Warhammer: Empire Reboot

On the city wall, a Space Marine wearing cobalt blue power armor stood on a firing platform, one hand holding onto a half-broken wall, observing the plain in front of him through a scope.

His name is Marcus O'Reilly.

Ultra Warriors, Fifth Company, Second Platoon Deputy Company Commander.

The world seen through the magnifying glass was a deathly, yellowish-green.

The Arctic plains of Klein-IX were once covered with Imperial Standard Wheat.

This is a genetically modified, high-yield crop that turns the entire land a dazzling gold when it matures.

When Aurelion first set foot on this planet seven months ago, he had seen that golden ocean churning in the wind.

Now, the wheat field is rotting.

The filthy plague spores seeped into the soil, corroding every ear of wheat from the roots.

The golden wheat field turned into a yellowish-brown muddy mess, and the air was filled with a fermenting, sweet, rotten smell. The smell was so strong that it could penetrate the air filtration system of the power armor, leaving a greasy feeling that could not be washed off deep in the nasal cavity and throat.

At the end of the muddy pond, the horizon was swallowed by a layer of thick, yellowish-green mist.

Something is moving in the fog.

a lot of things.

Aurelion didn't need a scope to know what it was: Plague Walker.

This is a sea of ​​infantry composed of Nurgle followers and corpses that rose again after being killed by the plague.

They walked forward at a speed of three kilometers per hour, dragging their rotting legs, staggering, tirelessly, and endlessly.

The first wave of attacks, numbering 40,000, was repelled.

The second wave of attacks, numbering 60,000, was repelled.

The cost was that Viktor, the platoon leader of the third platoon of the fifth company, lost his right leg, and four of his comrades in the second platoon were killed in action.

The third wave of attacks is gathering.

The reconnaissance missions reported more than three times the size of the previous two waves, including at least two Plague Space Marine companies, plus squadrons of Corrupted Raider tanks, and countless Plague Walkers.

Arrived 48 hours later.

Aurelion lowered his scope and walked around the city wall.

The Ultramarine warrior on the city wall, along with his brothers, were scattered across various firing positions.

Thirty people. Nineteen people in the second row, and eleven people in the third row.

Their blue power armor was covered in scars: laser-scorched black spots, shrapnel-carved grooves, and yellowish-brown pits from the corrosive effects of plague fluids.

No replacement parts, no repair time.

Several power armor suits' servo joints were already emitting a screeching sound as the lubricant ran out.

Aurelian stopped in front of Viktor's firing position, the third platoon leader.

Viktor sat on an ammunition box, his severed right leg bound with makeshift bandages, and pale yellow fluid seeping from the empty trouser leg below his knee.

He held a power sword in his left hand and leaned on a cane made from a broken heavy explosive gun barrel in his right.

"How's your leg?" O'Reilly asked.

Viktor tapped his broken leg with his cane, the metal barrel of the gun striking the broken bone with a dull thud. His face twitched.

"It's still hanging on my body, which is better than those dead people who walked by."

Aurelian didn't laugh. Neither did Victor.

This kind of dialogue had become a regular occurrence during the seven months of trench warfare.

This is how we confirm that we are still alive.

"I heard the company commander is having a meeting." Viktor raised his chin, gesturing to the other side of the city wall.

"Let's go."

Viktor stood up, leaning on his crutches.

The pain from his broken leg made his lips twitch, but his back remained ramrod straight.

An extreme warrior can lose four limbs, but cannot bend his spine.

At the eastern end of the city wall, Company Commander Servilus Quintus leaned against an automatic cannon that had run out of ammunition, waiting for his men to arrive.

Quintus is 217 years old this year.

By Imperial standards, this age is considered the prime of a Space Marine.

But the seven-month Battle of Klein made him look fifty years older.

Two hundred years of war had precipitated something in his eyes, something that only those who have faced death for a long time could possess—a calm that bordered on cold-blooded clarity.

He knew what was going to happen.

He knew that from the very first day he set foot on the Klein-IX.

A scar runs across his face from his left forehead to his right chin, a souvenir from the Battle of Damocles Bay a hundred years ago, caused by a TIA pulse rifle.

Half of his left ear was missing; the cartilage and flesh on it had been torn off by the claws of a gene-stealer, leaving behind jagged, unsightly pieces of flesh.

He never allowed the medical officer to repair the ear, because an ugly scar would remind the recruits of the nature of war more effectively than a perfect face.

Thirty Ultra Warriors gathered on the city wall.

