Warhammer-Style "Cuisine"

After the previous tunnel assault had been repelled, the battlefield temporarily returned to a fragile calm. The Cultists in the distance seemed to be regrouping, leaving only sporadic gunfire and the wails of the wounded echoing across the position.

Commissar Walter wiped the blood from his Chainsword with his sleeve. His sharp gaze swept across the entire position before finally settling on the Ogryn Player [Big Eagle Cop], who stood like a little giant. The big fellow's performance in the recent close-quarters melee had been nothing short of heroic.

"Big guy, come with me!" Walter's voice was loud and decisive.

[Big Eagle Cop], who was squatting on the ground inspecting his fists, froze when he heard the call. His enormous head turned to look around, his eyes searching the ground. He was clearly planning to retrieve the Lasgun he had tossed aside in his excitement.

At the sight, a trace of barely perceptible surprise flashed through Walter's eyes. He was once again taken aback by this Ogryn's intelligence. Ordinary Ogryns would not possess such clear tactical thinking as "recovering their own weapon."

"Don't bother looking for that Lasgun," Walter said, his tone softening slightly. "Just come with me."

[Big Eagle Cop] immediately realized that his instinctive action just now had made him seem a little too smart. He hurriedly withdrew his gaze, forced an honest-looking grin onto his face, scratched the back of his head, then strode foolishly toward the Commissar, trying to conceal his earlier "intelligence leak" through his actions.

The remaining players watched [Big Eagle Cop] follow the Commissar toward the rear of the position, then instinctively gathered together again.

"What are we supposed to do next?" one player asked blankly. "The Commissar and the system haven't given us a new mission."

Everyone's eyes turned toward Ruan Wenbo in unspoken agreement. His earlier analysis and combat performance had already left most of the players with a deep impression of him as a reliable, intelligent person. Having discovered that there was a brain like this in their group, many players naturally gave up on thinking for themselves.

Ruan Wenbo did not answer immediately. He first observed the surroundings, pondered for a moment, and only then spoke. "First of all, based on my observations, this development team is clearly trying to make an extremely realistic game. Otherwise, they wouldn't have put so much effort into certain... disgusting details."

Thinking back on their journey so far—the troop carrier rough enough to make them puke their guts out, the incredibly chaotic battlefield filled with explosions and shrieks, and those corpse piles with their bizarre thoughts and nauseating stench—the players all instinctively agreed wholeheartedly with Ruan Wenbo's point.

Ruan Wenbo continued, "If we follow that logic, then what we need to do next is naturally what people really do after fighting a battle on a Warhammer battlefield... As for Warhammer battlefields, according to the original work, at least where the Astra Militarum is concerned, they usually haven't moved beyond the scope of World War I trench warfare. There might occasionally be armored assaults, but at least in the Underhive Slums where we are now, we definitely won't be seeing anything on that scale."

He paused, then concluded, "In other words, we should learn from our predecessors in World War I trench warfare. Whatever they did, we do."

"So what were our World War I trench warfare predecessors doing at a time like this?" one player asked cooperatively, raising his hand.

Ruan Wenbo slowly spoke two words. "Resting, and eating."

"Huh?" The player who had asked, along with everyone around him, froze.

"Trench warfare doesn't mean you just squat in a trench while the enemy keeps charging and you keep defending until one side runs out of men," Ruan Wenbo explained patiently. "In fact, compared to the time spent sitting around in trenches with nothing happening, the time spent actually fighting is quite short. If the enemy can organize one or two decent charges in a day, that's already impressive. Maybe Warp daemons can keep charging forever through unnatural power, but these flesh-and-blood Cultists obviously can't. In fact, the more organized a force is, the more likely it is to retreat once it realizes things can't be done, planning its next attack instead of blindly charging forward and exhausting its manpower."

The players only half understood Ruan Wenbo's lengthy explanation, but there was one thing they understood clearly.

"So," someone summed up, "we'll probably have nothing to do for the next few hours of this game?"

Ruan Wenbo fell silent for a long while before finally answering with some uncertainty, "I think... yes."

Just then, a rough, powerful hand landed on Ruan Wenbo's shoulder. An Astra Militarum veteran with scars on his face and tired but steady eyes had somehow appeared beside their little group.

"No," the veteran said in a hoarse voice. "There's something you have to do."

