"My lord."
Warren Heinrich's voice sounded behind Ding Xiu, hoarse and exhausted, yet still possessed of a cold precision.
Ding Xiu did not turn, but his Helmet's wide-angle sensors clearly captured the scene behind him.
The surviving soldiers of the Skull Regiment—or rather, those who could still barely stand.
At Warren's brief gestures and quiet commands, they began regrouping swiftly and silently.
They crawled out from behind cover, from beside their comrades' corpses, from the edges of burning wreckage. Most staggered as they moved, their faces and bodies covered in blood, scorch marks, and wounds.
Ding Xiu's tactical Visor scanned them rapidly. Life signs were scattered and sparse. Fewer than a hundred could still barely form an effective fighting force.
What was more, most had nothing left but Laser rifles, Shotguns, and a few Grenades. The Hydra Turrets, Anti-tank Missiles, and even most of the heavy bolters had long since been reduced to smoking scrap scattered across the ground during the Overlord's and Elites' slaughter.
"Stay hidden," Ding Xiu said through his external speakers, his voice utterly calm, yet carrying an unquestionable resolve.
"Stay behind cover. Pick your moments, take potshots, distract them, and give me room to move. Do not leave cover. Understood?"
He did not say, "Cover me," nor did he say, "We'll attack together."
He knew perfectly well that sending these mortal soldiers, already devastated and almost stripped of heavy weapons, into a direct confrontation at this level would accomplish nothing but more casualties.
Their only value lay in using the slightest firepower at the most crucial moment to create that tiny disturbance that might influence the battle.
Warren said nothing more, merely dipping his head. His steel-blue eyes swept over the battered soldiers beside him, whose gazes still held a strange, warped fervor. With a few