In front of the fire station.
The scattered limbs and shattered flesh painted a hellish tableau, bearing witness to the short yet brutal clash that had just taken place.
The Glory warriors silently lowered their bolt rifles, checking remaining magazines and ensuring there were no more active threats nearby.
Amid the bloodied mist and carnage, over a dozen infected lay twitching on the fractured concrete, incapacitated by high-voltage shock rounds.
One of them still clung to a shred of consciousness, spewing vile madness mixed with blood and froth:
"Hahaha, you whores... her womb is mine...!"
The words were fragmented, but so drenched in lunacy they bordered on a curse.
The Glory warriors remained unfazed.
Only one, younger than the rest, approached with quiet displeasure, lifted a power-armored boot, and stomped on the man's ribs—enough to knock him fully unconscious.
Leroia wasted no time.
Switching to a private comm channel, she gave a steady, concise report:
"Forward Base, this is Leroia. Coordinates confirmed—Portage la Prairie, Old-Era Canadian territory.
Situation critical. We've encountered large-scale abnormal civilian clusters exhibiting extreme self-harm behavior and anomalous resistance to injury. Facial markings include cross-shaped pustules.
Preliminary assessment suggests a high probability of plague outbreak.
We've captured over a dozen infected subjects alive. Request immediate dispatch of Bio Division Special Operations for containment, transport, and quarantine."
A few seconds of silence followed before a response crackled through, grave and clear:
"Received, Glory Legion. Special Ops en route. ETA: fifteen minutes.
Commander Vitellius and all personnel are required to undergo full decontamination procedures and post-mission quarantine for infection screening."
"Understood."
Leroia replied coldly, then cut the transmission.
Raising her hand, she issued new orders:
"Four stay behind. Set up a perimeter. Do not let a single infected escape. If any show signs of aggression, sever their limbs immediately.
The rest of you, with me. We're breaching the fire station to assess internal status."
"Yes, Commander!"
The Glory warriors split instantly. Four formed a guard formation around the unconscious infected, weapons aimed, ready to fire at a moment's notice.
The remaining two fell into formation behind Leroia, their steps heavy and imposing.
The fire station's main entrance had been buckled and bent inward by the earlier assault. Crude wooden barricades barely offered any resistance.
Without hesitation, Leroia slammed her magnetic boot down. Using her momentum, she delivered a crushing kick.
BOOM—!
The reinforced iron door caved in with an earsplitting bang, shattering on impact.
Splinters and iron shards scattered. Some metal fragments struck the walls, sending sparks flying.
"Breach!"
The two Glory warriors immediately darted inside, helmet screens scanning the dim interior.
Leroia followed, her power sword slightly unsheathed, its blade glowing faintly with cold blue energy in the dark.
The first floor of the station reeked of mold and blood. Peeling walls, shell casings scattered across dried bloodstains.
Makeshift defenses had been overturned. Furniture and sandbags lay in ruin—echoes of a final, desperate stand.
"Full sweep."
Her voice was icy. Behind the visor, her gaze cut through the darkness like a blade.
The Glory warriors split up in practiced formation, movements silent and precise, gun barrels sweeping every angle.
Their helmet beams sliced through shadows, exposing every corner.
Every breath echoed through the helmet filters, amplified like thunder in the silence.
Then—faint noises from above.
Dragging steps? Labored breathing?
Leroia lifted her head slightly, her eyes locking onto the stairs. Her HUD mapped the upper level in 3D, highlighting potential unidentified life signals.
"Movement on the second floor. Watch your fire—avoid collateral damage."
WHRRR—~!!
As she spoke, she fully unsheathed her power sword. Its hum filled the corridor like a death knell.
She ascended the staircase slowly, her silhouette merging with the shadows, the embodiment of a reaper climbing toward her quarry.
Each step caused the metal stairs to tremble faintly, echoing hollowly through the darkened level.
She reached the top step and swept her gaze across the floor.
Unlike the ground level, the second floor had been a living and rest area, now hastily converted into a shelter.
Dim emergency lights flickered on and off. Smoke stains and blood streaked the walls. The air was thick with sweat, mildew, and lingering gunpowder.
Corridors were lined with scattered supply crates and battered green duffel bags. Torn food packages mixed with dust and blood, releasing a foul stench.
Wood scraps and broken furniture had been stacked into crude barricades.
The floor was littered with crushed water bottles, empty cans, and other refuse—clear signs of long-term occupation.
At first glance, the place seemed empty, deathly still, save for the wind outside the shattered windows.
But Leroia knew better.
The gunfire from earlier hadn't been a hallucination. And her heightened senses told her someone was here—hiding.
Her gaze locked onto a door at the far end of the right hallway.
Old wooden, battle-scarred, and smoke-stained. A worn plaque above read "Firefighter Dormitory."
Behind it, the air seemed dense. Faint heartbeats and breath patterns—growing clearer in her ears.
"Right-side room."
She spoke curtly.
A Glory warrior nodded, magnetic boots thudding as he surged forward.
Built like a mountain, his armor still gleamed in the gloom. He raised an armored elbow and drove it into the door.
WHAM—!
