"Go ahead."
The order has been issued.
The army of zombies advanced with stiff steps along the main passage toward the first line of defense.
Plague vehicles moved along the sides and front of the convoy, their rusted tracks grinding against the deck with a harsh metallic scraping sound.
The corridor echoed with the sounds of hurried footsteps, the roar of machinery, and an increasingly strong stench of decay.
Two hundred meters, one hundred and eighty meters, one hundred and fifty meters...
On the defensive line, the garrison officer gripped his communicator tightly, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
wrong.
It's too quiet.
According to the plan, as soon as the attacking enemy gets within fifty meters, the outer reconnaissance mines should be triggered, and at least a few explosions should be heard inside.
But now the enemy has advanced to almost two hundred meters, and the surrounding maintenance pipes and ventilation shafts are completely silent; not a single landmine has detonated.
Was the sensor malfunctioning? Or did the Plague Marine simply not follow those routes?
The garrison officer gritted his teeth, preparing to order a small team to check the mine situation on the flank.
Just then, a gap suddenly appeared in the formation of the zombie army.
Twenty-two figures burst out from the ranks of the zombies.
Or more accurately, it's twenty-two humanoid tanks.
The Death Guard's Power Armour gleamed a rusty, dark yellow-green under the corridor lights; each one was thicker and bulkier than a regular Space Marine.
That was Nurgle's blessing, a fusion of rotting and swollen flesh and armor.
They strode forward, the joints of their Power Armour creaking and groaning as their speed instantly reached its maximum.
Forty meters per second.
That's the speed at which Space Marine charges.
A distance of 200 meters can be covered in just five seconds.
The naval soldiers on the defensive line didn't even have time to make a full reaction.
The gunners in the front row had just turned their guns around when the Lasgun ' crosshairs finally caught on the rapidly approaching figures.
Five seconds is too short; it's so short that most people only have time to fire one shot.
The Plague Marine have breached the defenses.
"Bang!"
The foremost blast wall was deformed and dented as if it were made of paper, and then the entire wall, along with several soldiers behind it, was knocked away.
The corroded Power Armour carried the force of ten thousand pounds; a mortal's flesh and blood body wouldn't even have the chance to withstand such an impact.
The laser beams struck their armor, leaving only shallow scorch marks, unable to penetrate even the outer layer of rotting flesh.
But Dominic was prepared.
"Spear formation!"
A sharp shout came from deep within the position.
Dozens of figures rose simultaneously from behind cover on both sides, clad in gleaming silver power Power Armour.
Those were Ventria elites, the private army that Dominic's family had spent a fortune training.
Each one is a warrior selected from tens of thousands of people, equipped with the finest gear.
They held Taser electric spears over four meters long, their tips flashing with the blue light of high-voltage electric arcs.
This is a killer move specifically designed to deal with powerful single enemies.
Dozens of electric spears shot out simultaneously, their tips precisely targeting the relatively vulnerable points of the Plague Marine charging at the forefront, such as the joint gaps, eyepieces, and power lines.
The elite Ventria had trained countless times in spear formation tactics. Their specialty was using a combination of long and short spears to contain and encircle powerful single enemies.
Even against Space Marine, they can rely on formation and the paralyzing effect of electric spears to engage in a protracted battle.
The ear-piercing sound of metal clashing filled the air.
Eleven Plague Marine were entangled in the spear formation.
The high-voltage arcs of the Taser's electric spears crackled as they struck the Power Armour, though they struggled to penetrate the thick, rusted armor.
However, it can disrupt the fluidity of the body and nerves, causing the enemy's movements to become sluggish.
The Ventria elites advanced and retreated with precision, their spears rising and falling like a tightening net, trapping the eleven Death Guard within their ranks.
But Phelps never intended to get entangled with these elite players from the start.
His goal was clear from beginning to end—those pastors.
The core of the defense line is faith.
