The charging formation of more than a hundred players surged forward like a drawn blade, crashing head-on into the steel torrent of the Boarboys.
There was no dodging, no flanking, and not a single step of retreat.
Upon the dune, the two tides collided with a deafening roar. The instant they met, flesh and steel erupted in an explosion.
Players' bodies were shattered by the tremendous impact; the crack of breaking bones swallowed beneath the howl of chainswords. Yet even as they were thrown into the air, they drove their weapons forward with every ounce of strength, determined to drag an enemy down with them.
Chainswords ripped through the armored hides of Cyber-Boars. Cleavers hacked deep into the flesh of War Boars. Power weapons skewered both riders and mounts in a single thrust.
This was the most primitive and brutal form of warfare, where life itself was the cheapest expendable resource.
The clash began in an instant and ended just as quickly.
When the last Boarboy rode over the body of the final player, the brief but savage skirmish came to an end.
Every one of the hundred-plus players who had launched the counter-charge was dead.
In return, more than seventy Boarboys and their mounts lay scattered across the dune. Greenskin and human corpses piled together into a grotesque barricade of mangled flesh and twisted steel.
After all, not everyone could replicate the feat of the first player to charge, who had timed his strike perfectly and driven his weapon straight into a War Boar's brain at the moment of impact.
As for the Explosive Cyber-Boars, with their bodies covered in heavy cables and smoking exhaust pipes, whether the brain was still a vital organ—or whether they even possessed one anymore—was anyone's guess.
When the captain read the battle report from the system log—
One hundred casualties for over seventy Boarboys.
—everyone's eyes lit up.
"Holy crap! That's almost a one-to-one exchange!"
"What do you mean, one-to-one? Our squad barely got any kills. We got robbed!"
"Robbed my ass! We revive! They don't! That's a massive profit!"
"What are you waiting for? It's just a frontal charge! Let's go again!"
The word cowardice simply did not exist in the players' dictionary.
The battlefield immediately descended into something utterly bizarre.
Before the greenskins could even reach the trenches, players began vaulting over the defenses on their own, shouting all manner of battle cries as they launched wave after wave of suicidal counter-charges into the advancing horde.
Even Warboss Redeye, watching from afar, was genuinely taken aback.
He stared at the umies charging out of their trenches just to die alongside his Boarboys, his thick brows knitting together.
Scratching his chin, he muttered in his booming voice,
"Didn't expect dese humies ta have some guts. Guess I judged 'em wrong."
If Redeye was merely surprised, Joker was completely dumbfounded.
"What the hell?!"
He cursed loudly, feeling his blood pressure spike.
Snatching up the communicator, he roared,
"No matter what happens, nobody at the artillery or heavy weapon positions is allowed to charge! Stay on your guns and keep providing fire support! Is that clear?!"
His greatest fear now was that the players operating the heavy weapons would also get carried away, fix bayonets, and rush into melee.
Fortunately, reassuring reports soon came back.
The artillery crews and heavy weapon operators had largely remained at their posts, continuing to fire with unwavering discipline.
The reason was simple.
For ordinary infantry, dozens of players often had to concentrate their fire just to kill a single Boarboy. The experience gains felt like trying to win a prize from a claw machine. Charging into melee for a one-for-one trade was simply more profitable.
Heavy weapon crews, however, lived in an entirely different world.
Every burst from a heavy bolter or autocannon carved through the greenskin ranks, producing a steady stream of kills and assists. Their firepower wasn't like grabbing coins from a claw machine—it was like shoveling money into sacks.
Naturally, none of them had any desire to abandon such lucrative positions just to fight hand-to-hand.
Originally, Joker's battle plan had accounted for close-quarters combat.
The greenskins would storm the trenches, turning every defensive position into a brutal tug-of-war. Company and platoon units would then launch organized counterattacks, isolating enemy breakthroughs and transforming every trench into a relentless meat grinder.
Every meter of ground would be contested until one side was completely exhausted.
Instead...
Close combat had indeed broken out.
The dunes had indeed become a meat grinder.
But instead of the greenskins charging into the trenches, the players had charged out of them.
The battlefield dissolved into complete chaos.
Green tides and human waves collided across the open ground, blending together into an indistinguishable mass. Any semblance of organized formations disappeared beneath the frenzy.
Joker's meticulously crafted battle plan—refined down to the platoon level—became worthless in the face of the players' overwhelming enthusiasm for suicidal charges.
"These damned idiots..."
Still, war was never predictable.
After a brief moment of frustration, Joker forced himself to calm down.
Complaining wouldn't change reality.
Adapting to it would.
His first concern was heavy fire support.
Originally, even after the greenskins entered the trenches, the fighting would remain close to the defensive line, allowing artillery and heavy weapons to continue bombarding the enemy reserves advancing over the ridge.
Now, however, the players had charged deep into no-man's-land and become completely entangled with the greenskins.
That created one disastrous problem.
Friendly fire.
Within minutes, Joker personally watched several players blown apart by heavy bolter detonations. At the same time, the communication channel was filled with furious complaints from players who had just respawned.
"Damn it! Which idiot on the heavy bolter shot me?!"
"Artillery! Where the hell are you shelling?!"
This couldn't continue.
If the bombardment remained indiscriminate, the players would end up killing each other before the greenskins did.
"Attention, all heavy weapon teams!"
Joker grabbed the communicator once more.
"Raise your barrels! Fire on a parabolic trajectory and target the enemy rear!"
He repeated the order immediately.
"Raise your barrels! Fire over the front lines! Do not engage areas where friendly forces are in close combat!"
The adjustment came just in time.
Heavy bolters elevated their barrels. Autocannons shifted their aim.
The deadly rain of shells arced high overhead, bypassing the swirling melee before crashing into the greenskin formations advancing from behind.
Explosions tore through the ork rear ranks like the sweep of a giant scythe.
Almost immediately, the pressure on the frontline eased.
The players continued dying at an astonishing rate, but they also held the greenskin vanguard firmly in place, preventing any advance toward the trenches.
The ridge became an enormous, blood-soaked meat grinder.
Players fell.
Orks fell.
Freshly respawned players poured out of the trenches to replace the dead, throwing themselves back into the carnage without hesitation.
Joker stared silently at the tactical map before letting out a long, weary sigh.
He abandoned any thought of restoring precise battlefield control.
The battle had become something no battle plan could command.