The Pedetia front, Highland 312.
This was one of the key positions holding back Nurgle's zombie tide. The air reeked of ozone and rotten flesh scorched by lasfire. Blood and pus had soaked the trench dirt dark brown, and every step made a sticky squelch that set teeth on edge.
When the advance troops of the 117th Steel Vanguard Regiment finally climbed out of the communication trench and appeared in the position, the exhausted remnants of the garrison, busy changing their Lasgun magazines, visibly heaved a sigh of relief.
A player covered in mud approached them, a prominent scratch across his gas mask. Judging by his shoulder insignia, he was the highest-ranking commander left here—a company commander.
"You're finally here. The 117th Steel Vanguard Regiment, right?" The company commander's voice came over the crackling comms, carrying a hint of relief at having survived. "Any later, and another wave of zombies would've finished us. That last wave of Plague Zombies got into the trenches and right in our faces."
The Iron Vanguard's regimental commander, whose ID was "Shield Parry Artist," did not answer immediately. Instead, he surveyed the devastated highland. Fewer than two hundred people stood scattered across the position, with severed limbs everywhere.
"You've got hardly anyone left," he said with a frown. "Where's the main body of your regiment?"
"Don't even ask. Our regimental commander was on the front line and got taken out almost as soon as the fighting started." The company commander spread his hands helplessly and pointed toward an area shrouded in green toxic fog. "Honestly, your odds of getting hit are pretty much the same wherever you stand here. The only difference is whether it's a mortar shell or a gas round. He was just unlucky. The moment he poked his head out to give