At a command from the pureblood genestealer, the creatures still writhing in fire and choking smoke suddenly surged forward.
They came from everywhere—splintered floorboards, cracked walls, ventilation shafts—bursting out as if injected with a violent stimulant.
Flames no longer mattered. Neither did the smoke.
Their crimson compound eyes locked onto a single target: the Astra Militarum soldier wreathed in fire.
In an instant, the rear half of the building seemed to come alive. Twisted bodies poured out in waves, shrieking and howling as they flooded toward the players like a living tide.
For the first time, the players’ firepower faltered.
Lasguns spat light without pause. Machetes rose and fell in blurring arcs. But against an endless surge—this crude but overwhelming “human wave”—their line began to stretch thin. Thirty players, no matter how many times they could respawn, were still only thirty.
If the genestealers had maintained a steady war of attrition, the outcome might have been inevitable.
But the moment the pureblood spotted the flamethrower, it abandoned caution.
Everything—every last body—was thrown forward in a single, desperate assault.
And the players adapted just as quickly.
After countless deaths in this brutal urban battlefield, they no longer relied on words. Speech was too slow, too loud—too dangerous. Instead, they communicated with glances and gestures, silent and precise.
At the front line, Joker casually tapped his waist.
That was enough.
The others understood immediately. Without breaking formation, they began a controlled withdrawal toward the central reception hall.
“Huh? Huh—hey, wait?!”
Pyro’s voice cracked with panic.
Encased in his heavy Promethium flamethrower rig, he struggled to move quickly. He continued spraying fire as he shouted, “Why are you retreating?! Cover me!”
He didn’t get an answer.
Instead, something cold and heavy pressed against his waist.
Joker had appeared beside him without a sound.
With a grin, he patted Pyro’s shoulder. “Relax, man. When this goes up, your Promethium’s getting top kill count.”
Pyro froze.
Then his eyes snapped downward.
A melta bomb was firmly attached to his waist.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Understanding hit instantly.
The swarm. The retreat. The gathering point.
They weren’t escaping.
They were collapsing the building—and he was the fuse.
The structure itself was fragile. Just a handful of melta bombs placed on the load-bearing points of the reception hall would be enough to bring the entire building down. It wasn’t even expensive—any single player could afford it.
So why hadn’t they done this earlier?
Because it broke the unspoken rules.
One player triggering the explosion would take the majority of the experience. Everyone else caught in the blast would lose their gear and be forced to spend resources replacing it. That kind of selfish play didn’t last long in a team like this.
And besides… people wanted to play the map.
Urban warfare was the point.
Blowing everything up immediately defeated the purpose.
But now?
The enemies were gathered. The fight had peaked. The experience had been had.
Time to end it.
Each player had quietly purchased a melta bomb.
And Pyro—far from being abandoned—had been chosen.
The genestealers were focused on him. His fuel tanks would amplify the blast. His death would yield the highest return.
A risky role.
But also the most rewarding.
A silent acknowledgment from the team.
No countdown.
No warning.
Just—
White.
Then thunder.
Over twenty melta bombs detonated at once.
The explosion devoured everything.
Fire roared outward in a blinding wave. The shockwave crushed walls flat, tore metal apart, and vaporized anything caught at its heart. The building twisted, groaned—then collapsed in on itself, disintegrating into a storm of fire and debris.
Nothing could survive it.
—
But for the players, it was just another respawn.
Light flickered.
Bodies reformed.
One by one, they stood, brushing off ash as they opened their system logs.
“Holy—” one player stared. “Over eight hundred exp from that?!”
“Sounds right,” Joker said, squinting at the smoking ruins. “That area could hold a few thousand. But with numbers like that… there should’ve been a pureblood leading them.”
A pause.
“I didn’t get a kill notice.”
“Me neither.”
“Same here.”
Joker’s grin sharpened.
“Then it’s still alive.”
Excitement surged through the group.
Ignoring the heat, the smoke, the unstable rubble—they rushed straight back into the ruins.
A living pureblood meant massive experience.
And possibly a first-kill bonus.
They found it quickly.
Pinned beneath warped plas-steel and shattered supports, the pureblood’s body was grotesquely twisted. Its lower half hung limp, while its upper torso remained wedged in place. Its spine was clearly broken.
It couldn’t move.
“Jackpot!”
“Don’t kill it yet!”
“Hey—share the exp!”
The players crowded around, voices full of excitement and greed.
The pureblood genestealer, barely conscious, felt something else entirely.
Humiliation.
With the last of its strength, it forced a snarl from its ruined throat.
“Rrra—”
A boot slammed into its head, snapping it sideways.
“Oh? Still trying to sound tough?”
More kicks followed.
“Alright, boys,” someone laughed, revving a chainsword, “time to show it some love.”
“You’re all monsters. I was gonna adopt it.”
“It’s still alive,” another reminded.
“…Yeah, never mind.”