The players instantly grew tense. This game's extreme realism was somewhat torturous, but they had to admit that they had already begun to immerse themselves in their roles. In an instant, the classic scenario of "veteran bullying new recruits" sprang to mind. They began secretly preparing themselves. Was he trying to pick a fight? If so, they'd have to fight back. Dying in a game was fine, but being humiliated by an NPC was absolutely unacceptable!

However, the veteran did not make another move. He merely pointed behind them with his other hand, where someone was boiling a pot of something unidentifiable. "Time to eat, new recruits."

The moment the veteran said, "Time to eat, new recruits," it was as though a switch had been flipped. Only then did the players belatedly feel an intense emptiness in their stomachs. The earlier tense battle and rush of adrenaline had masked everything, but now that they had relaxed, hunger came crashing down like a tide.

"Holy crap, even hunger is this faithfully simulated?" one player said, clutching his stomach and marveling at the game's realism once more.

They followed the veteran to a relatively safe spot behind the position. A huge field cauldron had been set up there, with scavenged wood burning beneath it. A logistics soldier, equally weathered, was stirring the pot with a large iron ladle.

The players each took a grimy metal bowl from the supply crates and lined up. Inside the pot bubbled a thick grayish-brown paste whose colors had blended into a murky mess. Strange beads of oil floated on top, and an odd smell mixed with fishiness and some kind of spice hit them in the face.

"What... is this?" The player at the front of the line cautiously examined the contents of the pot and asked the veteran in charge of cooking, "The legendary Corpse Starch?"

The veteran holding the ladle heard the question and grinned, revealing his missing front teeth. He chuckled hoarsely. "Meat!"

"Meat?"

The player shook the bowl he had just been served. Within the thick broth, there really did seem to be several chunks of unidentified meat with coarse fibers floating up and down. By then, the other Astra Militarum soldiers waiting behind them had begun urging them along impatiently, so the players could only stop asking questions, quickly fill their bowls, and carry them aside.

They formed a circle and stared at the unappetizing "food" in their bowls.

A player with the ID [Flying Eagle] took a deep breath, wearing the expression of a man marching to his death. "I'll go first! For the brothers!"

He closed his eyes, scooped up a small spoonful of broth, and tremblingly brought it to his mouth.

A few seconds later, he froze, then opened his eyes in disbelief. "Eh? It seems... there's nothing wrong with it?"

"Seriously?" The other players were skeptical. "How could Warhammer food possibly be fine? Shouldn't it be made from engine oil and sawdust?"

But as they watched [Flying Eagle] take another large gulp and even smack his lips as though it tasted pretty good, their doubts began to waver. With someone having taken the first bite, the others gathered their courage and suspiciously took a sip as well.

A salty, somewhat rough, but undeniably meaty broth flavor spread through their mouths.

It actually... tasted perfectly normal?

Their taut nerves and empty stomachs were greatly soothed by the hot soup. So everyone stopped hesitating and began drinking in large gulps. By the time the players had all drunk at least half their bowls, with some of the bolder ones even starting to chew the surprisingly tough meat chunks, Ruan Wenbo suddenly let out a short, piercing scream.

"Ah!"

The scream froze everyone in place. Sensing that something was wrong, they looked over to see Ruan Wenbo holding something between two fingers before quickly throwing it to the ground. It was not a chunk of meat, but a scrap of cloth.

A scrap of cloth they knew well, bearing gray-green camouflage. More precisely, it was from the Astra Militarum uniform they themselves had been wearing beneath their body armor.

Normally, if a piece of military uniform was found in a pot of soup, its owner was probably nearby too.

A terrifying thought struck every player's mind like lightning. They stiffly lowered their heads and looked at the so-called "meat chunks" in their bowls.

"Bleurgh—!"

[Flying Eagle], the first to understand, was the first to lose it. He spun around, braced himself against the trench wall, and began violently dry-heaving.

His reaction was like a signal, instantly setting off a chain reaction.

"Bleurgh..." "Ugh—!"

Dry-heaving rang out one after another from a corner of the position. The players threw down their bowls, their stomachs churning violently. Some vomited up the meat broth they had just swallowed, while others could only retch up sour water, their faces deathly pale.

Having come from a peaceful era, they now deeply felt the universe's blatant, nauseating malice.