“I don’t think we can keep waiting like this,” said the squad leader of Squad Four, impatience creeping into his voice. He frowned at the tactical hologram before him—the central reception hall had been reduced to an unrecognizable inferno of fire and bullet storms.
“I agree,” replied the squad leader of Squad Five immediately. “Command duty is boring. Sitting back here while everyone else is having fun on the front line—it’s torture. When this war’s over, I’m reporting to the Company Commander and asking to be reassigned.”
Squad Four’s leader twitched at that. “You just raised a classic death flag: ‘When this war is over, I’ll…’”
Squad Five shrugged. “What’s there to fear? We’re players. Are we afraid of dying?”
“Fair enough.”
Squad Five cleared his throat. “Anyway, back on topic. We need a way to end this street fight quickly.”
“Hm…” Squad Four’s leader paused, then snapped his fingers. “What if we let Pyro suit up in his Wyvern Armor?”
Pyro—the player seen earlier in the tunnel—wore a full Promethium Flamer Trooper kit. His bulky hazmat suit stood out even in the blaze. “Wyvern Armor” and “Flamer Set” were just player nicknames for the gear.
“Are you serious?” Squad Five grimaced. “That thing’s like a walking furnace. Hot and suffocating as hell.”
“It’s fine. It’s the NPC troops cooking inside anyway. If we tried to go in, they wouldn’t let us.” Squad Four waved dismissively, grinning. “Safety first, right?”
“…You’re evil.”
As if summoned by the conversation, a figure flickered into existence beside them—Pyro, freshly respawned.
Squad Four reacted instantly, grabbing him. Both squad leaders spoke in unison:
“Go get your Wyvern Armor!”
Behind his helmet, Pyro froze for a split second—then his voice came out, deep and distorted:
“The world is defiled… It must be cleansed!”
At the front line, several players instinctively turned.
A heavy figure stepped forward—one footfall at a time—into the burning battlefield.
“Systems online… online… online!” Pyro laughed wildly. Even through the helmet, his excitement was unmistakable. He raised the Promethium flamer and squeezed the trigger.
“You filthy genestealers—burn!”
A torrent of fire erupted.
The flames surged forward like a living beast, devouring everything in their path. A fourth-generation hybrid watched in horror as the defensive zone it had struggled to maintain vanished in seconds beneath a tidal wave of fire.
Metal warped and glowed red, then collapsed. Machines screamed as they melted. Genestealers hiding in corners shrieked as flames found them, their bodies blackening, then crumbling into ash.
The fire spread with terrifying intent—seeping into cracks, vents, and piping. It hunted. It consumed. There was nowhere to run.
“If you had flamers, why didn’t you use them earlier?!” the hybrid roared, trembling with fury. “Was it amusing—to watch your allies die?!”
But its rage meant nothing.
The flames kept coming.
Its thoughts spiraled—Was this a test? A cruel joke from the Hive Mind?
“Wuhahahaha!”
Pyro’s manic laughter echoed through the inferno.
Heat devoured the air. Smoke thickened into choking waves. The entire rear half of the structure became a furnace. The fire spread wider, cornering every remaining genestealer.
In the hybrid’s crimson gaze, despair hardened into something tangible.
Its defenses—gone. Its kin—gone. Its world—burning.
It roared, but the sound felt hollow.
The flames closed in.
Then—
BOOM!
The ceiling collapsed.
Metal, concrete, and cables rained down as massive shapes crashed through the breach—Aberrants. Dozens of them. Their hulking forms slammed into the ground, barely slowed, their eyes gleaming with violence.
“Launch a frontal assault immediately.”
The command rang inside the hybrid’s mind—the pureblood.
“Kill the flamer first.”
The hybrid’s fading will surged back to life. Hope—raw and desperate—flared again.
“Yes!”
Through the psychic link, the order spread instantly. The remaining genestealers tightened formation and charged as one, surging toward the source of the flames.
The battlefield had changed.
No matter how strong the position, if that flamer wasn’t stopped, nothing else mattered.
In close-quarters combat like this, a Promethium flamer was absolute death. Even without direct contact, heat and smoke alone could kill—burning lungs, stripping oxygen, suffocating everything.
A suicidal tactic.
These humans didn’t care.
They would burn everything—material, allies, themselves—so long as their enemies died first.
And reality proved it.
The Astra Militarum soldiers pushed forward through choking smoke and blistering heat, forming a living shield around the advancing inferno.
Behind them, the players complained:
“Damn it, you stole all the XP again!”
“This smoke is killing me! Don’t they have sprinklers or something?!”
“Water doesn’t stop Promethium, genius…”
“Next time, warn us before you go full Pyro! I need a gas mask!”
“…Now I get why Kriegers wear those all the time.”
Inside his helmet, Pyro looked faintly embarrassed.
“Sorry—got a bit excited. I’ll warn you next time. Promise.”
The apology lasted less than a second.
Shapes emerged through the smoke.
Fast.
Too fast.
Genestealers. Aberrants.
Charging.
The excitement returned instantly.
Without hesitation, Pyro pulled the trigger again.
Fire roared.
And the darkness ahead ignited.