Players' First Deaths

The search through the pile of corpses did not last long. About ten minutes into the countdown, every Player had managed to find a usable Lasgun.

Most of these weapons were battle-damaged, each with its own unique "personality." Some were missing their stocks, making shoulder firing especially awkward; some had casings covered in scratches and dents, as though they might fall apart at any moment; others had crooked sights, making it obvious that aiming would have to rely on instinct. Fortunately, all their system panels displayed [Quality: Worn], so there was at least no risk of the barrels exploding.

While picking out weapons, two or three Players seemed to recall that famous Warhammer meme—"the Emperor's loyal melee fighters." They spent a little extra time removing bayonets from corpses and fixing them onto the muzzles of their newly acquired Lasguns. Ruan Wenbo was one of them. He felt that on a battlefield this chaotic, it never hurt to have another option prepared.

Carrying their respective "new equipment," the Players instinctively lined up in front of Commissar Walter as if awaiting inspection.

Walter stared at them blankly for a moment, then the veins on his forehead bulged as he roared, "What are you all standing in front of me for?! Find cover! Do you want to be live targets?!"

Startled awake by the shout, the Players finally realized this was not some high school military training exercise. They scattered at once, each searching for somewhere that might keep them alive. Several hid behind half-collapsed prefabricated walls, while more simply jumped into deeper-looking shell craters and trenches, exposing only their heads and half their gun barrels.

Just as all the Players had made their preparations and held their breath, the Cultists' attack arrived right on cue.

First came the sound.

A shrill, warped horn blast carried over from afar, as though it would tear apart their eardrums. Then, at the edge of the horizon, tens of thousands of voices merged into a torrent of noise that made their scalps tingle—it was frenzied prayer, bloodthirsty battle cries, hymns offered to the Dark Gods.

Then they appeared.

Like a swarm of ants, countless ragged figures poured out from the distant ruins and drifting smoke. Waving industrial machetes, spiked steel pipes, and all manner of improvised weapons, their faces twisted with fanaticism, they trampled over their comrades' corpses and charged desperately toward the Astra Militarum position.

"Fire! Fire at will!"

Commissar Walter blew a piercing whistle. The autocannons and Heavy Bolters on the position roared first, plowing bloody paths through the tide of Cultists. But the gaps were quickly filled by the masses behind them, as though they were endless.

The Players were utterly stunned by the apocalyptic momentum. They clumsily poked their heads out and pulled the triggers at the black sea of bodies. Red laser beams shot haphazardly into the enemy ranks, occasionally bringing down one or two targets, but more often missing entirely or being blocked by the bodies in front.

"Bang!" "Bang!"

Several Players who were focused solely on pouring out fire had their asses kicked hard twice. Commissar Walter walked past behind them with a dark expression, berating them, "Conserve ammunition! Fire in bursts! Do you want your barrels to overheat and turn into pokers?!"

At that moment, a soldier in a Planetary Defense Force uniform, clearly a conscript dragged onto the battlefield at the last minute, suffered a mental breakdown after witnessing the hellish scene. He screamed, threw down his weapon, and turned to flee toward the rear.

"Bang!"

A crisp Bolter shot rang out. The deserter's head exploded like a watermelon. His headless body staggered forward two steps before collapsing to the ground.

Commissar Walter expressionlessly lowered his smoking Bolt Pistol, his icy gaze sweeping across everyone on the position, including the dumbfounded Players.

"Is this what Commissars do every day..." a Player muttered quietly in the team channel. Beyond their shock, they could now sense just how badly the war on Pedetia had deteriorated.

After the initial shock and terror, the Players gradually settled into a mechanical cycle: aim, fire a short burst, find the next target, aim again. They could clearly feel that their little bit of firepower was truly nothing more than a drop in the ocean against the constantly surging sea of bodies.

At that moment, Ruan Wenbo, hiding in a shell crater, suddenly felt a faint, rhythmic vibration coming from the ground beneath his feet. He frowned and listened closely. He could even hear faint digging noises coming from deep within the soil.

He had just opened his mouth to shout a warning, but it was already too late.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Several patches of ground inside the position suddenly exploded upward from below! Dirt and shattered rocks flew everywhere as mud-covered Cultists burst from freshly dug tunnels like gophers. In an instant, they charged into the position and came face-to-face with the Players.

The sense of safety from ranged combat vanished completely. The battlefield instantly turned into close-quarters slaughter.

