Chapter 124: Beneath a Dying Sky (Patreon)

Pyro looked up at the sky.

It was a sky beyond description—a morbid dome of lead-gray, sulfur-yellow, and bruised purple. The sun was long gone, replaced by a pale blot of light like the clouded pupil of a dying man, staring weakly down at the scarred earth through thick curtains of radioactive dust.

The air carried the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of scorched earth. Every breath felt like swallowing fine grit.

He swept his gaze across the battlefield.

It had become a true wasteland of death. The ground had been churned again and again by artillery, orbital bombardments, and nuclear detonations until nothing remained but blackened earth and enormous craters. Twisted wrecks of tanks and walkers lay tangled together with the bodies of soldiers from both sides, forming grotesque mounds of steel and flesh.

Severed ork limbs lay scattered among the torn uniforms of fallen Astra Militarum troopers. The relentless click-clack of Geiger counters echoed across the battlefield, completing the apocalyptic scene.

"It really does feel like the end of the world..." Pyro muttered.

Just then, an urgent voice burst through his helmet's communications.

"Ork Warboss location confirmed! Coordinates uploaded! Everyone, move!"

The message had been broadcast to every Helldivers Legion player on the battlefield.

Instantly, the seemingly lifeless battlefield stirred. Players rose from behind shattered vehicles, crawled out of shell holes, and even climbed out from beneath piles of corpses. Like countless streams converging into a river, they all charged toward the same destination.

Pyro joined them.

By the time he arrived, hundreds of players had already surrounded the target three deep.

Standing atop a mound of destroyed tanks was a player whose Carapace Armor looked identical to everyone else's. Yet the fact that his voice could reach thousands at once made it obvious he was one of the operation's commanders.

"Line up in an orderly fashion!" he shouted, his voice calm but commanding. "One at a time! One shot or one slash each! Don't worry about missing the EXP. Even if your anti-radiation meds wear off and you die, I'm the highest-ranking commander here. I guarantee everyone gets credit!"

The players immediately formed a queue with remarkable discipline.

This wasn't the first time the Legion had organized a "line up to shoot the boss." Everyone knew the routine.

A long line quickly stretched across the battlefield as rhythmic gunfire rang out one shot after another, steady and methodical, like the percussion of a grim funeral march.

Eventually, it was Pyro's turn.

The once-invincible ork warboss lay inside a massive crater. Its enormous body had been reduced to a mangled heap of flesh riddled with bullet holes, burn marks, and blade wounds. Green blood pooled beneath it, soaking into the shattered earth.

But Pyro wasn't fooled.

The commander hadn't called for the line to stop, and no one leaving the queue had celebrated receiving an EXP notification.

Which meant...

It wasn't dead yet.

Without hesitation, Pyro raised his laser rifle and fired at what remained of the warboss's head.

A crimson beam flashed.

Another smoking hole appeared in the ruined mass.

Satisfied, Pyro immediately stepped aside for the next player. There were still hundreds waiting behind him, and everyone understood the importance of keeping the line moving.

Leaving the crowd, he stood on a piece of twisted wreckage and scanned the battlefield.

During the previous assault, he had become separated from RNGesus and the rest of their squad. He hoped he might spot one of them, although the odds of finding anyone among thousands of players were practically nonexistent.

A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy. Looking for someone?"

Pyro turned.

The newcomer wore the same Carapace Armor as everyone else, making identification impossible until Pyro glanced at the floating name above the visor.

Ghostface.

The name meant nothing to him, which wasn't surprising. The player base had exploded recently; it was impossible to recognize everyone anymore.

"I'm looking for my friends," Pyro admitted. "We got split up during the last charge. I figured I'd see if we could regroup... but that's probably wishful thinking."

"Heh..."

Ghostface let out a strangely ambiguous chuckle.

"Then why don't you join my squad?"

Pyro hesitated.

Being alone on a battlefield this massive wasn't exactly a smart idea. A temporary team was better than none.

"...Sure."

Ghostface led him toward the quieter edge of the battlefield.

When Pyro saw the names floating above the others, he felt an inexplicable chill.

Freddy. Jason. Michael. Leatherface.

...

Had he accidentally joined a serial killer convention?

"Freddy," Ghostface called, "I found another one. We've got enough people now."

"About time," Freddy replied lazily.

The eight-man squad set off without another word, moving farther and farther away from the Legion's main force.

Pyro couldn't help asking,

"So... where exactly are we going?"

The further they walked, the more convinced he became that these lunatics were leading him somewhere isolated so they could reenact a horror movie by chopping him into pieces.

"You'll find out."

Ghostface's mysterious tone did absolutely nothing to reassure him.

Perhaps sensing Pyro's discomfort, Ghostface casually changed the subject.

"Say... do you have a favorite horror movie?"

Pyro thought for a moment.

"...Does Resident Evil count?"

"No!"

Ghostface reacted as though someone had stepped on his tail.

"Absolutely not! That's just a psychic superhuman mowing down brainless monsters! Where's the suspense? Where's the fear? I refuse to acknowledge it as horror. At best, it's an action gore film."

Pyro almost replied, Isn't that a little extreme?

Then he decided arguing about horror movies with someone named Ghostface probably wasn't worth the effort.

"...Then I guess I don't have one."

"What a shame."

Ghostface barely paused before starting another topic.

"Did you know the hive city is holding a Blade Feast?"

"A Blade Feast?" Pyro blinked. "You mean the Astartes arena matches? But doesn't our Legion only have Caleb and Andrew? How are they hosting one?"

"You seriously haven't heard?" Ghostface sounded genuinely shocked. "It's all over the forums. The Space Wolves showed up! A whole pack of Fenrisians! They're fighting Caleb and Andrew in the arena."

"Then... why aren't they helping on the front lines instead?"

"No idea."

Ghostface shrugged.

"But honestly, I'm glad they're not."

His voice suddenly became much more excited.

"This way..."

"I get to kill more people."

Pyro frowned.

"You mean earn more EXP?"

"No."

Ghostface slowly turned his helmet toward him.

"I don't care about EXP."

His face was hidden behind the visor, but Pyro could almost feel the smile beneath it.

"I mean literally killing people."

He spoke with unsettling enthusiasm.

"Do you know what it feels like? Driving a cold blade into the body of someone who's alive—someone who can think and feel? Feeling warm blood splash across your hands? Hearing them scream... beg... desperately cling to life?"

The hairs on the back of Pyro's neck stood on end.

He quietly took a step away.

"...Uh... have you ever considered getting a psychological evaluation?"

"Heh heh."

That same eerie chuckle echoed inside the comms.

"Don't worry."

"I'm taking my medication."