The Purestrain Genestealer’s massive bone claws slammed into the Firebat’s crimson powered armor.
A shrill scream of grinding metal sent showers of sparks flying.
Two deep gouges were carved across the chest of the CMC heavy armor.
The Firebat staggered back half a step.
His hydraulic joints shrieked under the overload.
But he didn’t dodge.
He didn’t retreat.
Instead, both Hellfire Flamethrowers pressed directly against the Purestrain Genestealer’s abdomen.
“You wanted to get this close?” The Firebat pilot grinned.
“Then let me turn up the heat.” High-pressure plasma gel erupted point-blank.
BOOM!
The terrifying recoil blasted the Purestrain Genestealer off its feet.
It became a rolling ball of fire before it even had time to scream.
The blazing corpse crashed back into the swarm behind it.
Sticky incendiary fuel splattered everywhere.
An entire wave of mutant brutes ignited instantly.
Two pale blue beams shot from behind the bunker.
Standing safely in the rear, the Medic locked her medical module onto the Firebat’s damaged armor.
Nanite repair fluid seeped into the cracks, restoring damaged circuits while simultaneously injecting the pilot with cellular regeneration compounds.
The Firebat rolled his shoulders.
The stiffness disappeared.
He planted his feet once more.
The next second…
Another torrent of flame erupted.
Standing behind the bunker, Leon Drake opened his tactical display.
The battlefield was littered with alien corpses and dense biomass.
The system continued harvesting everything.
[Minerals: 320] [Vespene Gas: 240] His eyes swept across the battlefield.
The tunnel was narrow.
The enemy was densely packed.
And those psychic cultists were still lurking behind the frontline.
If the mutant brutes managed to reach the Firebats, casualties were only a matter of time.
This wasn’t the moment to get greedy.
He couldn’t throw every unit into the fight just because it felt good.
For a moment, Leon considered warping in Marauders to smash through the enemy formation.
He discarded the idea immediately.
Marauders certainly could break the line.
But that would expose more of his hand and risk having his frontline swallowed by the swarm.
The safest strategy remained exactly what he was already doing.
Hold the choke point.
Let the bunkers block the passage.
Let the Firebats burn everything in front.
Let the Medics keep everyone alive.
Let the SCV keep rebuilding the walls.
Slowly…
Methodically…
Grind the enemy to dust.
“Marines.” “Maintain your firing rhythm.” “Medics.” “Rotate healing beams and monitor the Firebats’ vital signs.” “Big Guy.” “The right bunker’s support plate has been weakened by acid.” “Repair it immediately.” The orders flowed through the tactical network.
The SCV slid alongside the wall.
Its mechanical claw grabbed another discarded steel plate.
The high-frequency welder pressed against the melted breach.
Blue sparks exploded in every direction.
The defensive line stabilized once more.
From both bunkers…
8mm Gauss rounds poured continuously through the firing ports.
Scorching shell casings piled across the bunker floors.
Ahead of them…
The Firebats maintained two thirty-meter walls of fire.
Charging mutants and cultists collapsed in waves.
Severed limbs…
Burning flesh…
Shattered weapons…
Everything accumulated into a corpse wall nearly half a meter high.
Far down the tunnel…
The robed cult preacher gripped his alien-skull staff tightly.
He couldn’t understand it.
The Great Devourer’s elite mutant warriors…
Couldn’t even reach these few humans.
Their ballistic weapons were more accurate than Underhive autoguns.
More reliable than Imperial Guard heavy weapons.
Most terrifying of all…
Their firepower and defense never weakened.
It was as though they were watching an endless machine built solely for slaughter.
The preacher bit through his own tongue.
Drawing upon every ounce of psychic power in his body…
A visible ripple of dark violet energy gathered atop his staff.
The surrounding air twisted unnaturally.
This attack targeted the mind itself.
An ordinary person struck by it would either descend into madness…
Or have their brain boiled alive.
With a violent swing…
The preacher unleashed the psychic blast.
