At the edge of the safe zone, Robert methodically checked in with each squad over the walkie-talkie.
Overall, the operation was proceeding smoothly.
The genestealers seemed content to wage a slow war of attrition—and the players were more than willing to oblige. Every kill translated into merit. The front line advanced inch by inch: slow, grinding, but unshakably steady.
If the genestealers ever chose to swarm and overwhelm them in a single wave, the players would welcome it. They would simply strap on high-explosive charges and charge headlong into the tide. Anyone who hesitated would be branded a coward.
After all, death was only a brief inconvenience. Resurrection took seconds.
Robert confirmed the front-line status once more. Then the walkie-talkie filled with the usual chatter from squad leaders.
“Without a bird’s-eye view or real-time comms, commanding like this is a nightmare.”
“I’m so bored I’ve started counting ants.”
“What would a Warhammer ant even look like? Armored? Carrying a bolter?”
“The real issue is resurrection logistics. Holding ground is fine—but if you die during a push, you have to run all the way back. No one wants to risk overextending.”
“Wait… where’s Cain? Haven’t heard him all day.”
“He’s an Ogryn. To him, killing genestealers is like slaughtering chickens. Not like us fragile mortals.”
Laughter crackled over the channel. Someone even suggested a game of imaginary chess to pass the time.
Then—
Boom.
Another explosion followed. Then another.
Within seconds, the scattered detonations turned into a rolling barrage—dense, continuous, thunderous. The air itself seemed to tremble.
Everyone recognized the sound.
Player self-detonations.
Which meant—
“The genestealers are charging again,” someone muttered.
At first, Robert thought the same. This tactic was routine by now.
But then his expression hardened.
The explosions were too dense. Too synchronized.
Not isolated blasts—but a chain reaction, spreading across the entire processing zone like a storm front.
“This isn’t right…” he murmured.
Experience prickled at the back of his mind.
No local commander could coordinate something like this. Not across every front, not with this precision. Not even a purestrain leader.
Only a high-level Psyker could impose that kind of unified will.
And if that was true—
The walkie-talkie crackled again, this time with voices fresh from resurrection. Confusion bled through every report.
“Report! Total chaos here—but the genestealers are gone!”
“Same on my end. Only corpses left.”
“Company Commander, we just respawned. Area’s empty. No hostiles in sight.”
Robert pieced the reports together in seconds.
His suspicion crystallized into certainty.
“They’re not attacking,” he said sharply. “They’re withdrawing.”
Silence.
Then his voice cut through the channel, firm and decisive:
“Attention all squads! The enemy is conducting a large-scale retreat. This is organized, not a rout.”
A brief pause.
“One squad advances to scout. The other holds position. Move quickly—confirm enemy movement. They wouldn’t retreat without a reason.”
“Roger!”
Seventh Squad moved first.
They didn’t rely on self-detonation. With precise coordination and the brute force of their Ogryn leader, they carved a path through the remaining genestealers, cutting down anything that tried to slow them.
Then—
They saw him.
A lone figure ahead.
Kyle.
The cultist Psyker walked forward at an unhurried pace, as if the battlefield belonged to him alone.
Seventh Squad halted instantly, weapons raised.
Kyle stopped as well.
Its gaze swept across them—lingering on the Ogryn.
Confusion flickered.
Ogryns were supposed to charge. Loud. Direct. Simple.
Not… this.
Not disciplined. Not cautious.
But the anomaly didn’t matter.
These mortals had already cost it too much.
“I did not expect such resistance from insects,” Kyle said coldly. “You have slain many of my kin.”
Its voice tightened, fury coiled beneath restraint.
“In one hour… thousands lost.”
A pause.
Then, softly:
“Enough.”
Its hand rose.
Purple psychic energy gathered in its palm, swirling like a living storm.
“You will tear each other apart.”
The power surged outward—
Then stopped.
Kyle froze.
From the Warp’s perspective—
There was nothing.
No souls. No presence. No imprint.
And yet—
Before its physical eyes, the mortals still stood.
Real.
Solid.
Impossible.
The contradiction struck like a hammer.
Its thoughts splintered.
“Where… are the souls?”
Its voice cracked.
“Where are the souls?!”
Reality unraveled.
Two truths collided—mutually exclusive, yet undeniably real.
Its mind became the battlefield.
“How is this possible?!” Kyle screamed. “How can this be?!”
The psychic energy dissipated, spiraling out of control.
Seventh Squad stared.
“…Did the boss just break?” one player whispered.
“Psychic backlash?” another guessed. “I’ve read that stronger Psykers are less stable.”
“Yeah, but that’s for untrained ones. Do genestealer Psykers even work like that?”
“Maybe he fried his own brain trying something big?”
A pause.
Then—
“Call Mua’dib.”
“…Yeah.”
Grins spread behind visors.
“This is the perfect chance to unleash Hellfire.”