Wall of Gluttony

"Fire!"

Rovi's command was concise and cold.

"Brrrrt!"

Six Heavy Logging Guns, blasphemously modified, roared in unison.

The sound was no longer a crisp metallic clatter, but a booming roar like a high-pressure boiler exploding.

The muzzles no longer spat bright yellow tongues of flame, but streams of dark violet plasma.

As the bullets passed through barrels saturated with Warp steam, their surfaces were coated with an unstable, high-energy thermal film.

The first bullet struck a Walking Dead charging at the front.

No blood splattered.

The Walking Dead's body, as if hit by an invisible high-temperature force field, instantly began to "melt."

Yes, melt.

The Warp thermal energy carried by the bullet violently reacted with the Nurgle rot energy inside the Walking Dead.

Half of the monster's chest cavity vanished outright.

No blood flowed from the wound.

Instead, it appeared charred and carbonized, the effect even spreading outward.

"AAAAARGH!"

Buck let out a beastly roar.

He was venting his pain, and also his fear.

The Heavy Logging Gun shuddered violently in his hands; each recoil slammed into his shoulder like a sledgehammer.

But he didn't stop.

The dense hail of bullets formed a purple web of fire, mowing down rows of charging monsters.

The Nurgle creatures, once possessing formidable regenerative abilities, now lost all advantage against these enchanted rounds.

Wounds wouldn't heal.

Rotten flesh was seared away.

Even the plague toxins emanating from their bodies were instantly evaporated by the high heat.

"It's working."

Rovi watched this scene, silently noting it down.

"Warp thermal enchantment provides over 200% damage bonus against Nurgle creatures. Side effect: severe barrel life depletion."

Through his telescope, he clearly saw the barrel of one Heavy Logging Gun beginning to glow red and soften.

The dark violet metal surface slowly dripped like melted wax.

This was an unsustainable way to fight.

A wanton waste of Imperial property.

But that was exactly what he wanted.

A one-time, high-cost burst, squeezing out every last bit of residual value before the asset was completely scrapped, in exchange for a decisive battlefield advantage.

This fit the logic of a low-level Scribe perfectly.

Since it was destined to be written off, let it leave the most glorious entry on the loss ledger.

Yet, Nurgle's legions never retreated so easily.

Just as the Walking Dead horde was being suppressed, the ground suddenly trembled.

"Thud."

"Thud."

The heavy footsteps even drowned out the roar of gunfire.

A colossal figure squeezed out from the shadows.

It was a Plague Ogre.

Ordinary Ogryns were known for extreme strength and low intelligence, typically used by the Imperium as assault troops.

A Plague Ogre was the terrifying form these creatures took after being "blessed" by Nurgle.

It stood a full three meters tall, like a moving hill.

Any trace of human features had vanished entirely.

Swollen, deformed muscles.

A carapace of horny hide covering its body like armor.

A huge gash split open across its belly.

Intestines flailed outward like tentacles.

Each tentacle bore a tiny mouth lined with sharp teeth.

In its hand, it carried a massive mace made from scrap I-beams and concrete chunks, with half a Laborer's corpse dangling from it.

"ROOOAR!!!"

The Ogre let out a deafening roar.

It lowered its head like an out-of-control heavy tank, charging through a dense hail of bullets.

"Focus fire! Take down the big one!" Buck bellowed.

Heavy machine-gun rounds slammed into the Ogre, sending up bursts of violet sparks.

But the monster's hide was far too thick.

Skin was scorched, flesh blasted away.

For its colossal frame, those were mere flesh wounds.

It kept charging.

Less than fifty meters from the Second Line of Defense.

At that range, anyone could smell its nauseating stench.

The Defense Force soldiers began to panic.

Several gunners flinched, their tracers veering off target.

"It's going to breach!"

Buck shouted in despair.

If that monster made it into the trenches, it would be a massacre.

On the Command Tower, Rovi remained calm.

He didn't even look at the charging Plague Ogre.

Instead, his gaze fixed on the frontmost line of defense—that oddly unsettling Dark Red Metal Wall.

It was a fortification cobbled together from armor plates stripped off the Steel Beast, the Harvester.

"Alpha," Rovi asked, "is it hungry?"

The Tech-Priest standing behind him had a sudden, blazing red glow in his eyes.

"Its Machine Spirit... is ravenous."

Just as the Plague Ogre was about to crash into the line of defense—

That motionless Dark Red Metal Wall suddenly came "alive."

That wasn't a metaphor.

The moment the Ogre's shoulder slammed into the metal plate—

That hard armor plate didn't dent or shatter like ordinary steel.

Instead, it turned soft.

Like a deep-sea mollusk opening its gaping maw.

"Thump!"

The Ogre's violent charge didn't send it flying—instead, it sank deep into the metal wall.

Then came a spine-chilling sight.

The rough, keratin-like surface of the metal plate transformed into countless razor-sharp barbs.

They bit viciously into the Ogre's skin.

Pierced its muscles, locked onto its bones.

The Ogre let out a terrified roar.

It struggled, trying to wrench itself free.

But the harder it fought, the tighter the wall gripped.

The Dark Red Metal began to writhe, spreading up the Ogre's arms and shoulders.

Like a living Fungal Carpet, greedily enveloping its prey.

"Sssssss..."

A sound like strong acid corrosion filled the air.

The metal was secreting some kind of digestive fluid.

