The Chaos Space Marine had originally composed an elaborate script for this small “performance.”
Every shot, every step, every retreat had been carefully timed like a symphony. He was meant to glide backward through the chamber with theatrical grace, and with the final note of the music, pierce the skull of the last Astra Militarum soldier with a final bolter round—bringing a perfect conclusion to this massacre.
But the performance was already ruined.
He had retreated to the middle of the room, yet aside from the burning Chimera wreckage at the entrance, the two hundred infantrymen had not decreased in number. He had clearly killed more than a hundred.
“Attrition warfare?” he muttered, as if testing the idea aloud. “Yes… that must be it. After all, this room is barely suited to a full two-hundred-man engagement.”
It was a convenient explanation. One he accepted immediately.
With a displeased snort, he emptied the remaining dozen bolter rounds into the chamber. The two remaining Chimeras detonated almost instantly, erupting into twin pillars of fire.
He understood the situation clearly.
If this continued, he would not be able to clear them out before reaching the rear wall. And once he lost the ability to reposition, he would be forced into the open.
And open ground was undesirable.
The lasfire of mortals—“flashlights,” as he thought of them—was irrelevant. But the heavy stubbers mounted on the Chimeras were another matter entirely. Even if he stood motionless, it would take more than ten seconds of sustained fire to breach his armor, yes… but luck was not a variable he respected.
A stray round. A compromised joint. A moment of statistical cruelty.
He considered himself an artist. And such imperfections in the composition had to be eliminated.
The explosions scattered the infantry formation, briefly disrupting their advance. But only briefly. They reformed with mechanical discipline and continued forward in silence.
“Hmph. As expected. Mindless servants of the Corpse-Emperor.”
The piano-loving Space Marine gave a disdainful laugh.
“Fine. You are not worthy of any further bolter expenditure.”
He placed a hand on the hilt of his power sword.
“Allow me to conclude your final movement personally.”
He bent his knees—
—and then froze.
A deep engine roar rolled in from outside the chamber, growing louder with every passing second.
His expression changed.
“…A Leman Russ.”
He narrowed his eyes, senses sharpened beyond human limits by both gene-enhancement and corruption.
“Vanquisher pattern?”
Understanding struck him like revelation.
“So that’s it.”
A slow smile returned to his lips.
“This entire force… the infantry, the Chimeras… bait. All of it.”
“They never intended for these weak weapons to kill me. Their purpose was simple—to flush me out.”
His gaze drifted toward the entrance.
“And the true killing blow… is this hidden Vanquisher.”
The more he thought, the more certain he became.
“A main cannon capable of breaching even a Reaver Titan’s armor. Yes… more than sufficient for a Space Marine.”
He shook his head almost pityingly.
“Not a bad plan. Truly. But the execution… lacks refinement.”
“They advanced too quickly. Too confidently. They believed I was already cornered.”
He let out a soft, almost amused sigh.
“If I wished, I could have passed above them unseen. This ‘battle’ only exists because I allow it to.”
He released his grip on the sword.
“So once I destroy that tank… this game is over.”
A thin, confident smile returned.
“I suppose I have already won.”
Then—
The marble doors exploded inward.
The Leman Russ Vanquisher thundered into the chamber.
And its cannon was already aimed directly at him.
Time seemed to collapse.
The Space Marine’s smile froze.
Impossible.
A Space Marine could outrun a man. Could outpace reaction. Could dominate infantry.
But not physics.
Not a shell already fired.
“IMPOSSIBLE—!”
The final word was swallowed by light.
The blast erased him and the marble pillar behind him in an instant, reducing both to incandescent dust.
Inside the tank, the crew exhaled in unison.
Target eliminated.
The Helldivers’ tactic had been almost exactly as the Chaos Marine had deduced—with one critical difference:
They had known his position from the very beginning.
The infantry were never meant to find him.
They were only there to drive him into the kill zone.
“Move out. Next target,” AlphaBravo said calmly from the observation seat.
“How are your eyes holding up?” the commander asked.
“Better than expected,” AlphaBravo replied. A faint cool sensation lingered behind his left eye, dulling fatigue. “SCP-500 did its job. I can manage for a couple more hours.”
Elsewhere in the Governor’s Mansion, the piano music stopped.
The central melody dissolved into a lone guitar line—subtly altered, like a shift in intent rather than tone.
Most players did not notice.
Those who did… did not care.
But for the remaining Sons of the Emperor scattered throughout the mansion, the change was unmistakable.
“…That Space Marine… is dead?”
“The piano freak finally got erased.”
“Heh… things are getting interesting.”