In a forward trench position, toxic mist clung to every surface like a film of grease.
A Helldiver player—covered in dried black blood and yellow-green pus—silently cleared the carbon buildup from his rifle chamber.
He then walked up to the commissar, who was reviewing a tactical map. After a moment's hesitation, he spoke up: "Commissar, I probably won't be logging in for the next few days. If this body dies, don't bother salvaging it or keeping watch over it. Just strip my gear for the other guys."
The commissar paused, lowering his dataslate. Given the game's absurd time dilation, a "few days" in reality translated to a month worth of days in-game. For a game accessed simply by sleeping, a prolonged absence was virtually a quit announcement.
"What's wrong, man?" the commissar asked quickly. "Trouble in the real world? Speak up if there is. We've ducked in the same trenches and blocked bullets together. If you're facing financial trouble or anything else, we can all chip in to help if it's within our power."
Noticing the conversation, several resting Helldivers gathered around with concerned expressions. "Yeah, Freeman, what's going on? Why the sudden quit?"
"You don't look like you're in a rush either. Now that I think about it, your energy's been low these past few days. You haven't been as active killing mobs."
The Freeman sighed. He removed his gas mask, which hissed through its rebreather valve, revealing a weary face. Though it was a character model, the mental exhaustion was genuine.
"Honestly... it's nothing big. It just feels like such a chore now."
He pointed to their surroundings with a bitter smile. "Don't you guys feel it? Every breath smells like rot. Even with the filtration system, you can't get rid of that psychological disgust. Breaths are heavy, and taking off the helmet feels like the poison fog will burn through your throat. The moment you open your eyes, you see disgusting pus, fat maggots, and pimple-covered zombies."
"At first, such a realistic battlefield gave me an unmatched rush. Back then, my favorite thing was charging in with a crowbar to smack zombies. The feedback of steel hitting flesh was amazing. You guys know I used to push the hardest."
The player paused, his eyes dimming slightly. "But after playing for so long, the initial novelty and positive feedback fade, leaving only physical and mental fatigue. Maybe plenty of people love this hardcore combat high, but for me... how should I put it?
The suffering exceeds my threshold. Logging in every day just to smell rot and look at decaying flesh is truly draining."
Silence fell over the gathered players.
The game's realism was indeed off the charts—so high that it was hard to tell whether one was enjoying it or serving a sentence. Facing an enemy like Nurgle inflicted severe mental strain.
The commissar found himself in a tight spot.
In the past, whether for players stuck on Peditia or veterans who had left the planet as full-fledged Helldivers, quitting was just a matter of saying the word. Games were meant for fun; no one could force anyone to stay.
But current circumstances were different. Peditia hung by a thread, with the Death Guard and the zombie horde pressing down hard. Every rifle and every player counted. Losing one player added pressure to the entire defense line.
Yet forcing someone to stay against their will was impossible. It was a game, after all; if someone wanted to log off, no one could stop them.
Sensing the commissar's dilemma, the player patted his lasgun and offered: "How about this? Let's fight one more round. I see red dots on the radar again. Once we repel the next horde, I'll log off. Consider it my final shift."
"Alright, thanks a lot," the others nodded in agreement.
Despite reaching a consensus, the atmosphere in the trench noticeably dipped. A sense of burnout spread like a contagion. Unspoken thoughts echoed in everyone's minds: What's the point of fighting dead bodies in a mud pit every single day?
Watching this unfold, the commissar grew anxious, yet he couldn't think of a quick way to lift morale.
Right then, a sharp alarm shattered the silence.
"Enemy attack! Dead ahead, three hundred meters!"
Shaking off their apathy, the Helldivers lined up along the trench edge, weapons raised. At the edge of vision, the nauseating green tide surged forward again, spearheaded by several massive, mutated Plaguebreeds that radiated immense pressure.
Just as everyone prepared to pull their triggers for another tedious round of shooting, the side mist was torn apart by a blue whirlwind.
"Courage and Honor! For Macragge!"
Accompanying the thunderous war cry, a squad of giants clad in cobalt-blue power armor burst onto the battlefield like gods descending. It was a squad from the Ultramarines Second Company, led by Cato Sicarius.
It was an art of slaughter—decisive and pristine!
The roar of bolters sounded like thunder, each round precisely detonating a zombie head with zero waste. Chainswords came alive in their hands, carving through flesh and blood with every swing, yet executed with the elegance of a waltz of death.
The Plaguebreeds that had given players endless trouble had their spines crushed by power fists in a single clash or half their bodies instantly vaporized by melta guns.
Within minutes, the roaring horde was shattered by the blue iron tide.
"Holy shit..."
The players in the trench stared in awe, forgetting to fire.
"That's so badass!"
"Now that is a Space Marine! Look at the armor sheen, the fluidity of movement—it's like a cinematic!"
That raw display of power and beauty instantly swept away the disgust and depression of the battlefield.
Freeman—who had been dead set on quitting moments ago—swallowed hard. Eyes glued to an Ultramarine executing a zombie in the distance, he turned and asked: "Commissar... didn't someone on the forums say our Helldiver Corps has an Astartes Chapter too? The Martyr Chapter, was it?"
A spark ignited in the commissar's mind.
Here was the chance!
He cleared his throat and announced in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: "That's right! Our Martyr Chapter[1] has always been active, and they are currently expanding their ranks! Though slots are limited, we have a strict, transparent selection process!"
Pointing toward the inspiring figures in the distance, the commissar called out enticingly: "As long as you meet the criteria, anyone has the chance to undergo gene-seed surgery, don armor, and become a Space Marine like them! No more poison gas, just a superhuman body!"
"What are the criteria?" Players swarmed around him, their eyes gleaming.
The commissar raised two fingers: "First, venture into the wilderness alone armed with only a tactical knife, and bring back ten Ork heads!"
"Second, survive a thirty-minute hand-to-hand sparring session against an unarmored, bare-knuckled Astartes without being knocked down!"
"Complete both challenges in sequence without using the system shop, and you are guaranteed a surgery slot to become an Angel of Death for the Emperor!"
The trench erupted.
"Damn, soloing greenskins with a knife? Now that's a challenge!"
"Brawling with an Astartes for half an hour? That's brutal, but I love it!"
Freeman rubbed his chin, the fatigue in his eyes replaced by a sharp glint. He muttered under his breath: "Man... sounds tough, but if I grind out the mechanics, it's not totally impossible. If I can wear that power armor, what does a little stink matter?"
Watching his renewed vigor, the commissar smiled knowingly and asked: "So, bro? Still quitting after this round?"
The player promptly strapped his gas mask back on, racked his rifle bolt, and declared with solemn dignity: "Quit? Who said anything about quitting?
I was only joking just now! For the Emperor, help me up—I can still fight!"
[1] Also known as the Hell Legion or the Libertas Chapter