After a full day of brutal training, the players had finally mastered parachuting from several thousand meters above ground and landing within a hundred-meter margin of their targets. Whether that landing was hard or soft—and whether they survived it—was entirely up to luck.
At this moment, the airborne squad was inside a Valkyrie assault transport. The cabin was narrow and dim, its metal walls cold and unforgiving. The air carried a dense mix of oil, sweat, and gunpowder.
Even through the reinforced hull, they could occasionally hear the sharp whistle of bullets or energy beams slicing past outside, followed by dull impacts and the crackle of dissipating energy.
Each impact caused a subtle jolt through the aircraft as the pilot—Archer—executed precise, fluid evasive maneuvers against sporadic ground fire.
Inside the cabin, however, the players remained unfazed. They chatted and laughed as if they were on a sightseeing trip rather than a battlefield insertion. Some leaned casually against the walls, picking at their nails, while others swapped stories from the previous night with relaxed smiles.
A player tapped Darius Top Laner on the arm with a knuckle, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Whether this operation succeeds depends on you, Obesetron.”
“Go to hell!” Darius snapped, swatting his hand away. His slightly swollen face—pale from years of sleepless nights—twisted with irritation. “Who the hell gave me that nickname?!”
Laughter erupted in the cabin.
“Who told you to implant a tactical nuclear bomb in yourself?” someone shot back.
“Fat guy plus little boy, it fits perfectly,” another added.
The cabin filled with noise and laughter.
Then Archer’s voice came through the intercom, slightly distorted by static.
“Get ready. We’re almost at the drop zone.”
A pause.
Then, with a faint trace of amusement: “Especially Darius—try not to set off the tactical nuke early and turn yourself into a midair firework.”
The laughter exploded again. Darius’ face darkened as he slammed a hand against the wall.
“I already injected Ice Point Solution! Can you idiots shut up for five seconds?!”
Archer ignored him.
“Cabin, prepare to drop. Three… two… one.”
With a violent hiss, the hatch slid open.
Cold, high-altitude wind roared into the cabin, tearing through the dim light. Hair and clothing were pulled violently backward. Outside, the night sky was a vast black void, with the faint glow of a besieged city far below.
The mood shifted.
For all their earlier joking, this was now real combat. Even the most careless players felt their breathing tighten.
Darius silently drew a syringe filled with pale blue liquid. Under the cabin lights, it shimmered faintly. Without hesitation, he injected it into his arm.
His muscles tensed—then slowly relaxed.
“How does it feel, having your veins full of sedatives?” someone asked.
“Very good,” Darius replied evenly. His voice had become low and steady, stripped of emotion. “I am completely calm.”
His previous anger, tension, and banter faded like receding tidewater, leaving only a cold, mechanical focus.
“Why is your head pointy?” someone asked.
“Get lost.”
“Jump!” Archer ordered.
They leapt.
Bodies tumbled into the night, falling like meteors.
The wind swallowed all sound.
On the ground, the Genestealer cult had already noticed them. Sporadic anti-aircraft fire streaked upward—thin, uneven lines of light in the vast darkness.
Most of it was inaccurate.
Unless their luck was truly terrible, none of them should be hit.
All players stared downward, eyes unblinking, calculating distance as gravity parachutes remained primed. Their bodies were taut, waiting.
Then—
A laser beam cut across the sky.
An explosion erupted midair.
Orange fire bloomed, briefly lighting the battlefield like a second sun.
For a split second, panic surged through the remaining players.
Did Darius detonate early?!
They turned—
Darius was still intact, descending in perfect control.
But farther away, a figure had already been erased into scattered sparks and smoke.
“Who triggered their gravity chute early?!” Archer’s voice snapped through the comms, exasperated. “How many times do I have to say it? Timing is everything, you noobs!”
No one answered.
They were already at deployment altitude.
Almost simultaneously, they pulled their cords.
Gravity parachutes deployed.
Their bodies jerked violently as deceleration forces kicked in, but this time the descent stabilized.
For a brief moment, relief flickered through them.
Then a scream tore through the air.
A player nearby staggered mid-descent, a bowl-sized hole burned clean through his waist. Black smoke curled from the wound.
“I forgot to turn off my gun’s safety…” he said weakly.
His parachute spiraled out of control. He plummeted.
“…My god, how do you even manage that?” Archer muttered over comms.
There was no time to dwell on it.
The ground rushed closer.
Anti-air fire intensified—denser now, more frantic. The sky filled with crisscrossing beams and tracer fire, forming a lethal net.
Players adjusted instinctively, tightening formation.
Without discussion, they moved around Darius, using their bodies as shields.
One by one, players were struck—torn apart midair or sent spiraling out of control like broken kites.
Darius remained untouched in the center.
Expressionless.
Protected.
When they were five hundred meters from the ground, the last shielding player was hit by a heavy energy beam.
Half his body carbonized instantly. Yet with his final strength, he turned toward Darius and shouted:
“Go, Fatboye!”
Then he fell.
Only Darius remained in the sky.
Under the effect of Ice Point Solution, he felt nothing—no fear, no hesitation, no grief. Only clarity.
Below him lay the Genestealer cult stronghold: a massive marble-like structure glowing faintly in the night, the heart of the nest.
He saw movement—large bioforms scrambling, trying to escape as they detected the incoming threat.
But it was too late.
Darius calculated the distance.
No one would survive the blast radius.
He activated the tactical nuclear bomb embedded within his body.