Warhammer: Empire Reboot

Therefore, the seventh high ground cannot be lost.

Even if they all die, we can't throw them away.

The 3rd Company of the Terra Corona Guard is stationed here.

A well-known group of spoiled young masters.

When they first arrived at the alert point, the veterans on the front lines had already spread the word about them as a joke throughout half of the war zone.

The offspring of a Terran nobleman.

Gold-edged armor.

Family crest cloak.

A heat gun with hand-carved details from a master workshop.

The hilt of the power rapier was covered in silver and ebony, so beautiful that it didn't look like a killing tool, but rather like a dinner knife used to cut roast goose at a banquet.

The company even had servants.

There were people serving red wine, handing out hot towels, applying perfume, and smoothing out the wrinkles in cloaks.

When they boarded the ship, they brought six boxes of formal wear, two boxes of perfume, thirty-seven letters of recommendation from nobles, and a half-body charioteer to iron the corners of the company commander's cloak.

What are they doing here? Gaining prestige and recognition.

Take some decent battlefield photos on the front lines far from Terra, and hang them in the family hall when you get back, so you can tell the girls and old men at the banquet: Look, I also shed blood for the Emperor.

The Third Company itself was aware of these things.

Victor Kaslan, eldest son of Duke Kaslan, commander of the Third Company.

When he first set foot on the Vigilant Star, he frowned and said something:

"The air on this planet is like someone has poured corpses, rust, and cheap liquor into the same pot and boiled them together."

Sergeant Brock of the 82nd Infantry Regiment was standing nearby at the time.

He had a cigarette burning almost to his lips, and he didn't even lift his eyelids.

"Young master, this is called the front line."

Victor looked down and saw a crack in the sole of Brock's boot, from which mud and water were squeezing out, like a rotten mouth.

“Sergeant,” Viktor said, “the soles of your boots are about to fall off.”

Brock sneered: "As long as you can stand up and kill aliens, that's enough."

Victor turned and gave instructions to the servants behind him.

"Size 7 riot control boots, take a pair."

Brock's face immediately darkened.

"You're fucking giving me charity?"

Victor looked at him again: "No, I don't want anyone to fall to their death next to my defensive line because their shoe soles have cracked."

Brock stared at him for two seconds, then reached out and took the boots.

"Terra little bastard."

Victor smiled.

“Poor vocabulary, sergeant.”

Back then, Brock hated him.

The 82nd Regiment also dislikes the Corona Guard Regiment.

They hate that this group of people wipe silver cups before eating.

I hate it when they call the heat gun "my baby".

I hate it when they discuss seating arrangements at the Terra Ball before the fighting has even started.

I hate that they call ordinary Astral Army soldiers "Line Soldiers," as if they aren't people, but just rows of numbers on the military affairs department's forms that can be consumed.

But then, the orcs arrived.

On the first day, the Corona Guards acted as if they were just there to observe a ceremony.

His cloak was neatly arranged, and his helmet was polished.

The lens of the heat gun was wiped with a soft cloth until it could reflect a face.

Several noble youths even made a bet behind the lines: who could kill an orc leader first.

In the third hour, the first orc combat wagon crashed into the outer wall.

The front of the car smashed through the cement, and the large-caliber gun barrel on the roof swept across the position.

A baron's youngest son had his leg broken by a bullet; half of his lower leg flew three meters away, still wearing his boot.

His screams were so loud they shattered.

"Mommy—Mommy! My legs! My legs!"

Just as the servant next to him extended his mechanical arm to hand over the painkiller, he was blown to three pieces by an orc rocket.

Copper pipes, white porcelain masks, and silver trays flew into the sky together, while red wine spilled down like a dignified rain of blood.

In the sixth hour, all the red wine was taken by Brock.

He smashed open case after case, pouring the holy liqueur he had brought from Terra into the wounded soldiers' mouths as a painkiller.

The second son of an earl was so angry that his eyes turned red.

"Do you know what that is? It's the Holy Dew that my father brought from Terra!"

Brock held the bottle in one hand and pressed down hard on a machine gunner whose intestines were spilling out with the other.

The machine gunner was in so much pain that he dug two furrows in the mud with his heels.

Brock looked up, his mouth smeared with blood and wine.

"Now it's a painkiller."

The count's second son raised his voice: "You, born of rotten mud..."

Brock shoved the bottle into the machine gunner's mouth, then turned and poked his nose with his bloodied finger.

"If you want to sue me, you'd better live to see today. If you don't, then shut your gilded asshole."

The count's second son's face turned bright red, and his hand was already on the hilt of his sword.

Viktor stood to the side, silent for two seconds.

"Do as he says."

The count's second son suddenly looked at him.

"Company Commander?"

Victor stared at the soldier whose intestines were spilling out.

"We can buy more alcohol later."

You only have one life!

At that moment, the people of the 82nd Regiment looked at the Duke's eldest son with respect for the first time.

In the twelfth hour, the servants of the Corona Guard were removed.

Copper limbs served as gun mounts.

Use half of your body as cover.

The built-in cooling component was removed and attached to the heat gun cooling slot.

A noblewoman knelt in the mud, tearing her own cloak into strips to tie the severed arm of a Star Guardian from the Lower Nest.

The Star Guardian was in so much pain that his face was covered in sweat, and his teeth were grinding together.

"Miss, your cloak must be quite expensive."

"Shut up."

She tightened the cloth strips hard, and the wounded soldier let out a muffled roar from his throat in pain.

In the seventeenth hour, the Astragalus defenses below the Seventh Highland collapsed.

All three company commanders were killed.

The last Leman Rustank was overturned by an Orc war wagon, its tracks spinning in the air. The crew members were trapped inside the turret in flames, their voices hoarse from the heat, yet they continued to sing the Emperor's Hymn.

After the last section was sung, the tank commander pressed the detonation button on the ammunition compartment.

boom!!!

The entire Lemanrus and a dozen or so orcs exploded into a black and red fireball.

The rest of the people retreated to higher ground.

Those who can stand, join the Corona Guard Regiment's defensive line.

If you can't stand up, push the magazine forward.

Brock had lost an arm, leaving his right shoulder and below empty space, the cut bound with charred strips of cloth.

He leaned against the sandbag, bit open the ammunition pouch with his teeth, and pushed the bullets forward one by one.

Victor walked over to him.

"Sergeant, you should go to the rear."

Brock lowered his head and spat out a mouthful of blood.

"The medical post at the rear has been turned into mincemeat by the orcs. Young master, now you're finally as poor as us."

Victor looked down at his tattered breastplate.

Phnom Penh is gone.

The family crest was scratched with several ugly grooves by shrapnel.

He then looked at the horde of orcs that was gathering.