Several low-flying battlesuits were blown apart by a barrage of shells. Blue flames mingled with black clouds of smoke, but the ground was so scorching that the smoke drifted upward, forming a haze that blotted out the sky.
Even when it rained here, it would be black rain that stank of smoke.
Yan Ou drew his blade and stabbed an Imperium soldier to death. He had captured this dagger from the battlefield; as for the melee weapon he was supposed to have, he had not brought it out with him.
Honestly, he had never thought he would have a chance to use a melee weapon. This was fucking interstellar warfare—why had blades become primary weapons?
Like every Fire Warrior, he had despised barbaric, primitive melee combat. But after seeing more and more comrades inexplicably getting rushed by enemy troops, his view had completely changed.
Armed with nothing but rifles, they were hacked to pieces. At last, he cast aside his pride and disdain and removed a bayonet from an Imperial Guard corpse.
As a warrior race, everything the Fire Caste trained and taught was born for war. Tormented by the battlefield, he recalled a subject from school that had never been taken seriously.
Close-quarters blade combat.
"Ha!" The bayonet in his hand pierced a soldier's chest. Yan Ou fired his pulse pistol repeatedly with his left hand, knocking down the other soldiers charging at him.
"I'm becoming more and more like them." Yan Ou sighed. He felt like one of those so-called Imperium commissars, gun in one hand and blade in the other, intimidating enemies with barbaric roars.
The soldiers beside him had also been drawn into melee with the enemy. These Imperial Guard soldiers had forced their way right up to them through volleys from pulse rifles.
Still, at