The violet wave pierced through the sea of flames and slammed directly toward the left bunker.
[Warning.] [Low-to-mid level psychic brainwave assault detected.] [Source identified: Genestealer Cult mental manipulation.] [Bunker tactical network isolated.] [Pilot sensory links noise-filtered.] [Hostile signal blocked.] The violet wave crashed against the bunker’s armored exterior.
The communications antenna flickered twice.
A faint burst of static crackled.
Then…
Nothing.
Inside the bunker…
The Marines never paused for even half a second.
Armor-piercing rounds continued screaming from their barrels at supersonic speed.
The preacher’s hidden third arm froze in midair.
There was no blood flowing from eyes or ears.
No agonized screams.
No shattered souls.
His psychic power had struck something cold and utterly impenetrable.
He could see the men inside.
Yet their minds remained completely unreachable.
“M…
monsters…” The preacher stumbled backward.
His voice trembled.
“The corruption finds no echo inside them…” “They’re nothing but soulless machines!” Leaning against the right bunker, Helena slowly holstered her Bolt Pistol.
She hadn’t found a single opportunity to fire.
The defensive line before her was almost terrifyingly stable.
The heavily armored Firebats eliminated every close-range threat.
The bunkers absorbed incoming fire while providing ideal firing positions.
The Medics repaired injuries from the rear.
The SCV continuously restored damaged fortifications.
Everything within fifty meters of the defensive line had become a forbidden zone for life.
On an Imperial battlefield…
Holding a choke point like this would normally require at least two full companies of Imperial Guardsmen.
A Commissar would be standing behind them…
Executing anyone who tried to flee.
If psychic attacks entered the battle…
An entire company could lose its mind and begin killing itself.
Yet here…
There were no Commissars.
No prayers.
No suicidal charges.
Only cold efficiency.
Firepower.
Repairs.
Medical support.
Resource recovery.
Helena finally understood.
Leon hadn’t merely brought some miraculous weapon.
He had brought an entirely different philosophy of warfare.
Not far behind the front line…
Ironbone had secretly followed them into the maintenance station.
Now he lay flat beneath a support pillar, pressing his face against the damp concrete floor.
Underhive gang wars were always won through cheap stimulants and piles of corpses.
Whoever charged forward without fear became the boss.
But the firepower in front of him had completely crushed everything he thought he knew.
He looked at the hydraulic mechanical arm he had once been so proud of.
Then at the SCV busily repairing bunkers while spewing welding flames.
For the first time…
Ironbone realized he had survived this long only because everyone around him had been even weaker.
He absolutely had to cling to this commander’s side.
If he failed…
This new age would grind him into dust.
Ahead…
The gunfire gradually diminished.
The Firebats incinerated the last mutant brute still twitching on the ground.
With both their command creature and psychic leader gone…
The cultists finally remembered fear.
Screaming, they threw away their weapons and fled into the darkness.
They shoved one another.
They trampled their own comrades.
The robed preacher mixed himself into the panicked crowd, crawling desperately toward a nearby drainage tunnel.
He wanted only one thing.
To get away from those armored monsters.
The farther…
The better.
“Ada.” Leon switched to the system interface.
“Lock onto the one in the robe.” “Take him alive.” “Shoot out his leg.” [Target locked.] Inside the left bunker…
Marine One adjusted his aim.
His fire-control system locked onto the fleeing target.
The rifle switched from full-auto to single-shot precision mode.
BANG!
An 8mm Gauss spike ripped through the preacher’s right calf.
Flesh exploded.
Bone shattered with a sickening crack that echoed through the tunnel.
The preacher screamed and collapsed into the filthy wastewater.
Dragging his mangled leg…
He desperately crawled backward.
His hidden third arm searched frantically beneath his robe.
A few seconds later…
He pulled out a black metal cylinder.
Stamped onto its side…
Was the Imperial Aquila.
Panting heavily through blood-soaked lips…
The preacher stared wildly ahead.
Then…
His thumb slammed down toward the cylinder’s red detonator button.