I summoned the Fourth Scourge in Warhammer

Chapter 192 Let's burn Prantim first, then Tyrion won't have anything to eat.
“This has completely changed my preconceived notions about the Warhammer universe,” [BUG] exclaimed sincerely, sitting in the passenger seat of the Chimera armored personnel carrier and looking through the bulletproof window at the vast farmland rushing past. “It’s really beautiful here.”

Compared to the perpetually gloomy skies, the lingering smell of pesticides and chemicals in the air, and the cold, mechanical priests and massive agricultural machines in the fields of other agricultural worlds within the Empire, Plantim was like a legendary garden world. The sky was a pure azure, dotted with a few leisurely white clouds, golden waves of wheat rolled in the gentle breeze, and in the distance, one could even see old farmers wearing straw hats working leisurely on the ridges of the fields, like a pastoral idyll.

“Who do you think is in charge here? Ultramarines!” said [Assimilation Complete] in the driver’s seat. “They’re the professionals when it comes to farming and administration.”

The small convoy drove to a small hill with a wide view. The others jumped out from the back of the vehicles, and [Assimilation Complete] immediately unfolded a data panel and began using the vehicle's scanner to draw a detailed topographical map of the area. The other dozen or so players huddled together, discussing where to place the future artillery positions to obtain the best firing arc.

After a heated discussion and simulation, [BUG] pointed to the endless golden wheat fields below the hill and came to an inevitable conclusion: "We are definitely going to build a fortress in this area. At that time, all these farmlands will be obstacles and must be burned down."

These words abruptly silenced the previously lively discussion, and the players fell into a deep silence. Although theoretically these farmlands had nothing to do with them, these outsiders, the sight of these beautiful, vibrant things being destroyed with their own hands brought an indescribable heartache and distress.

“We have no choice but to burn it,” [Assimilation Complete] sighed, breaking the silence. “Even if we are soft-hearted and don’t burn it, when Tyrion comes, the abundant biomass in these farmlands will turn into more enemies coming after us.”

The harsh reality left everyone speechless. The group rejoined the vehicle; this time, their destination was several villages nestled at the foot of the hill. Their mission was to notify and supervise all non-combat personnel to proceed to the designated assembly point.

Initially, some players suggested simply finding a high point and shouting a few times using the high-powered megaphone on the armored vehicle. However, this straightforward and crude plan was stopped by [Assimilation Complete]. After discussion, the group decided to first find the local grassroots administrative official and explain the situation to him.

Thus, players witnessed firsthand the efficiency of the Alterac Valley system. Thanks to the village chief's efficient mobilization, in just one Terran hour, all the villagers, carrying their meager belongings, lined up in long, orderly rows and left the homes where they and their ancestors had toiled their entire lives. Almost every villager wore a degree of reluctance on their face; many looked back several times, but only briefly, without anyone standing up to cry, protest, or launch a fierce resistance.

"Is the grassroots mobilization system in Alteramar that strong?" one player exclaimed, watching this miraculous scene. "I thought it would take a lot of effort, maybe even involving pointing laser guns at them to intimidate them..."

“Actually, it doesn’t have to come to gunfire,” [Assimilation Complete] said softly, looking at the long line of villagers. He noticed that when the villagers’ gazes inadvertently swept over them, the soldiers in their uniforms of the Death Legion, they would immediately lower their heads, their eyes revealing obvious fear. “They are already very afraid of us.”

"Huh, why?" [BUG] didn't react.

“Are you stupid?” [Assimilation Complete] tapped his helmet, somewhat speechless. “The news of our massive purge of Upper Nest and Middle Nest in the Jersey Sector has spread.”

"But aren't we just shooting at those Upper Nest nobles and Middle Nest gangsters?" [BUG] scratched his helmet, puzzled. "Isn't this a good thing?"

"Objectively speaking, we did not harm any honest farmers or workers," [Assimilation Complete] explained. "But from the perspective of these NPCs, our actions at the time were simply rushing into the city and having a good time, right? This kind of pure violence will of course bring fear."

One player in the group sighed upon hearing this, "I wonder which game update will remove the setting that resets reputation to zero upon death. That way, we can interact with NPCs with peace of mind and build trust, instead of always having to resort to force to intimidate them."

“I actually think it’s a good thing they’re so afraid of us,” another player said dismissively, his view more pragmatic. “If they weren’t afraid of us, why would they have retreated so obediently? If they had dragged their feet and been crying and screaming, completing this mission would have been a huge hassle.” …

The engines of the Chimera armored vehicle and the Hellhound fire tank roared as they rolled over the field ridges, pressing the golden ears of wheat, once symbols of abundance and life, into the soil. Then, purifying fire roared from the nozzles, and orange-red fire dragons greedily licked the dry crops, devouring them in an instant.

The fire spread rapidly, coalescing into a boundless sea of ​​flames. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky, turning the azure sky of Plantim into a filthy gray-black. The players silently carried out their tasks; no one cheered, no one spoke, only the crackling of the flames and the roar of machinery echoed across the empty fields.

On the summit of a hill overlooking the entire plain in the distance, three figures stood silently, like boulders.

Severus Agman, the second company commander of the Ultramarines, clad in azure power armor, looked at the flames that had turned half the sky red and the thick smoke that was rising into the sky. A barely perceptible trace of pity appeared on his genetically modified face.

“Before the Tyranids arrived, we ourselves brought destruction upon Prantim,” he said in a low voice.

The other Space Marine beside him, clad in the distinctive silver and crimson power armor of the Starclaw Chapter, was even more imposing than Agman. He was Chapter Master Lugert Huron, his helmet tucked under his arm, a cold smile on his face.

"First, we must strive for victory by all means. After victory, there will be plenty of time to resolve these lingering issues and mourn the losses," Huron said, holding a completely different opinion. "If we hesitate here, we won't even have the chance to mourn."

Both men knew that these were two completely different ideologies, and that further debate would be pointless, so they stopped pursuing the topic. Agman turned his gaze from the inferno to a man standing slightly behind them, ready to die.

He looked at the commander who was facing death and said, "Before I came here, the head of the think tank told me that in this Tyrann crisis, I should respect your opinions and put your opinions first."

"The think tank director?" The player named [EGO], who was on the verge of death, was taken aback and subconsciously asked, "Varo Digglis?"

“Yes.” Agman nodded. [EGO]’s reaction seemed to be within his expectations. “It seems you know something about him. Then I won’t go into how powerful his precognitive abilities are, or how many times he has helped the Ultramarines overcome difficulties… In short, as instructed by the Director of the Think Tank, I will support any decision you, the Deathbringers, make.”

"A prophecy from a think tank?" Huron raised an eyebrow, a hint of doubt in his voice. "Company Commander Agman, are you planning to hand over command of a war to a group of ordinary people, just because of a prophecy?"

“I trust Curator Diggris’s judgment, as always,” Agman replied firmly. “His predictions have never been wrong.”

(End of this chapter)