At dawn the next day, as the first rays of dim sunlight pierced the Perditia's polluted atmosphere, a dull engine roar, growing from distant to near, broke the tranquility of the position.
A chimera APC, painted in Cadian grey camouflage, stopped in front of the position.
The rear ramp slammed down with a clang, and a Quartermaster poked his head out.
"Thirteenth Company! Some people come and move things!"
Hearing the call, several idle players immediately gathered, frantically moving wooden crates out.
One of the players pried open a crate, expecting to see neatly stacked stick grenades, but found several grenade launchers with a metallic sheen inside.
He curiously picked one up and asked, "Huh? Sir, why aren't there grenades in this box? Didn't you say only grenades would be sent?"
The Quartermaster, with a hint of fatigue on his face, still smiled and explained, "Originally, there were only grenades.
These were voluntarily given to you by our brother units on other defense lines after they heard about your combat plan.
They said that since these are all offensive grenades and wouldn't cause much effective damage on the defensive line, it's better to give them to you brave warriors who are going to charge into battle, to create greater value."
The inquiring player nodded solemnly upon hearing this: "Then please thank our brother units for us!"
"Of course," the Quartermaster responded, his expression becoming a bit more serious, "Also, the Commissar asked me to inform you that, according to reports from the front-line observation posts, the heretics will soon attempt to attack our main defensive line again.
That will be your best opportunity to attack the Chemical Refinery.
We will do our utmost to tie down their main forces, preventing them from quickly reinforcing."
"That's good!" the players carrying the ammo boxes said cheerfully, "Just you wait, without reinforcements, we'll 100% kick those cultists at the Chemical Refinery to death like roadside dogs."
The Quartermaster was clearly infected by the players' almost blind optimism, and he, too, showed a heartfelt smile: "For the Emperor, I wish you a triumphant return."
After the Quartermaster and the players waved goodbye to each other, the chimera kicked up a cloud of dust and returned to the main position.
The company quickly finished distributing supplies under Robert's direction.
There was nothing special about the grenades; everyone got an equal share.
But Robert hadn't quite figured out how to distribute the extra grenade launchers.
For fairness, he simply had the squad leaders of each squad draw lots to decide ownership.
As a result, Seventh Squad, responsible for close combat and counter-charges, was lucky enough to draw this batch of "heavy firepower."
After hanging two free grenades on his webbing, a player from Seventh Squad looked at himself and his companions and couldn't help but complain, "Speaking of which, isn't our equipment even worse than an army from World War I?"
His words immediately resonated.
"Damn, now that you mention it, it really is! The only heavy weapons in the entire company are these three newly issued grenade launchers."
"That's hard to say," another history enthusiast interjected, "it depends on which WWI country you're comparing to.
If we're comparing to Tsarist Russia, at least we all have a lasgun now, we don't have to wait for the person in front to die before picking one up."
"Hard to say."
"That's how the Imperium of Man is," a veteran warhammer fan sighed, "you have to wait until Guilliman returns for the firepower configuration of most of the Astra Militarum to barely reach the level of a WWII army; before that, the heavy firepower of the Astra Militarum has a huge range between its upper and lower limits."
"Ah, the Humorous Empire."
Equipment distributed, ammunition strapped to waists.
Under Robert's organization, nearly a hundred players formed two loose columns and began marching towards the Chemical Refinery.
That place was still a considerable distance from their current position, so early movement was necessary.
The march was tedious and oppressive.
Although Robert and the squad leaders managed to ensure basic formation and organization among the players, the extremely harsh environment of the Lower Hive quickly made everyone irritable.
Underfoot was eternally sticky and damp ground, the air was filled with the pungent stench of rotting organic matter mixed with chemical waste, and as far as the eye could see, there were only rusty giant pipes and grime-covered rock walls.
This journey was pure sensory torture.
"Holy crap, what a stench! This smell is too strong!"
"I said this game wouldn't let us have pure fun; see, the torment is here."
"Damn it, how much longer do we have to walk on this broken road? My soles are almost sticking off from this gooey ground."
Amidst a cacophony of complaints, a player suddenly yelled at the top of his lungs, "Where's our unique military band for a WWI army? How come we don't even have a BGM for our march?"
As soon as he spoke, it was like throwing a thunderbolt into still water, immediately eliciting agreement from countless players.
"Exactly! Where's our Helldivers Company's military band?"
"We players have dignity, okay! The game dev should be smart and give us a BGM right away!"
Just as everyone was making a racket, a player suddenly volunteered, "I can sing, brothers! I'll provide the BGM for you!"
"Good, good, good! Let's hear it!"
"Hurry up, hurry up!"
"Sing a military song, okay? If you dare sing any brainrot music I'm going to kill you!"
The player stepped forward amidst expectant gazes.
He cleared his throat, clapped his thigh twice for rhythm, and then sang a melody incredibly familiar to the players in a loud voice:
"You shout it out, but I can't hear a word you say
I'm talking loud, not saying much..."
As the song began, everyone was momentarily stunned.
"Ah? This song?"
"Damn, now it really feels like university all over."
But it had to be said, this guy sang really well.
He had clearly practiced outside the game; his deep and resonant voice was full of power, echoing through the narrow passages of steel and rock, instantly overpowering all other ambient noise.
This highly infectious singing quickly drew in other players, and many subconsciously joined in.
"I'm bulletproof, nothin' to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away"
Gradually, a solo became a duet of a dozen people, and finally, nearly a hundred people from the entire company joined this grand marching chorus.
The majestic singing resonated throughout this dirty, decaying underground world, significantly diluting the nauseating stench and oppressive atmosphere.
"I am titanium!"
One song finished, its echoes lingered.
Before anyone could suggest another, a player shouted, "This song isn't good! After singing it, I feel like we should turn around and fight the Imperium of Man!"
"Pfft—"
"Hahahahahahaha!"
His single sentence instantly triggered everyone's laughter.
The players couldn't help but burst into laughter, their deafening mirth not much quieter than the singing just now, carrying far, far away through the dark underground passages.