As long as the priest is still alive, the soldiers will be protected by the Emperor's Light, their morale will not collapse, and the Rust Plague will have difficulty spreading among the people.
Removing the priests is tantamount to removing the backbone of the entire defensive line.
"You stay here and hold them off," Phelps ' voice came through the communication channel, deep and calm.
" Your Grandfather's blessings are with you; these mortals cannot kill you."
The eleven Plague Marine responded in low voices.
They truly need not fear death; Nurgle's blessing grants them an outrageously tenacious vitality.
Limbs can regenerate, and internal organs can be removed before they can continue fighting. As long as their heads and core decaying organs are not completely destroyed, they can keep fighting.
A mere few dozen elite mortals, no matter how well-equipped, would only take some time.
Meanwhile, Phelps himself, along with the remaining ten Death Guard, bypassed the flank of the spear formation.
Their target was the chaplaincy behind the defensive line.
Around the command node where the chaplains were located, twelve Sisters of Battle, armed with Boltgun and Power Sword, formed a tight protective line.
They are the warrior daughters of the Ecclesiarchy, the daughters of the Emperor.
Each of them has undergone rigorous training and a baptism of devout faith, their physical fitness far surpassing that of ordinary soldiers, and their Power Armour has also been sanctified.
Seeing the eleven Plague Marine coming around, the nuns did not flinch in the slightest.
"For the Emperor!"
The leading nun shouted, Boltgun opened fire simultaneously.
Large-caliber bombs exploded in the corridor, the flashes illuminating their resolute faces.
The gap between mortals and "fallen angels" is simply too great.
The Death Guard's Power Armour withstood the impact of most explosive bombs; the explosions only shattered the rusted armor, causing little to no fatal damage.
The rusty giant axes and plague claws wielded by the Plague Marine were powerful enough to cleave the nun and her Power Armour in two with every strike.
To make matters worse, Phelps raised his hand and threw a grenade.
That's not Warp plague.
If it is the power of a plague, the priests' holy prayers can dispel and resist it.
This is a genuine chemical poison gas bomb.
With a muffled "bang," a grayish-white toxic mist instantly filled the corridor.
This is a military-grade nerve gas. It doesn't require Warp power; its pure chemical toxicity can paralyze a person's respiratory system and nerve responses within tens of seconds.
The priests' prayers were ineffective.
The Emperor's blessing can dispel the demon's plague, but it cannot magically eliminate real chemical toxins.
The twelve Sisters of Battle were the first to be hit.
Although their Power Armour had filtration systems, it was difficult to completely withstand high concentrations of toxic gas in such a hasty situation.
The nuns, having undergone physical modifications, possessed physical abilities far exceeding those of ordinary people, allowing them to withstand a portion of the poison.
But his movements inevitably slowed down, his breathing became heavy, and his hand holding the gun began to tremble slightly.
The Death Guard, on the other hand, are walking poison tanks.
To them, poison gas was no different from ordinary air.
The battle turned into a one-sided massacre.
The slow-moving nuns were no match for the Plague Marine charging at full speed.
The rusted giant axe fell, cleaving the Power Armour in two like a can, splattering blood and bone fragments onto the corridor walls.
A nun lunged at Phelps with Power Sword, but he grabbed her by the neck, his rusty fingers easily crushing the Power Armour's neck guard and the cervical vertebrae below.
The twelve Sisters of Battle were all killed in less than five minutes.
The person blocking the way is gone.
Phelps led ten warriors straight into the chamber where the priests were located.
The pastors were still praying.
A dozen or so Ministorum Priest huddled together, holding sacred objects and scriptures aloft, golden light of faith emanating from them as they tried to ward off the plague surging in from outside.
They saw the Death Guard rushing in, saw the nuns' corpses scattered on the ground, and some people were pale.
Some, however, chanted prayers even louder, attempting to use the power of faith to repel these Chaos minions.
It's useless.
Phelps didn't even bother to say another word to them.
The massacre began.