Accompanied by a hungry roar, a mountain-sized Squig pawed impatiently at the sand beneath its massive feet. Urged on by its rider, the colossal beast was eager to hurl itself into the slaughter ahead.
But when the Ork Boy peered through the gaps in his crude armor toward the main assault route, some of his reckless enthusiasm cooled.
The dune ridge had become a mountain of green corpses.
Under the players' relentless crossfire, shattered bodies, severed limbs, twisted trukks, and pools of thick, dark blood had piled together into a grisly barricade. The Orks behind them were forced to climb over their fallen comrades just to continue the charge.
"Hmm..."
The Boy scratched his greasy scalp.
Charging through there didn't seem like a very good idea.
His gaze slowly drifted away from the congested ridge toward a higher dune nearby.
The slope was empty.
Nothing but smooth sand, an unobstructed path... and it looked even closer to the humies' lines.
As long as he climbed to the top, he could thunder straight down the slope and smash right through the humies' defenses.
The more he thought about it, the more brilliant the plan seemed.
A spark of genius flashed through his simple mind.
He proudly slapped the Squig's thick neck.
"I'm a genius, Boy!"
No sooner had he declared it than he dug the spikes of his boots into the Squig's flank and yanked hard on the reins.
The beast snorted impatiently but obeyed, peeling away from the main assault and lumbering toward the crest of the dune.
Each massive foot sank deep into the loose sand, spraying grit with every step, but the gigantic creature continued its steady climb.
Finally, it reached the summit.
The entire Imperial defensive line lay exposed beneath him.
The tiny humies bustled through their trenches, completely unaware that destruction was about to descend upon them.
The Boy burst into triumphant laughter and raised the reins, preparing to send his Squig crashing downhill—
At that exact moment, both rider and mount stood silhouetted against the skyline.
A gigantic.
Slow-moving.
Perfect target.
The next instant, steel screamed across the battlefield.
Dozens of heavy bolter shells and autocannon rounds tore into the Squig's exposed underside.
The beast didn't even have time to cry out.
Its enormous body was ripped apart in a shower of blood and shredded flesh. Momentum carried the ruined carcass forward before both halves slid helplessly down the dune, while the unfortunate Greenskins riding atop it tumbled after them.
At a nearby heavy bolter nest—
"What was that Greenskin thinking?"
The player behind the weapon stared through his optic, utterly baffled.
"Did he climb to the top of the hill just so I could shoot him?"
His loader shrugged while slamming a fresh ammunition box into place.
"Who knows how Greenskins think? Forget it."
He pointed toward the ridge.
"More of them are coming."
The corpses of the first wave disappeared beneath countless stomping feet.
Then the real assault began.
"WAAAGH!!"
A thunderous war cry rolled across the dunes.
This time it wasn't scattered infantry.
It was a wall of muscle, steel, and roaring engines.
Boarboys charged over the ridge atop their brutal mounts.
Some rode enormous war boars whose rippling muscles bulged beneath scarred hides, ivory tusks jutting like spears.
Others mounted grotesque mechanical hybrids—Dakka Cyber-Boars, their bodies covered in crude armor plating, exhaust stacks belching black smoke as mechanical eyes glowed with murderous red light.
Together they surged downhill like unstoppable heavy cavalry.
"Cavalry!"
"Focus fire!"
The defenders reacted instantly.
Lasgun fire swept across the battlefield like crimson rain.
Grenades burst beneath pounding hooves.
Heavy bolters and autocannons pivoted toward the charging beasts, hurling streams of explosive shells into the green tide.
Yet the results left everyone horrified.
The Boarboys barely slowed.
Lasgun shots scorched little more than blackened marks across their thick hides.
Grenade blasts failed to disrupt their momentum.
Even the Dakka Cyber-Boars required direct heavy bolter hits to bring down. Near misses that would have obliterated ordinary soldiers merely staggered them for a heartbeat before they resumed their charge with even greater fury.
One Boarboy absorbed more than twenty lasgun hits before finally collapsing.
By then, the cavalry had already crossed half the distance.
Panic spread through the trenches.
"They won't die!"
"What kind of ridiculous health pool is this?!"
"Heavy weapons are reloading!"
"They're almost here!"
Just as the defensive line teetered on the edge of collapse—
One player vaulted from the trench.
He carried no rifle.
Only the standard-issue cleaver.
Ignoring every shout behind him, he charged straight toward the lead war boar.
Everyone froze.
It was suicide.
Bang!
The collision sounded like a truck hitting concrete.
The player's body exploded into mangled flesh beneath the boar's immense weight.
But at that same instant—
Driven by the impact, the cleaver punched through the beast's eye socket, burying itself to the hilt inside its skull.
The charging boar let out a strangled squeal.
Its legs folded beneath it.
Momentum carried the lifeless body several more meters before it crashed into the sand, throwing its rider high into the air.
The Ork Boy traced a graceful arc before landing with a sickening crunch, his neck twisting at an unnatural angle.
For the moment, he wasn't getting back up.
Silence briefly settled over the trench.
The company commander blinked.
Then blinked again.
"...What?"
Dozens of lasguns hadn't been enough.
Yet one suicidal charge with a battered cleaver had traded evenly.
His veteran instincts immediately seized on the answer.
Of course.
This is Warhammer.
In this Emperor-forsaken universe, courage and sheer will could accomplish what firepower could not.
If ranged weapons weren't enough—
Then they'd settle it in melee.
"Damn it!"
He ripped his chainsword from its sheath.
The weapon roared to life.
"Everyone!"
His voice cut through the chaos.
"Fix bayonets!"
"Draw your melee weapons!"
"Counter-charge!"
The order spread through the trenches like wildfire.
Frustration.
Adrenaline.
The sacrifice of the fallen player.
Everything ignited at once.
"Screw them!"
"For the Emperor!"
"WAAAGH!!"
Players threw aside their lasguns and drew whatever close-combat weapon they had—power swords crackling with blue energy, roaring chainswords, entrenching shovels, combat knives, and fixed bayonets.
"CHARGE!"
With the company commander's roar, hundreds of players surged from the trenches like a bursting flood, meeting the oncoming Boarboys head-on in a desperate clash of steel against flesh.