After the last wave of tunnel raids was repelled, the battlefield temporarily returned to a fragile calm. The cultists in the distance seemed to be regrouping, with only sporadic gunshots and the wails of the wounded echoing across the position.
Commissar Walter wiped the blood from his Chainsword with his sleeve, his sharp gaze sweeping across the entire position, finally landing on the ogryn player, Cain, who was like a small giant. In the close-quarters combat just now, this big guy's performance was nothing short of heroic.
"Big guy, you come with me!" Commissar Walter's voice was loud and decisive.
Cain, who was squatting on the ground checking his fists, paused when he heard the call. His huge head scanned his surroundings, his gaze searching the ground, apparently intending to pick up the Lasgun he had dropped in his excitement earlier.
Seeing this, a barely perceptible hint of surprise flashed in Commissar Walter's eyes. He was once again taken aback by the ogryn's intelligence level; ordinary ogryns wouldn't have such clear tactical thinking as "retrieving one's weapon."
"No need to look for that Lasgun," Commissar Walter's voice softened slightly, "Just come with me."
Cain immediately realized that his subconscious action just now seemed a bit too clever. He quickly withdrew his gaze, forced a simple and honest smile, scratched the back of his head, and then strode clumsily towards the Commissar, trying to cover up his "intelligence leak" with his actions.
The remaining players watched Cain follow the Commissar towards the rear of the position and involuntarily gathered together again.
"What should we do next?" one of the players asked blankly, "Neither the Commissar nor the system has given new quests?"
Everyone's eyes turned to Robert in unison. His performance in previous analyses and battles had left most players with a deep impression of him as a "reliable smart person." Upon discovering such a brain in the team, many players naturally gave up on trying to think for themselves.
Robert didn't answer immediately. He first observed the surrounding environment, then pondered for a moment before speaking: "First, based on my observations, this production team is clearly trying to create an extremely realistic game; otherwise, they wouldn't put so much effort into some... disgusting details."
Recalling their journey so far: the troop transport vehicle that bounced enough to make them vomit, the extremely chaotic battlefield filled with explosions and screams, and the piles of corpses with bizarre thoughts and foul smells... the players subconsciously and wholeheartedly agreed with Robert's point.
Robert continued, "If we follow this logic, then what we should do next is naturally what one truly does on a warhammer battlefield after a battle... As for warhammer battlefields, according to the original descriptions, at least for the Astra Militarum, most of the time it hasn't escaped the scope of World War I trench warfare. Occasionally, there are armored cluster assaults, but at least in the Lower Hive slums where we are now, we certainly won't see such grand scenes."
He paused, then concluded, "That is to say, we should learn from our World War I trench warfare predecessors; whatever they did, we do."
"So what were our World War I trench warfare soldiers doing at this time?" a player asked cooperatively, raising his hand.
Robert slowly uttered two words: "Rest, and eat."
"Huh?" The questioning player and those around him were stunned.
"Trench warfare isn't about just squatting in a trench, with the enemy constantly charging and you constantly defending until one side is completely wiped out," Robert patiently explained. "In fact, the actual combat time is quite short compared to the periods of inactivity and boredom in the trenches.
Within a day, it's already impressive if the enemy can organize one or two decent charges. Perhaps warp daemons can charge continuously with unnatural power, but these flesh-and-blood cultists clearly cannot. In fact, the more organized a unit is, the more likely it is to retreat after realizing a situation is unwinnable, to plan the next attack, rather than blindly charging and exhausting its effective strength."
Robert's lengthy explanation left the players half-understanding, but one thing they did grasp.
"So," someone summarized, "we're likely to have nothing to do for the next few hours in this game?"
Robert was silent for a while, then finally replied with some uncertainty, "I think... yes."
Just then, a rough, strong hand rested on Robert's shoulder. An Astra Militarum veteran with a scarred face and tired but steady eyes had appeared beside their small circle at some point.
"No," the veteran said in a hoarse voice, "There's one thing you must do."
The players immediately tensed up. While the extreme realism of this game was somewhat torturous, they had to admit that they were already somewhat immersed in their roles. In an instant, the classic "veteran rookie crusher" trope flooded their minds.
