In the safe zone on the outskirts, Robert was methodically using the radio to confirm each squad's advance. Overall, everything was going smoothly. The Genestealers seemed to enjoy fighting a War of Attrition against the Players, and evidently, the Players enjoyed it just as much. Every kill meant more merit. The battle line was steadily advancing—slowly, but with exceptional determination.
If those Genestealers wanted to swarm them all at once and settle everything in a single push, crushing the Players in one wave, the Players would like that even more. They would just strap high-powered explosives around their waists. Whoever chickened out was a grandson. Respawning only took a few seconds anyway.
After Robert confirmed the situation at the front once more, the Squad Leaders' various complaints came through the radio.
"Without a god's-eye view or instant communication, being a commander is way too hard."
"I'm so bored I've started counting the ants on the ground."
"Now that you mention it, I really want to know what Warhammer ants look like. Describe them for me?"
"Respawning is still the main problem. Positional warfare is fine—we can fight together at the position. But if we die during a breakthrough, we have to run all the way back. I really don't dare go all out."
"Come to think of it, where's Big Eagle Cop? Why haven't we heard him talk?"
"He's a noble Ogryn. Killing ordinary Genestealers is practically like killing chickens for him. Not like us fragile mortals, who dare to suddenly drop dead after getting hit twice."
They had even started trying to play chess in their heads while chatting. Yet amid this seemingly relaxed atmosphere, a continuous series of explosions suddenly rang out, growing denser and denser. Everyone had become familiar with that sound. The Players were clearly self-destructing