When the steel torrent of the First Company broke through the last vestiges of resistance and entered the area Commissar Walter had been defending, the sight that greeted them far exceeded the players’ expectations.
They had prepared a welcoming ceremony.
It was simple—almost improvised. Two rows of soldiers stood on either side of a hastily cleared passage that still reeked of engine oil and rust. Their standard-issue flak armor was heavily damaged; many helmets were dented and scarred, and the lasguns in their hands looked like relics scavenged from a forgotten scrapyard.
Even more striking was the condition of the troops themselves. Many stood unsteadily, struggling to keep their backs straight, their exhaustion and malnutrition impossible to conceal. They formed a stark contrast to the Helldivers of the First Company, who advanced down the center in disciplined formation, clad in polished carapace armor.
There were no banners, no martial music—only two lines of battered soldiers forcing themselves to stand at attention.
And yet, in this desperate situation, the very existence of such a ceremony already exceeded the players’ expectations. It was also the first time they had witnessed anything like it since entering the game, and they watched with genuine curiosity.
The players studied the hollow-cheeked soldiers on both sides, whispering among themselves as they advanced slowly alongside the armored vehicles. There was no contempt in their gaze—only novelty. To them, it was clearly another carefully scripted NPC event.
At the end of the passage, Commissar Walter stood waiting—tall, rigid, and immovable.
Mua’dib was about to step forward to greet this familiar NPC when Walter suddenly inhaled sharply and shouted with all his strength:
“Salute the Helldivers!”
The command cracked through the air like a whip.
Every soldier and officer present—Walter included—snapped their heels together and delivered a sharp, unified salute. The sudden motion startled even the battle-hardened players.
Three seconds passed.
The rank and file held their salutes.
Walter lowered his arm and strode quickly to a crude microphone welded onto an iron stand, as if salvaged from industrial wreckage. He took another breath.
“Thirty years ago, our homeworld—Perditia—suffered a vile and shameful sneak attack by xenos heretics.”
His voice echoed through the repair station through distorted amplification, laced with static yet carrying undeniable force.
“We lost ground temporarily. The xenos believed they could overwhelm us through numbers and attrition—that they could force humanity to kneel and surrender.”
His tone hardened.
“They were wrong. Even in retreat, every warrior of the Astra Militarum has fought to bleed the enemy, to slow their advance, to make them pay for every inch of ground!”
“This is total war. A long war. A war that will end only when one side is utterly broken and bled dry—a war for the survival of humanity on Perditia!”
His voice rose further.
“And in this war, victory belongs to those with the strongest will to fight, the firmest faith in the Emperor, and the purest conviction of duty! I believe that victory will be ours—and ours alone!”
He swept his gaze across the assembled troops.
“Warriors of the Astra Militarum and PDF! Commanders and Commissars! Men and women of the factories and forges! And those still trapped behind enemy lines, still resisting with all they have!”
“All of Perditia looks to you—to the blade that will purge the xenos heretics! The oppressed under their yoke look to you as liberators! Be worthy of that calling!”
“The heroes of history—Macarius, Slaydo, Saint Sabbat—they watch over you! The Emperor of Mankind watches over you! And even the deeds of the Helldivers shall be remembered as guidance for this age!”
At the final line, the players collectively froze.
“…Wait, what? We’re in the speech too?” someone muttered.
“Did we just get canonized by an NPC?”
“…Not gonna lie, that kind of hits.”
Walter gave them no time to react.
He raised his fist and unleashed a final roar:
“Fight to annihilate the xenos heretics! Fight for the Emperor of Mankind! Fight for Perditia!”
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The station erupted.
Soldiers abandoned restraint. Weapons were raised. Rifle butts slammed against the ground. Voices merged into a single thunderous cry that shook the metal flooring.
Some veterans wept openly, shouting hoarsely as long-buried despair broke apart under renewed conviction. Fear and exhaustion gave way—if only briefly—to something brighter and more dangerous: hope.
The emotion spread.
Even the players, initially detached observers, felt it take hold. The vibration beneath their feet, the roar in the air, the raw collective intensity—it ignited something unfamiliar in their chests.
“For Humanity!” someone shouted.
The others followed almost instinctively.
“For Perditia!”
“Kill those bastards!”
The flame of that moment would fade—but it would not easily die.
Afterward, the thunder of voices gave way to the clatter of logistics. The rear hatch of a Chimera opened, and crates of supplies were unloaded: lasgun power cells, med-kits sharp with antiseptic scent, high-calorie ration paste, and purified water.
The soldiers’ eyes widened at the sight of standard Imperial supplies—many of them seeing such abundance for the first time in years. They handled each crate with reverence, as if it were priceless relic rather than mundane logistics.
Their expressions, still flushed from inspiration, brightened further at the reality of tangible support.
Morale shifted visibly. Where there had been numb exhaustion, there was now alertness—purpose.
Walter and Mua’dib stood side by side, observing the transformation.
“Do you have an operational plan?” Walter asked bluntly. “If it’s sensitive, you don’t need to share it.”
“There’s nothing sensitive,” Mua’dib replied with a shrug. “You can ask any Helldiver. The Genestealers in the mid-hive have lost coordination, and the lower hive rebellion is already collapsing. We don’t intend to waste time cleaning up scraps. Battalion Commander Robert even thinks they’re perfect for recruit training.”
He tilted his head slightly toward the looming hive structure.
“After confirming your situation, we’ll send elite units into the upper hive to locate the governor. The Inquisitor is expected to arrive with the Adeptus Arbites. Before that, we need to verify what remains of the old administration.”
He exhaled.
“Frankly, I doubt there’s much left alive. After this, governing Perditia will likely require a period of military administration.”
Walter nodded slowly. “Given the current state of the planet, that seems inevitable.”
But then his expression darkened again.
His gaze drifted outward, as though it could pass through kilometers of metal and stone to the ruined world beyond.
“I just wonder…” he said quietly, “what those greenskins are doing out in the wastes…”