They began to secretly brace themselves: Was this about to be a shakedown? If so, they would have to fight back. Dying in the game was acceptable, but being humiliated by an NPC was absolutely not!
However, the veteran made no further moves, merely pointing with his other hand in the direction behind them, where someone was boiling something unknown in a pot: "It's time to eat, recruits."
As soon as the veteran's words, "It's time to eat, recruits," came out, it was as if a switch had been flipped, and the players belatedly felt a strong sense of emptiness in their stomachs. The previous tense battle and adrenaline rush had masked everything, but now that they relaxed, hunger surged like a tide.
"Damn it, even the hunger is this realistic?" a player exclaimed, clutching his stomach, marveling once again at the game's realism.
They followed the veteran to a relatively safe spot behind the position. There, a huge field cauldron was set up, with firewood scavenged from who-knows-where burning underneath, and a quartermaster, also with a weathered face, was stirring the pot with a large iron ladle.
The players each took a dirty metal bowl from the supply crate and lined up to approach. The pot contained a thick, grayish-brown paste, all blended into one color, with some unidentified oil slicks floating on top, and a strange smell, a mixture of fishiness and some kind of spice, wafted towards them.
"What... what is this being cooked?" The player at the front cautiously peered into the pot and asked the veteran in charge of cooking, "The legendary corpse starch?"
Upon hearing the question, the veteran holding the ladle grinned, revealing a missing front tooth, and chuckled, his voice hoarse: "Meat!"
"Meat?"
The player shook the bowl he had just filled; in the viscous soup, there indeed seemed to be a few pieces of coarse, unidentified meat. At this point, the other Astra Militarum Soldiers waiting in line began to urge them impatiently, so the players had no choice but to stop asking questions, quickly filled their bowls, and walked to the side.
They gathered in a circle, looking at each other and at the extremely unappetizing "food" in their bowls.
A player with the ID Pvt. Forest Maverick took a deep breath, an expression of facing death etched on his face: "I'll go first! Wish me luck guys!"
He closed his eyes, scooped a small mouthful of soup with his spoon, and tremblingly brought it to his mouth.
A few seconds later, he froze, then opened his eyes in disbelief: "Huh? It seems... there's nothing wrong with it?"
"Really?" The other players expressed their doubts, "How could Warhammer food be fine? Shouldn't it be made of engine oil and sawdust?"
However, seeing Maverick take another big gulp, even smacking his lips as if it tasted quite good, everyone's doubts wavered. With the first person to try it, the others also plucked up their courage and, half-believing, took a sip.
A salty, somewhat coarse but definitely meaty broth taste spread in their mouths.
The taste was actually... quite normal?
Their tense nerves and empty stomachs were greatly soothed by the warm soup. So, everyone no longer hesitated and began to drink heartily. By the time the players had all drunk at least half, and some bolder ones had even started chewing on the rather tough pieces of meat, Robert suddenly let out a short, sharp shriek.
"Ah!"
This scream made everyone's movements freeze. They looked over with a bad premonition, only to see Robert holding something between two fingers, but then quickly throwing it to the ground. It wasn't a piece of meat, but a piece of shredded cloth.
A piece of cloth they were very familiar with, a gray-green camouflage fabric. To be precise, it was a piece of the Astra Militarum uniform they were currently wearing, beneath their flak armor.
Generally speaking, if a piece of uniform is found in a soup pot, then its owner should also be nearby.
A terrifying thought struck all the players' minds like lightning. They stiffly lowered their heads, looking at the so-called "meat chunks" in their bowls.
"Ugh—!"
Maverick, the first to react, was the first to lose it. He spun around abruptly, clutching the dirt wall of the trench, and began to retch violently.
His reaction was like a signal, instantly triggering a chain reaction.
"Ugh..." "Wah—!"
A chorus of dry heaves rose from a corner of the position. The players threw down their bowls, their stomachs churning. Some vomited the soup they had just drunk, while others merely retched sour bile in vain, their faces pale.
Coming from an era of peace, they now deeply felt the undisguised, nauseating, extreme malice of this universe.