No—more accurately, that Mutant Metal plate, which had absorbed the Nurgle Beast's fluids and been catalyzed by Warp steam, was now "feeding."

It was breaking down the Ogre's biomass, converting it into its own nourishment.

The ogre's indestructible horny hide softened and dissolved under the mutant metal's embrace.

Its thick arms withered away rapidly.

"A miracle... this is the dark miracle of the Omnissiah..."

Priest Alpha pressed against the observation window.

Several mechanical tentacles waved excitedly in the air.

Recording this precious yet blasphemous data.

"Metal activity increased by 300%, self-repair mechanism initiated—it's growing! It's becoming stronger!"

Rovi watched coldly.

It was indeed powerful.

But it was also indeed dangerous.

This was no longer Imperial technology; this was courting disaster.

He was using the power of Chaos to fight Chaos.

In Earth's terms, fighting magic with magic.

One misstep, and this metal wall would devour everyone inside.

"Stop staring." Rovi ordered through the broadcast, "Kill it while it's trapped."

Buck and his men were stunned by the eerie sight.

Only when they heard Rovi's command did they snap out of it.

All firepower converged on the ogre, half its body stuck in the wall.

Purple flames flared again.

Immobilized, the ogre became a sitting duck.

Minutes later.

With a reluctant wail, the mountain of flesh ceased struggling.

Its massive body was riddled with holes.

Compounded by the metal wall's consumption, most of it had melted into pus.

The Dark Red Metal Wall, after "feeding," deepened in color, its surface gleaming with an oily metallic sheen.

It slowly released the remains, reverting to its hard, cold form.

But on the thick armor plate, a twisted human face faintly emerged, vaguely resembling the ogre.

The battlefield fell silent.

This silence was more deafening than the gunfire.

Without the heavy unit as a meat shield, the remaining Rebels and zombie horde didn't scatter like regular troops.

Instead, they silently retreated into the distant mist.

They didn't look back, nor made a sound.

Their orderly withdrawal exuded a chilling sense of discipline.

The enemy's second assault was over.

Rovi didn't let his guard down.

His gaze swept across the scarred battlefield.

Past the Dark Red Metal Wall digesting its meal.

Into the darkness beyond.

He was calculating.

"Kais." Rovi pressed the communicator, "Assess enemy losses."

"Based on image analysis, the enemy has lost approximately 2,300 Low-Grade Zombies, Traitor Guard casualties exceed 40%, and all Heavy Siege Units—Plague Ogres—are eliminated."

The Wetware Server's cold electronic voice reported, "Loss ratio, 1:12. For a conventional battle, this is a rout."

Rovi shook his head, his eyes deep.

"Conventional logic doesn't apply to the Lord of Pestilence; they don't care about casualties."

"To the Lord of Pestilence, death is just another form of life cycle. Two thousand corpses are merely two thousand new culture dishes."

"But they retreated." Priest Alpha added from the side, his mechanical eye scanning the metal wall, "Perhaps intimidated by the Omnissiah's miracle?"

Rovi shook his head.

He took out a clean handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from his palm.

"The Lord of Pestilence's followers are mad, but not stupid. Especially the wizard commanding from behind."

He pointed at the Dark Red Metal Wall and the nearly wrecked Heavy Logging Gun.

"It's the power we've shown that exceeded their expectations."

"First, a metal wall that can devour rotting flesh as fuel breaks their logic of trading corpses for territory. The more they send, the thicker our defenses become."

"Second, bullets infused with Warp thermal energy can suppress regeneration at the molecular level. That means their 'recycle and reuse' chain is severed."

"Nurgle's creatures that die here cannot be revived or reclaimed—they're a pure net loss."

Rovi paused, folded his handkerchief neatly, and tucked it back into his pocket.

"For a shrewd Plague Gardener, if a patch of soil not only fails to grow mushrooms but instead devours seeds and Fertilizer, the most rational move is to temporarily abandon it and seek easier targets to corrupt."

"Like... other granaries."

Alpha Priest's red light flickered once: "You're saying they'll shift their focus?"

"If that Plague Wizard is smart enough, that's exactly what he'll do."

"At least until they find a way to crack this 'Wall of Gluttony,' or amass enough force to overwhelm us in one go, Granary Seven is temporarily safe."

This was a strategic deterrent built on cost accounting.

Rovi knew full well he hadn't truly defeated that vast sea of rot through brute force.

He had merely won a business negotiation.

By showcasing an exorbitant 'acquisition cost,' he'd convinced the shrewd Plague Gardener to voluntarily abandon this losing venture.

Through the metal wall and the gun barrels blazing with violet fire, he had displayed a near-blasphemous kind of 'toxicity.'

To Nurgle's appetite, Granary Seven was no longer a plump, tender cut of meat on the chopping block.

It was a hard bone wrapped in barbs and steeped in lethal poison.

Anyone who tried to force it down would have to brace for their fangs to shatter.

As the alarm lights on the control panel shifted from red to green.

After a brief silence, Granary Seven began to tremble once more.

Pistons slammed, exhaust valves hissed, rusted gears gnashed together.

From the Fermentation Tank came a heavy churning sound—the muffled grinding of bone and waste being crushed and blended.

The boiler roared as pressure built, steam surging and colliding through the pipes.

On this wasteland, there were no poems, no hopes.

Only this brutal, monotonous, unending industrial noise could offer a kind of cold comfort.

It meant the machinery was still running, that order had yet to collapse.

It meant today's ledger could still be balanced.