"Brothers, there's nothing you can't imagine, only things I can't..."
Ragnar, captain of the Green Devils squad, passed by without a sound, only to be startled by a voice coming from a half-collapsed public toilet by the roadside. It was clearly an Ork's voice.
He quickly dropped behind a pile of rubble for cover and carefully surveyed the surroundings, but there were no more Orks nearby.
He was currently in the main combat zone north of the city. The two sides had been locked in a tug-of-war here for twelve hours, but the Orks clearly held the advantage. The human defenders had gradually been squeezed into several isolated strongholds.
Ragnar's mission was to reach one of those strongholds—Aishe Literature.
There had originally been twelve squad members with him, but after crossing five kilometers of war zone, only he remained.
When retching came from the toilet and then fell silent, Ragnar let out a breath.
He knew all too well that death had surrounded them on every side.
This area had once been a bustling residential district, but now it had become a slaughterhouse shrouded in smoke and fire.
Burning death descended upon those too badly wounded or too panicked to flee. Many had failed to escape the firestorm that swept down from the sky and engulfed the earth.
The violent shockwave that followed visited those hiding in their homes from the march of slaughter.
The once-level roads had been pried apart by vast craters, while the broken utility poles leaning by the roadside resembled loose molars in bleeding gums.
Though many had fled this place, even more had nowhere to go.
For those who stayed behind to make their last stand, the Orks brought bloody death.
This kind of death struck you down with a heavy axe or warhammer, leaving