The Ogryn Player, who had struggled to land even a few accurate shots, let out an excited roar. He threw away the Lasgun, which looked like a toy in his hands, and swung a fist thicker than another person's thigh, collapsing the chest of a charging Cultist with a single blow.

For Ruan Wenbo and the other Players who had prepared bayonets in advance, that choice now seemed incomparably wise.

A Cultist howled and charged at Ruan Wenbo, waving a rusty machete. With adrenaline surging through him, Ruan Wenbo acted almost entirely on instinct, violently thrusting his Lasgun forward.

"Squelch!"

The sharp bayonet plunged into the Cultist's chest and abdomen without resistance. Yet the enemy did not fall as expected. The Cultist seemed unable to feel pain. He looked down at the bayonet stuck in his body, an even stranger and more fanatical smile spreading across his face. He let out a meaningless chuckle, then pressed against the bayonet and kept moving forward, reaching both hands for Ruan Wenbo's throat!

Icy fear gripped Ruan Wenbo's heart. He tried to pull back his gun, only to find the bayonet firmly wedged in the other man's muscles and bones.

At that critical moment, an NPC veteran with a long scar across his face roared, "New recruit, don't freeze up!" Turning sideways, he fired a precise burst from his Lasgun and instantly blew apart the Cultist's head.

Warm blood and brain matter splashed across Ruan Wenbo's face. Only then did he snap out of it. Gasping heavily, he yanked the bayonet out of the corpse.

The fighting elsewhere was even more brutal. A Player named "Gunslinger" was forced into a corner by a Cultist. In his panic, he completely forgot Commissar Walter's earlier warning and frantically pulled the trigger at the enemy pressed right up against him. At point-blank range, the laser beams burned a huge hole through the Cultist's body, but his Lasgun also began to emit a dangerous hum from its overloaded energy.

"Boom!"

With a dull blast, the overburdened Lasgun exploded. Its overloaded energy core transformed into a small blaze of plasma, instantly swallowing both "Gunslinger" and the Cultist. When the light faded, only two charred human-shaped outlines and a section of melted gun barrel remained.

By comparison, the Ogryn's side was practically a one-sided massacre. He was like a living meat grinder. Any Cultist who approached him was either sent flying by a punch or grabbed by the limbs and torn apart like a rag doll. His presence greatly relieved the pressure on the breached line.

After a bloody struggle, Commissar Walter used his Chainsword to split the last Cultist crawling out of a tunnel in half, finally bringing this sudden attack from within to an end.

The position was filled with the pungent smells of ozone and roasted meat. Still shaken, the Players counted their results. In this wave of attacks, they had lost only one person: "Gunslinger," who had died together with an enemy.

Ruan Wenbo walked over to the charred corpse. Out of curiosity, he extended his bayonet and lightly prodded the body, which no longer resembled a human being.

The moment the tip touched the corpse, Ruan Wenbo's vision abruptly blurred, as though the game had stuttered from dropped frames.

The next second, something unbelievable happened.

The charred corpse seemed to have had its rewind button pressed. The melted flesh and equipment rapidly reassembled. One second later, "Gunslinger" appeared in the same spot completely unharmed. He abruptly sat up, gasping for breath, his face still filled with lingering terror.

"Holy shit, that was fucking intense!"

The surrounding Players immediately gathered around, curiously examining their "resurrected" companion.

"Hey, man, how do you feel?"

"What's the death penalty? Do you lose your equipment?"

Still shaken, "Gunslinger" pulled up the system log and checked it. His expression became somewhat strange. "The death penalty... it says all NPC relationships are reset, and current Faction Merit is cleared..."

"This game hasn't even shown us an experience bar after all those kills. Could these be the only two things we can grind?" Ruan Wenbo realized the seriousness of the situation. "Wouldn't that mean starting over from scratch? At least you still have your equipment. There's no item loss on death."

"Not necessarily," a Player beside him analyzed. "Maybe there'll be fixed resurrection points later. After reviving, we might have to travel a long way and strip our gear back off our own corpses. Isn't that how Project Zomboid works?"

"That makes sense!" Everyone nodded. "Let's hope the game devs have some humanity and aren't too cruel."

Their discussion did not last long, because Commissar Walter's cold voice rang out again, interrupting their relief at surviving the ordeal.

"What are you all still standing around for? Seal those tunnel entrances! Prepare for the next wave of attacks!"