If the crushing victory over the traitor auxiliary forces in the first encounter was only an appetizer, then pushing deep into the abandoned industrial zone of Sisyphus III finally made Scorchwind understand what it meant to be "the Emperor's silver coin." No, scratch that. The Emperor's gold coin. The limited-edition kind.
He piloted the Ultramarine in a tight triangular formation with two AI teammates, racing along the preset route toward the signal source of the first ritual altar.
The resistance they met along the way barely qualified as a battle. It was a clean, lopsided slaughter carried out with bolters and chainswords.
Lasguns and solid-round weapons from the traitor auxiliaries struck his power armor like rain hitting tank plating. They did nothing but make annoying clanging sounds and leave shallow scratches.
Every so often, rocket launchers or heavy bolters would spring an ambush from the shadows, but Scorchwind's slowed perception always let him react at the critical moment.
A quick sliding sidestep. His massive frame kicked up a burst of wind as the rocket skimmed past his shoulder guard and detonated behind him in a fireball. The shockwave barely made him wobble.
His counterattack, on the other hand, was flawlessly lethal.
Visual lock. Raise the gun. Pull the trigger.
The entire sequence happened in a flash. Under what had to be some kind of server-side differential processing, everything around him slowed down.
The panicked faces of the traitor soldiers, fingers tightening on triggers, awkward attempts to dodge. All of it moved as though trapped in thick syrup.
The bolter's crosshairs barely needed adjustment. Guided by superhuman reflexes and instinct, he made tiny corrections with the muzzle.
Boom.
The target's upper body exploded.
Switch targets. Lock again. Pull the trigger.
Boom.
Another one dropped.
When he ran into squads stubbornly dug in behind cover, Scorchwind did not even bother with suppressive fire.
He holstered his bolter, drew his chainsword, and under covering fire from his AI teammates, launched into a short, explosive charge.
Heavy power boots shattered the ground. He covered dozens of meters in two seconds, crashing into the enemy line like a blue hurricane.
The roar of the chainsword became the only sound that mattered. A horizontal sweep, a vertical cleave, a thrust. Every movement carried overwhelming force.
The traitors' armor tore apart like paper, their bodies like rotten wood. Severed limbs and organs flew through the air, blood splashing across the already filthy ground and turning it an even darker red.
Occasionally, desperate traitors would yank grenade pins and rush him, but Scorchwind would either kick them into the air or block with the shield on his armored forearm. The explosions only caused his shield value to dip slightly.
In close combat, the sensation of enemy movements being slowed tenfold was even more pronounced.
Entrenching tools, bayonets, even power axes swung by the traitors were riddled with openings. He could clearly see the tension in their muscles and the arcs of their attacks, easily parrying and deflecting before delivering the wet thud and tearing grind of his chainsword biting into flesh.
"Holy hell, this is…" Even Scorchwind was stunned by the sheer efficiency of it.
As he carved through enemies like a hot knife through butter, he spoke to his livestream. "Guys, this feeling… it's ridiculous. This isn't combat. This is just… a parade with weapons. No, demolition with guns."
Was it exhilarating? Explosively so.
This was the most primal, most direct kind of gaming pleasure, built entirely on absolute stat superiority. There was no need for fancy tactics, no careful resource management, no fear of getting deleted by a random shot.
He was a walking catastrophe on the battlefield, a steel nightmare the traitors could not even begin to understand.
The chat had already shifted from stunned disbelief into a chaotic flood of jokes and disbelief:
"Scorchwind is going OFF!"
"Traitors: What did we even do to deserve this?"
"Pure stat gap!"
"Did Medici just throw balance out the window?"
"Play traitors and get crushed by the Astra Militarum. Play Genestealers and get hunted by the Mechanicus and Titans. Now the Imperium side is basically Super Saiyans?"
"Besides numbers, do these Astartes even have weaknesses?"
"Weakness: Too handsome. Easy to get addicted."
"Streamer, streamer, I'm double-jointed. Can I play Space Marines?"
"Damn. Guy above flexing just because he's talented. I hereby declare the most cracked Astartes player has been born."
More serious players began breaking things down:
"The server has to be doing special processing. Astartes clients probably get higher-priority state updates and faster command responses, while enemy actions are slowed from their perspective to simulate superhuman reflexes."
"This tech could be used to balance competitive play, but instead they turned it into a pure power fantasy…"
"Probably for the finals spectacle. They want to show off the new faction's strength."
"But honestly, it's hype as hell. I want to play Astartes too."
Scorchwind did not have the attention to spare for chat. He was fully immersed in an unprecedented sense of total control.
Their advance was blisteringly fast. The scattered pockets of traitors along the route posed no real threat at all.
Before long, they reached the area housing the first altar. It was a massive abandoned factory, now converted into a blood-soaked gladiatorial arena.
Even from a distance, they could hear the insane battle cries, clashing weapons, and a low psychic hum that set the blood boiling. The air was thick with the heavy stench of blood and sulfur.
Scorchwind glanced at his status panel. His kill count had already reached 87. His health was still full.
His shield value had dropped by about a third from several direct rocket hits and explosions, but it was already regenerating on its own.
"Almost a hundred kills, and I haven't lost a single hit point." He shook his head, finding it absurd even by his own standards. "At this difficulty, what are the enemies even supposed to do?"
The towering blue-and-gold figure dragged his chainsword forward, its low rumble echoing as he stepped into the killing hall of blood and brass, saturated with Khorne psychic energy.
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~ Push the story forward with your Power Stones