Damn it! Don't panic!
The political commissar's arm had been severed, yet with his remaining hand, he continued slashing through the enemy ranks with unrelenting fury.
"We'll meet again beneath the Golden Throne..."
He dropped his crackling power sword and reached for his boltgun with trembling fingers.
"The Emperor protects. The Machine Spirit watches over me..."
With a desperate prayer whispered in his mind, he clutched the damaged weapon. The boltgun had been nearly destroyed by a previous explosion, but somehow, against all odds—
"For the Emperor!!"
—The weapon roared to life. Not only did it fire, it unleashed a torrent of bolts at a speed far beyond its original capacity.
Under the storm of blessed munitions, dozens of orks exploded into clouds of green gore. But the price was steep—unable to handle the force of the enhanced recoil, the commissar's remaining arm ruptured and tore apart, flesh and bone shattering in a violent burst.
Bleeding and drained, he smiled bitterly through the pain.
"WAAAAARGHH!!! HUMIE! I'M GONNA RIP YOU TO SHREDS!"
Grumak, the massive ork warboss, lunged forward. His colossal claws tore the commissar in two with a sickening crunch, silencing his last breath.
Nearby, James, one of the last remaining Guardsmen, winced as his arm snapped from a brutal impact. Still, with a boltgun in his remaining hand, he ran—toward the last bunker still standing amidst the chaos.
"HAHAHAHA!! YOUR END IS HERE, HUMAN!!"
Another hulking ork roared, swinging a massive axe at James with the force of a battering ram.
Logically, James should've died right then and there. But at that critical moment, fate—or something greater—intervened.
CLANG!
His weapon caught the axe mid-swing. Using the brief window of resistance, James struck. He kicked at the ork's third leg, throwing the beast off-balance, then drove his bayonet deep into its throat before it could even scream.
"Thank you, Emperor... May your light never fade."
He shoved the dying ork aside and crawled toward the entrance of Bunker Nine, the only stronghold not yet overrun.
Unbeknownst to James, as he struck down the beast, a golden aura briefly shimmered around him—an unseen blessing.
"This is Bunker Nine! We need support! They're everywhere—Orks from all sides!"
Inside, the lone autocannon turret fired relentlessly, slicing through the horde like a lighthouse beam cutting through a storm.
Scattered survivors regrouped: Marauders, Medtechs, Marines, Firebats, and Astra Militarum veterans—including James. The wounded tended by the Medtechs refused to retreat, choosing instead to die where they stood rather than burden their comrades.
"We will survive. For humanity. For the Emperor."
The only light shining in this dark galaxy is the unyielding will of mankind.
"By His Majesty, the Emperor! Gather all melta grenades and prepare to face these damnable Orcs!"
A grizzled Astra Militarum veteran, his uniform torn and bloodied, stepped forward with the hell-weapon still hissing in his grasp. In the chaos of battle, he had naturally become the de facto commander of the battered squad.
He glanced over at James, eyes narrowing under his cracked helmet.
"Hey, rookie. Shove your dog tags in your mouth unless you want molten metal dripping down your chin."
The Terran Firebats and Marauders chuckled softly. They'd seen this kind of madness plenty of times—this brutal, scorching chaos reminded them of the Zerg swarms.
The Medtechs behind them gave faint smiles, quietly prepping for the flood of casualties that would soon follow.
The veteran demonstrated, slipping his own tags between his teeth before speaking through the metal bite.
"Press it under your tongue. Feels weird, but better than your jaw melting off."
James, pale-faced and breath heavy with tension, nodded and followed the advice. He bit down on the cold metal of his ID tags, eyes fixed on the horizon as dark shapes began to emerge.
Before them stretched a limitless sea of Orcs.