In the player-controlled meat grinder, the cultists suffered unimaginable casualties.
Perhaps this tiny position, located in a corner of the Lower Hive ruins, was but a grain of sand in the boundless desert of the entire hive city's brutal grand battlefield. It wouldn't even be marked on an Imperial General's strategic map, nor was it ever considered crucial in a Chaos Lord's grand plan.
But for every cultist present, those abstract concepts were too distant.
The laser that burned the air with a charred smell as it passed their ears; the bayonet that pierced their comrades' chests, bringing out warm entrails; the hot blood mixed with minced meat and bone fragments that splattered on their faces—all of this was ten thousand times more real than the eternal rewards promised by the cultist leadership, or the vast casualty figures of the overall battlefield.
They didn't understand.
These humble believers, promised a glorious future, were completely plunged into cognitive confusion.
They were the ones who had received the blessings of the dark Gods; they were the ones who had been promised that their souls would be reincarnated in the warp after death. So why… why did these lackeys, who should fear death and were bound by the decaying faith of the Corpse Emperor, act crazier, more violent, and more fearless than them?
They seemed to care nothing for their own lives, each charge carrying the resolve of mutual destruction. The expression on their faces wasn't fear, but a… difficult-to-understand excitement?
Their already shaky faith began to crumble inch by inch before this blood and flesh mill.
And when the Chaos Sorcerer Elias, ignoring the dissuasion of his subordinates, stubbornly insisted on having the troops make continuous, mindless charges, this collapse accelerated. Faced with meaningless, extremely cruel casualties, the cultists were completely shaken.
Finally, a cultist, after witnessing his last comrade's head being smashed by a flying club, completely broke down. He let out an inhuman shriek, threw away his weapon, and turned to flee for his life in the direction they had come from.
His action was like a stone thrown into stagnant water, instantly triggering a chain reaction.
"I'm not fighting anymore! I don't want to die!"
"Devils! They are devils!"
"Mommy!"
More and more cultists gave up their attack and joined the ranks of the fleeing. The rout spread like a plague; the previously chaotic charge line completely turned into a desperate, every-man-for-himself retreat.
From above, the Chaos Sorcerer Elias Holmes took it all in.
His face was as black as a pot, and the knuckles clutching his staff were white from excessive force. He watched his proud army crumble before his eyes, and the rage in his heart almost consumed his reason. Subconsciously, he wanted to find someone to bear the anger and responsibility for this failure.
He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the equally ashen-faced cultist Overseers and subordinates.
However, a fact that sent shivers down his spine surfaced in his mind.
From the start of the battle until now, from the first probing attack to the later utterly frenzied charges, all the orders… had been given by him alone.
His subordinates, from beginning to end, had perfectly obeyed his every command, even the "charge at all costs" order which now seemed utterly foolish to him. They faithfully carried out his will, driving the troops to their destruction.
Which meant that, even if someone were to be held responsible after the battle, the only one responsible would be him, Elias Holmes.
He couldn't find anyone to shift the blame to.
At this thought, Elias couldn't help but shiver. It wasn't from the cold wind of the hive city's lower levels, but from fear of the future. He knew very well that in the chaotic system, failures had no good end. His superiors, the true bigwigs, would never listen to any of his explanations; they would only punish his incompetence in the cruelest way.
No! This absolutely won't do!
"Idiots! All of you, stop!" Elias let out a roar imbued with psychic power, his voice seemingly exploding directly in the minds of every fleeing cultist. He sharply pointed backward, issuing a brutally cold order to the overseers beside him:
"Set up the heavy logging guns for me! Cowards, die!"
Several overseers trembled, their faces showing horror.
Of course, they had heavy logging guns. These were heavy weapons commonly deployed in the Astra Militarum, firing large-caliber solid rounds that could easily tear through the weak armor of vehicles, let alone the flesh and blood of mortals. But since the start of the battle, this great weapon had been kept hidden in the rear, never deployed in combat.
The reason was simple—these were expensive assets. If they were destroyed on the front line, Lord Elias would surely be punished by his superiors. As for those lowly believers, if they died, they died; like weeds, one crop cut down, another would grow, and no one would blame the commander for their lives.
Therefore, the true purpose of this powerful logging gun was never to suppress the enemy with firepower, but to supervise the battle. Its muzzle was always pointed at their own people.
The scar-faced overseer hesitated, opening his mouth as if to say something, but upon meeting Elias's murderous gaze, he immediately swallowed all his words and roared, "Yes, my lord! Quick! Point the logging guns at those cowards!"
The heavy gun body was quickly mounted on a tripod, its dark, cavernous muzzle, thicker than a man's fist, turned in the direction of their own people's retreat.
"Fire!"
"Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!"
Dull and terrifying gunshots echoed across the battlefield. This was not the sharp whine of a lasgun, but a colossal boom like a heavy hammer beating a drum. Each sound represented a deadly projectile being fired.
In the fleeing crowd of cultists, a corridor of flesh and blood suddenly erupted.
One cultist's upper body was directly torn in half by the immense kinetic energy; another cultist was kicked by an invisible giant, flying into the air and turning into a blurry mist of blood mid-flight. The projectile, after penetrating three or four people, still retained its momentum, plowing a deep furrow in the ground.
The scythe of death swung from behind, more efficient and more despair-inducing than the slaughter by the mad Astra Militarum in front.
At this, all the fleeing cultists froze.
They looked back and saw the heavy logging gun, spitting fire, set up on the high ground behind them, and the grim, cold faces of the overseers.
A cruel reality lay before them:
If they retreated, they would surely be riddled with holes by their own execution squad, dying without value.
If they continued to charge forward, facing that group of fearless monsters, though it was a near-certain death, perhaps they might survive?
The instinct for survival overrode everything.
"Aaaahhhhhh—!"
The surviving cultists let out a scream more piercing than ever before; there was no longer fanaticism in that sound, only pure fear and despair. They turned around, like a flock of sheep driven by sheepdogs, and once again, gritted their teeth, launching a new round of charges towards the players' position.
Watching this desperate tide forced forward by death, Elias's face showed no trace of guilt, only a morbid sense of satisfaction at being in control. He had successfully used the blood of his own people to build a dam against the rout.