Can I take anything here?”
Phillips lowered his head and glanced at the authorization order on the data-slate, then muttered.
“The captain’s order more or less means that…
But as you can see, there isn’t much to choose from.
The slightly newer M36 lasguns were all taken by First Platoon.
What’s left is old stock.”
“Good things don’t end up in a line-filling company like ours.”
He shrugged, wearing an expression of helplessness that suggested he was long used to it.
Rod nodded and said nothing.
He walked to the weapon racks and began searching through the pile of “junk.”
Most of them were standard Imperial lasguns.
Some did not even have stocks.
Against the monsters and freaks running all over the battlefield, this kind of lasgun had about as much stopping power as a scratch, which was why it earned the nickname “flashlight.”
His eyes quickly swept over rows of dust-covered firearms.
Suddenly, his gaze stopped.
In an inconspicuous corner, leaning against the base of the wall, was a strangely shaped weapon.
It was shorter and thicker than an ordinary lasgun.
At the muzzle were three firing lenses arranged side by side, and beneath the body hung a large capacitor pack.
Rod walked over, gripped the handle, and lifted it with one hand.
Heavy.
At least twice as heavy as an ordinary lasgun.
A blurry line of small text was carved into the weapon’s body.
He could vaguely make out the words “Adeptus Arbites.”
Rod did not remember seeing this thing much in the background materials he had read before transmigrating.
“What is this?”
Rod turned and showed the heavy weapon to the adjutant.
“Can I take this too?”
Phillips glanced at it and raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Oh, this?”
He was not unfamiliar with the gun, but he did not seem to value it much either.
“That’s a suppression-pattern lasgun.
Or you could call it a riot suppression pattern.
You can understand it as the shotgun version of a lasgun.”
He gestured in the air.
“Its charge capacitor has been modified.
Each discharge releases energy through three lenses at the same time, forming a scatter pattern.
At close range, it is far more powerful than an ordinary lasgun.
Against unarmored targets, it can punch them full of holes.”
“But…”
The adjutant spread his hands.
“This thing’s range is pitifully short.
Past a hundred meters, its energy decay becomes severe.
It also consumes power like crazy.
One standard power pack can’t fire many shots.
It’s usually used by hive-city Arbites for riot suppression, or by Navy boarding teams inside narrow ship corridors.”
“In a field environment like ours…
honestly, it’s not very practical.”
Short range?
High energy consumption?
Rod thought over those two flaws, then ignored them completely.
What he cared about was the phrase “far more powerful.”
Those thick-skinned Greenskins often ended up charging right into melee range anyway.
At times like that, a shotgun that could blow half an Ork Boy’s body away with one shot was absolutely a hundred times more useful than a lasgun that could only burn a small hole.
“Bigger is better.
More is stronger.”
Rod skillfully hoisted the suppression lasgun onto his shoulder.
“I’ll take this one.”