Including Victor, one who used a cane, with temporary splints wrapped around both arms, and another whose left eye was blinded by shrapnel, leaving only his right eye.

The rest of the people all had wounds that had not fully healed.

The Astartes' superhuman physique prevents them from losing their fighting ability due to these injuries, but the lining of their power armor is soaked with blood and bodily fluids, and when they take off their armor, it emits a mixed smell of rust and rotting flesh.

I haven't taken off my nails for seven months.

Below the city wall, four thousand Imperial Star Army soldiers also gathered.

The remnants of Agrippina's 31st Infantry Regiment.

They wore bulletproof vests so worn that their original color was no longer visible, and their faces were covered in stubble that hadn't been shaved for months and grime that hadn't been washed for months.

Many people's hands tremble due to malnutrition and chronic sleep deprivation.

The acting commander of the infantry regiment was a lieutenant colonel named Heinz.

The original colonel, deputy regimental commander, and chief of staff had all been killed in action; this tall, thin middle-aged man was appointed based on seniority.

His right arm was slinged in a triangular bandage; his humerus had been broken by shrapnel. The medic didn't have bone screws, so he could only make a makeshift fixation with wooden strips and bandages.

Heinz stood at the foot of the city wall with his company and platoon leaders, looking up at the thirty blue figures on the wall.

Quintus's gaze swept over everyone.

On the wall. Under the wall. In blue power armor. In gray body armor. A two-hundred-year-old veteran. A twenty-year-old recruit.

They fought for seven months in front of this city wall.

They shed the same blood, breathed the same foul air, and ate the same unpalatable compressed rations.

I'll only say it once.

Quintus spoke, his voice carrying far on the wind atop the city walls: “The last communication from Sector Command was three weeks ago. They said reinforcements would arrive. Two months. Maybe longer.”

He paused, letting the number settle in everyone's mind.

"Our ammunition won't last a week."

Silence reigned above and below the city wall.

The wind swept past their heads, carrying yellow-green spores.

"Forty-eight hours later, the third wave of attack will begin. It will be at least three times the size of the first two. I won't tell you about the Emperor being with us. You've been standing on this wall for seven months. You know better than I whether the Emperor is here or not."

Several Star Guard soldiers lowered their heads.

Someone drew an eagle symbol on their chest.

Quintus's scarred face remained expressionless.

"But I'll tell you something else."

He pointed behind him, to the other side of the city wall, to the heart of the Arctic continent.

“There are still 30 million people over there. Farmers, workers, the elderly, and children. Most of them have never even held a gun. If we fall, the Plague Legion will flatten the entire Arctic continent within 48 hours. 30 million people will become the next batch of Plague Walkers, those rotten things, dragging their legs forward until they die.”

He withdrew his hand.

"Therefore we cannot fall."

A young Astragalus soldier couldn't help but shout, "But the ammunition..."

“When we run out of ammunition, we’ll use bayonets,” Quintus said.

"What if the bayonet broke?"

"Hands, teeth, and head."

Quintus's gaze fell on the young soldier. The boy was no more than twenty years old, his mustache barely fully grown. His body armor bore the marks of three bullet holes repaired. The Imperial Astral Army's standard body armor, once penetrated, was not provided for replacement; it could only be patched up with coarse thread, barely better than nothing.

“I won’t lie to you that we can win.” Quintus lowered his voice slightly. “I also won’t lie to you that the Emperor will send down a miracle to save us. Miracles don’t come to those who wait.”

He drew his power sword from his waist.

A faded blue cloth strip was wrapped around the hilt of his sword; it was a vow left by his first platoon leader, his mentor who had died in battle when he was still a reconnaissance soldier.

Quintus held the sword in front of him, the blade pointing vertically upwards, the dark blue metal reflecting his scarred face.

"My name is Servilus Quintus. Captain of the Fifth Ultramarines. A warrior of the Emperor."

His voice began to change. It was no longer a weary, low murmur, but a metallic hum rising from the depths of his chest. It was the frequency of a Space Marine's battle cry.

“Two hundred and seventeen years ago, I swore an oath before the Primarch's statue in the Chapter Fortress of Maclage. The chaplain at the time told me that this oath would last the rest of my life, until the moment I fell. I asked him: What if I fall? He said,”

Quintus's gaze swept over everyone on the city wall.

He said, 'You will not fall. You will only stop standing. And where you stop standing, there lies the border of the empire.'"

He held his power sword forward, the tip pointing south, towards the yellowish-green horizon, towards the approaching tide of death that was creeping in.

"The place I chose is right here on this wall."