More than ten days later.
Mua’dib lay prone at the edge of a deserted industrial zone, peering through a broken ventilation duct into the dim, layered depths of the hive city below. The air was thick with engine oil, rot, and an indescribable stench that clung to the back of the throat. Somewhere in the distance, machinery groaned in a steady, low rhythm, joined by the hollow drip of water echoing through ancient pipes.
Through his binoculars, a disturbing sight came into view—a vast xenos stronghold. Old factories and pipe junctions had been overtaken, corrupted, and reshaped into an unnatural fortress. It sprawled outward like a cancerous growth, dense and interconnected, with some structures even burrowing into the upper foundations of the hive itself.
“Such scale… at least ten thousand,” Mua’dib muttered, lowering his binoculars. His voice carried an edge of excitement he couldn’t suppress. “And it’s organized. That’s definitely a Genestealer nest.”
Why had Mua’dib become a Company Commander in just over ten days?
It began with the Military Committee’s rapid expansion. Within that short span, the Helldiver Company had grown to five hundred men. After careful consideration, Robert authorized the formation of battalion-level units.
While the Astra Militarum traditionally adhered to rigid regimental structures, the “players” were fundamentally different from standard Imperial soldiers.
Their cohesion and organizational needs demanded more flexible command layers. With the new structure in place, Robert’s system designation naturally shifted from Company Commander to Battalion Commander.
During this period, a few players attempted to operate as lone wolves. The Military Committee did not stop them; it simply allowed them to learn through experience.
They learned quickly.
In this world, lone-wolf play was not bravery—it was inefficiency. Death meant total loss of experience, and in this hostile environment, even sleeping could be fatal. Within days, every one of them returned to the Helldivers’ formation.
“Honestly,” the First Company’s Deputy Commander said beside Mua’dib, “I thought you, of all people—the king of self-destruction—would stay a grunt. Why go for Company Commander?”
“What do you know?” Mua’dib shot him a look, then grinned. “I’m just following in the great Robert’s footsteps.”
He held out a hand. “Enough talk. Give me the radio.”
The deputy chuckled and handed it over.
Mua’dib pressed the transmit button.
“Three-Star calling Water Tank. Three-Star calling Water Tank… I still can’t believe I let the Committee assign me this codename.”
The deputy tried—and failed—to hide his laughter. “Collective decision, Company Commander. You’ll have to live with it.”
A burst of static came through the line, mixed with the rumble of heavy machinery.
“This is Water Tank. What do you need, Commander?”
Mua’dib’s tone sharpened instantly. “Your turn. Gamma Sector—Freight Station 07. We’ve confirmed a Genestealer presence. Over.”
The response came immediately, almost eager.
“Received!”
Behind them, the ground began to tremble.
The roar of engines echoed through the ruins as a steel behemoth rolled into the industrial wasteland.
A Leman Russ Punisher.
Its turret-mounted Punisher Gatling cannon loomed like an executioner’s instrument. Heavy bolters bristled from its sides, and a front-mounted flamer promised brutal close-range cleansing.
A machine built for one purpose: annihilation.
Though the Genestealers had not been fully eradicated, the loss of their Patriarch had left them leaderless—like a severed serpent still twitching in reflex rather than intent. They no longer expanded, only survived.
And that was why the Helldivers had spent the last ten days hunting them relentlessly.
Part of it was simple efficiency: merit points. Since the nuclear strike, Genestealers had become easier prey than expected, yet still yielded far more rewards than cultists. It was a lucrative opportunity—and one they had fully exploited.
The other reason was strategic: finishing the job before a new Patriarch could emerge.
They could not afford to let the enemy reorganize.
The nuclear strike had been a one-time advantage. Next time, the enemy would not gather so carelessly.
The tank settled into firing position. Infantry units fanned out behind it, establishing cover and prepared firing lanes.
Then the nest reacted.
Shrieks erupted from the shadows. From broken tunnels and collapsed walls, twisted forms poured forth like a living tide—claws raised, weapons improvised, bodies driven by instinctive fury.
The Helldivers did not move.
The Leman Russ did.
The Punisher cannon began to spin.
A low mechanical whine rose—like Death clearing its throat.
Then—
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA—!
The battlefield exploded in light and sound.
Hundreds of high-caliber rounds tore through the ruins in a sweeping arc. The front ranks of Genestealers vanished before they could even scream, reduced to fragments and mist.
Chitin that once deflected blades and claws was shredded like paper.
Concrete barriers disintegrated. Steel supports bent and shattered. The battlefield became a moving corridor of annihilation where nothing living could persist.
Seconds later, the firing stopped.
The barrels glowed red-hot, slowly cooling in the haze.
Silence returned—broken only by settling dust and collapsing debris.
Where the tide of xenos had been, only ruin remained.
The infantry advanced immediately.
Ammo was precious. Even a Leman Russ could not afford to waste fire on scattered survivors. The cleanup would be finished the old way—boots on the ground, rifles raised, and no hesitation.