Chapter 129: Nuclear Cover (Patreon)

Robert leaned back in his chair at the command center, his fingers rhythmically tapping the desk as he stared at the holographic display before him. On the screen, a post on the official forum was climbing the popularity rankings at an astonishing pace.

Its title was simple and direct:

The Ultimate Solution for the Drukhari

Poster: Pyro

Robert opened the thread and quickly skimmed its bizarre, almost unbelievable account. It described an accidental encounter with the Ghost Mask Squad, using the severed head of a cultist as a ritual catalyst, and ultimately summoning a Greater Daemon of Slaanesh to drag the Drukhari away.

"...The Drukhari were actually dealt with like this?"

He couldn't help but chuckle, equal parts astonished and amused.

"I honestly thought we'd have to rely on the Space Wolves—or spend months, maybe even a year, fighting them on Perditia before eliminating the threat."

He wasn't particularly concerned that the story might be fabricated.

If it were false, the Drukhari would eventually appear exactly as predicted, and the post would become the biggest joke on the forums. Given its current popularity, nearly every player had already seen it.

Besides, forum accounts and in-game identities were permanently linked. If someone lied on this scale, they'd become infamous everywhere they went. They could practically forget about enjoying the game again.

"...Still, for the Inquisitor's sake, I'd better not leave a written record of this in-game."

Robert stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"The methods involved are just a little too heretical. If he happened to read it... I might have to silence him."

Krona had one overwhelming regret.

He never should have agreed to assault the ork lines aboard a Helldivers Legion Valkyrie.

These mortals were completely insane.

"Too low! Too low!"

Inquisitor Herbert clung desperately to a handrail inside the troop compartment, his face twisted with the expression of a man who hadn't had a proper bowel movement in weeks.

"I swear I can hear those greenskins drooling!" he shouted, pounding on the cockpit door. "Can you please climb higher? At least a hundred meters off the ground!"

The pilot's calm voice crackled over the intercom.

"We're only thirty meters up. Relax, I've got this."

He sounded as though he were discussing the weather.

"Ultra-low-altitude flight is where the fun begins. The lower you fly, the better the pilot. If I climbed any higher, the guys back home would laugh me out of the squadron."

"By the Emperor!" Herbert roared.

"That's not flying—that's attempted murder!"

The Valkyrie suddenly rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding a rocket that screamed past the cockpit. Everyone inside was violently thrown against the walls.

"Enough."

Krona steadied himself with practiced ease, refusing to lose his footing despite the violent maneuver.

"As warriors of the Helldivers Legion, they must have their reasons for flying this way."

He folded his arms.

"They are true warriors. I trust them."

Even as he spoke, however, he silently swore to himself:

Never again.

If he survived today, he would never board another aircraft piloted by the Helldivers.

Not under any circumstances.

Herbert, meanwhile, looked as though storm clouds had gathered over his face.

As an Inquisitor, he had imagined his own death countless times.

Perhaps his secret daemonology would one day be exposed, earning him a solemn trial before being burned as an arch-heretic.

Perhaps he would fall gloriously while hunting the Emperor's enemies.

Perhaps the whispers of the Warp would eventually corrupt him, forcing another Inquisitor to execute him in the Emperor's name.

Every possibility carried dignity.

Every possibility suited the fate of an Inquisitor.

But nowhere—not once—had he imagined dying in an accidental aircraft crash.

The Helldivers' flying style was simply too outrageous.

The Valkyrie skimmed past the side of a mountain so closely that rock fragments rattled against the hull.

Even Krona—a battle-hardened Space Wolf—felt his stomach lurch.

He briefly wondered whether he was about to vomit perfectly good Fenrisian mead.

At last, the pilot's cheerful whistle echoed over the intercom.

"Alright, passengers. Destination's coming up."

Every soul in the transport breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Finally.

They were getting off this Emperor-forsaken flying cement mixer.

With a thunderous clang, the rear ramp lowered.

Blinding sunlight poured into the cabin.

So did the deafening cry:

"WAAAGH!"

An endless sea of green stretched to the horizon.

Countless greenskins surged below, shoving one another as they roared and waved crude weapons overhead, forming a living ocean of muscle, iron, and violence.

The Valkyrie hovered less than thirty meters above them.

One thought crossed everyone's mind simultaneously.

How had this lunatic pilot managed to avoid crashing—or being shot down—through all of that?

Had he heard them, he probably would have shrugged.

Get shot down a dozen times and you'll fly like this too.

The moment the ramp fully opened, everyone jumped without hesitation.

"For Russ!"

"For the Allfather!"

The Space Wolves hurled themselves into the horde.

Chainswords howled.

Power axes flashed.

Greenskin bodies fell apart beneath them as effortlessly as butter beneath a heated blade.

At the head of the assault, Krona swung his massive frost axe in great sweeping arcs.

Each strike carved a crimson path through the horde, sending bodies and severed limbs flying in every direction.

Surprisingly, Herbert proved no less terrifying.

"For the Emperor!"

He thrust out one hand.

Blinding psychic lightning erupted from his palm, branching through tightly packed ranks of orks before exploding into brilliant arcs of white-blue energy.

Dozens of greenskins were reduced to smoking ash in an instant.

Then—

A second sun rose on the distant horizon.

A blinding flash engulfed the battlefield.

Moments later, an immense mushroom cloud climbed into the sky.

The earth trembled.

A wall of dust and a violent shockwave rolled across the plains.

The Space Wolves merely staggered before planting their boots once more. Their heavy ceramite armor absorbed the worst of the blast, while Herbert raised a psychic barrier that split the incoming shockwave around him.

The orks, however, enjoyed no such protection.

The explosion hurled thousands from their feet.

Those who survived immediately trampled one another in blind panic, turning disciplined chaos into complete disorder.

Krona threw back his head and laughed.

A booming, wolfish laugh rolled across the battlefield.

"Hahaha! I like the Helldivers' style!"

"Nuclear fire support is far better than artillery!"

"It almost feels like a Titan is fighting beside us!"

He raised his axe high overhead.

"Wolf Guard!"

"Charge!"

The answering roar shook the battlefield.

"For Russ!"

"For the Allfather!"