The wooden door shattered. Lock and frame exploded in a spray of splinters.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunshots erupted instantly from within. Low-caliber rounds zipped out, muzzle flashes strobing the tight space.
WHIRR—WHIRR—!
But the bullets bounced harmlessly off the Glory warrior's active shield, sparking brilliantly in the dark corridor.
PING! PING!
Ricochets clanged off walls and ceilings, narrowly missing everyone inside—but miraculously harming none.
"F***!!"
"DO OR DIE—!"
"RUN!"
Panicked screams rang out.
Three men in tattered firefighting gear burst from the room.
Their eyes were filled with desperation and madness. Armed with fire axes and steel pry bars, they charged like cornered beasts.
CLANG—!
One axe slammed into the warrior's chest armor—it didn't budge.
Another swung a pry bar, only to be blocked effortlessly by the warrior's raised arm—metal on metal, sparks flying.
The third tried to flank but was stopped mid-air by the warrior's extended arm.
They gave it everything—but couldn't move the steel colossus holding them at bay. A mere flex pinned them in place, unable to even twitch.
Inside the room, the full scene was now visible.
And it was tragic.
What used to be a tidy dorm had been wrecked into a makeshift barricade. Behind it, over a dozen survivors huddled together.
Mostly the elderly, women, and children. They shrank in the shadows—clothes torn, faces hollow, eyes filled with fear and stubborn defiance.
Their cries were stifled, replaced by gasping sobs and shaking breaths.
In front of them, the last line of defense—several adults still able to stand.
Aside from the three firefighters who charged, there was a middle-aged man in a torn police uniform. His empty pistol trembled in his hand, sweat streaking his scarred face.
He still pointed it at Leroia and the warriors—though he had no bullets left.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Gunpowder, sweat, and tension thickened the air.
Leroia stood at the door. Her helmet light swept across each face.
She saw hatred. Despair. And... a sliver of hope.
She didn't speak at first—just watched, weighing their condition, their worth.
The three firefighters still fought back, shouting:
"Bastards! Don't hurt them!"
"Come at me instead!"
But their fury sounded pathetic against the unyielding armor of the Glory warrior.
Leroia narrowed her eyes. Cold, deep, sharp as a blade.
And then she spoke.
"We are not your enemy."
Her voice, filtered through the helmet, was deep and unwavering. It carried authority—but also reassurance.
"We are the Glory Legion of the Human Empire." Her words rang through the dorm like iron, smashing fear apart. "You have nothing to fear. We're here to rescue our fellow humans. To purge heresy. To eliminate abominations."
Just a few words—yet they ignited the faintest flame in the hearts of the survivors.
The old, the young, the women—once trembling in the corners—began to calm. The children's sobs faded, their eyes uncertain, yet drawn to these armored figures.
The three exhausted firefighters slowly withdrew. Stumbling back, breath ragged, a mixture of relief and helplessness in their eyes.
They still watched warily—but their rage had cooled.
Leroia wasn't surprised.
After what they'd faced—monsters so twisted they barely resembled humans—any normal person would be on the verge of breakdown.
And her squad, clad in towering armor, faceless, inhumanly strong, stood as a terrifying reminder of that divide.
She did not remove her helmet.
On a world tainted by plague and chaos, any exposure was dangerous. The infection vectors were unknown. The connection to the Warp, uncertain.
Even with her superior physique, she couldn't assume she was immune to every unknown virus.
Caution was the only viable path.
"Watch them," she ordered plainly.
The warrior who'd taken the assault nodded. He positioned himself near the civilians—not threatening, but as a shield between them and the unknown.
Leroia turned and walked back toward the stairs.
Her heavy steps echoed down the empty corridor, slowly fading until they disappeared entirely.
When she stepped outside again, the air still stank of blood.
Bodies and limbs littered the street like grotesque sculptures, a silent record of the battle that had just been fought.
The stench was thick, sickly sweet with rot, clinging to the lungs.
She stood with hands behind her back, raising her eyes to the sky.
Soon, the low hum of engines reached her ears.
Faint at first. Then louder. Closer.
Silhouettes pierced the clouds.
Two sharp-edged assault shuttles dove first, their dark hulls spreading like raptor wings. Behind them, a mid-sized transport ship descended steadily, its belly lights flashing like a beast's gaping maw.
WHOOOSH—!
The engines stirred the air into a howling vortex. Dust, debris, and blood were lifted into a swirling white-gray cyclone.
Crumbling buildings groaned under the turbulent wind.
The assault shuttles hovered, turrets scanning in slow arcs, red targeting beams sweeping across every surface, every crevice under threat.
The transport ship landed next, massive hull casting a shadow over the street. The ground trembled beneath its weight. Gravel rolled underfoot.
THUNK—SSSSK—!
Hydraulics hissed. The ramp opened with a booming roar.
And from within stepped ranks of white-armored figures.
The Bio Division's Special Operations Unit.
Their armor was sleeker than the Glory warriors', lined with detection modules and chemical reservoirs. Glowing green symbols on their chests marked their role—not to fight, but to contain, research, and control.
Behind them came rolling containment pods.
Reinforced, transparent, glowing with sterile white light. Mobile, icy prison cells built for infected captives.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
For every 50 Power Stones, one extra chapter will be released on Saturday.