Seeing that the Genestealer was completely broken, Mua’dib raised his hand, signaling the player wielding the whip to stop. He stepped forward, staring down at the dying xeno.
“Well? Are you going to confess now?”
“I confess… I confess,” the Genestealer rasped with its last strength, its voice unnaturally submissive, as though its very instincts had been overwritten by defeat. “I am a Fallen Angel… I repent…”
Mua’dib froze.
He blinked once, then tilted his head slightly. “No—who told you to say that? I asked where your pureblood kin are.”
“What pureblood kin?” A flicker of human-like confusion surfaced in the creature’s compound eyes. “I don’t know… Am I not a Fallen Angel?”
“….”
Mua’dib fell silent for a moment, then turned to the player beside him.
“Don’t use this thing again next time.”
“Then… now?” the player asked cautiously.
“Keep whipping. Beat it to death,” Mua’dib said flatly.
“Roger!” The player’s spirits instantly lifted, and he raised the whip again.
“Ah! Ah! I repent! I really am a Fallen Angel! Stop—stop whipping—!”
Mua’dib didn’t bother watching anymore. He turned away and waved at his company.
“All squads operate independently. Report only major incidents.”
At his command, parts of the battlefield immediately broke apart. Some players scattered to carry out orders, while others remained behind—still lingering around the spectacle, treating the unfolding tragedy like entertainment.
Mua’dib walked aside, picked up his walkie-talkie, and switched to an encrypted channel.
“Mua’dib calling Bobby. Mua’dib calling Bobby. Do you copy?”
“Loud and clear,” Robert’s voice came quickly. “How’s the interrogation? Did it work?”
“It failed,” Mua’dib sighed. “This thing doesn’t extract truth. It forcibly distorts cognition. The Dark Angels just don’t care what the effect actually is—they only need the target to say ‘Fallen Angel.’”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Robert replied dryly. “Anyway, new assignment.”
“Remember Commissar Walter? Since your operation succeeded, we can’t just abandon him. You’re free now that the Genestealer is dealt with—so this one’s yours.”
“Understood. Mission accepted.”
Mua’dib ended the call.
He glanced at the surrounding players—some still watching, others already squatting in groups playing cards.
“Where’s the deputy company commander?! Get the formation reorganized!”
…Meanwhile
A torrent of steel thundered through rusted hive corridors.
A Leman Russ Punisher led the advance, its dozer blade grinding through crude barricades assembled from scrap and corpse-stained metal.
The turret’s rotary cannon spun to life.
A storm of bullets roared out—an industrial scream of destruction—tearing apart anything foolish enough to remain behind cover.
Behind it, five Chimera APCs rolled forward. Their heavy stubbers barked in short, violent bursts, reducing ambush squads on elevated flanks into scattered fragments of flesh and armor.
Inside the transports, players either sat braced against the shaking hulls or ran alongside the vehicles, lasguns snapping out precise bursts to finish off fleeing stragglers.
The armored column advanced too quickly—often outrunning the infantry behind it and leaving dangerous gaps in the narrow hive corridors.
But the cultists had no capacity to exploit those openings.
They either froze under the Punisher’s overwhelming firepower, or attempted desperate counterattacks that were instantly erased by coordinated player fire.
Above them, in the “sky” of pipes, catwalks, and iron bridges, a Valkyrie Assault Carrier circled the dome.
Its guns were not the main force—but its presence, along with embedded recon paratroopers, served as the company’s eyes.
Whenever large enemy concentrations were detected, coordinates were transmitted instantly.
Seconds later, three Wyvern self-propelled artillery units answered.
The hive shook as explosive shells rained down with mechanical precision, erasing newly formed cultist assemblies before they could even stabilize.
What remained of the resistance—gangs, brainwashed cultists, opportunistic bullies—collapsed like ash in a furnace.
They had ruled only because Imperial authority had already fractured under Ork invasions, Chaos corruption, Genestealer infiltration, and Drukhari raids.
Even then, they had merely contained the remnants of loyalist forces through overwhelming numbers.
But numbers meant nothing now.
The Helldivers had returned—with armor, air support, and artillery.
At this point, resistance was no longer war.
It was subtraction.
Elsewhere — Lower Hive Repair Station
Commissar Walter leaned against a corroded metal wall, slowly cleaning his bolt pistol. Around him stood exhausted soldiers—young, barely adult, faces smeared with soot and exhaustion, but still carrying the stubborn alertness of survivors.
Then came the sound.
A distant vibration.
At first, it blended into the endless industrial noise of the hive. But gradually, it sharpened—becoming something else entirely.
Not machinery.
Not chaos.
A rhythm.
A steel hymn.
A young guardsman tightened his grip on his lasgun. “Commissar… what is that? Another attack?”
Walter did not answer immediately.
He straightened slowly, tilting his head, eyes half-closed—as if listening to a familiar symphony.
He knew that sound.
Better than any auspex.
A few seconds passed.
Then his eyes snapped open.
Shock.
Disbelief.
And something like reverence.
“Valkyrie… Leman Russ… Chimera… Wyvern artillery…” he murmured. “By the Emperor… don’t tell me…”
An officer grabbed his arm, trembling. “Commissar… is that… rescue?”
The words spread instantly.
Like ripples in still water.
Every soldier turned toward him.
Walter looked at the young faces around him—faces that had survived too long on borrowed hope.
Then, for the first time in days, he exhaled.
A real breath.
A real smile.
“Yes,” he said softly.
His voice carried clearly through the station.
“Hope has arrived.”