I summoned the Fourth Scourge in Warhammer

Chapter 19 Weapons are of paramount importance, while human life is cheap.

In the player base, this highly efficient meat grinder, the cultists suffered unimaginable casualties.

Perhaps, this tiny stronghold, nestled in a corner of the Lower Nest ruins, is but a grain of sand in the vast, brutal battlefield of the entire Nest world. It wouldn't even be marked on the Imperial Generals' strategic maps, nor would it be considered crucial in the Chaos Lords' grand plans.

But for every cult member in this place, those abstract concepts are too far away.

Lasers piercing through one's ears, burning the air with a pungent stench; bayonets piercing one's comrade's chest, pulling out warm entrails; scalding blood splattering on one's face, mixed with bits of flesh and bone—all of this is a thousand times more real than the eternal rewards promised to them by the cult's upper echelons, or the enormous casualty figures on the entire battlefield.

They don't understand.

These humble believers, promised a glorious future, were utterly plunged into cognitive confusion.

They were the ones who received the blessings of the Dark Gods, the ones who were promised the possibility of their souls being reborn in the Warp after death. Why... why are these lackeys, who should be terrified of death and bound by the faith of the Corpse King, behaving more insanely, more violently, and more fearlessly than they are?

They seemed utterly indifferent to their own lives, each charge carried a resolute determination to perish together with their enemies. The expressions on their faces weren't of fear, but rather a… incomprehensible excitement?

The already weak faith began to crumble inch by inch in the face of this meat grinder.

The collapse accelerated when the Chaos Wizard Elias stubbornly insisted on his troops' relentless, mindless assaults despite his subordinates' warnings. Faced with meaningless and brutal casualties, the cultists were utterly shaken.

Finally, after witnessing his last companion's head being smashed by a flying club, one of the cult members completely broke down. He let out a scream that was not human, threw away his weapon, and turned to flee for his life in the direction he had come from.

His actions were like a stone thrown into stagnant water, instantly triggering a chain reaction.

"I'm not fighting anymore! I don't want to die!"

"Devils! They are devils!"

More and more cult members abandoned their attack and joined the fleeing ranks. The rout spread like a plague, and the originally chaotic charging line completely turned into a desperate escape.

The Chaos Wizard Elias Holmes, high above, had a complete view of it all.

His face was as black as the bottom of a pot, and his knuckles, gripping the staff, were white from excessive force. He watched helplessly as his proud army crumbled, and the rage in his heart almost consumed his reason. Instinctively, he wanted to find someone to share the anger and responsibility for this defeat.

He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the equally ashen-faced cult leaders and their subordinates.

However, a chilling fact surfaced in his mind.

From the start of the battle until now, from the first wave of probing attacks to the later frenzied charge when everyone was completely engrossed, all the orders... were issued by him alone.

His subordinates obeyed his every order perfectly from beginning to end, even the "charge at any cost" order that now seems incredibly foolish to him. They faithfully carried out his will, driving the troops toward destruction.

In other words, even if someone is to be held responsible after the war, the only one who will be responsible is Elias Holmes.

He couldn't find anyone to use as a scapegoat.

Thinking of this, Elias couldn't help but shudder. It wasn't from the chilling winds of the lower levels of the hive, but from the fear of the future. He knew very well that in the chaotic system, losers never fared well. His superiors, those truly powerful figures, would never listen to any of his explanations; they would only punish his incompetence in the cruelest way possible. No! This absolutely cannot be allowed!

"Fools! Halt!" Elias roared, his voice booming with psychic power, as if exploding in the minds of every fleeing cultist. He pointed sharply to the rear, issuing a chilling order to the overseers around him:

"Set up the heavy logging rifles! Those who retreat, die!"

The warlords trembled, their faces showing horror.

They certainly had heavy logging rifles. These were heavy weapons commonly issued to the Imperial army, firing large-caliber solid shot that could easily tear through the thin armor of vehicles, let alone the flesh and blood of ordinary people. But from the start of the battle, this deadly weapon had been kept hidden in the rear and never deployed in combat.

The reason is simple—this thing is an expensive asset. If it were destroyed on the front lines, Lord Elias would certainly be punished by his superiors. As for those lowly believers, they die and that's it; they grow back like weeds, and no one would blame the commander for their deaths.

Therefore, the true purpose of this powerful logging gun was never to suppress the enemy with firepower, but to supervise the battle. Its muzzle was always pointed at its own people.

The scarred warlord hesitated for a moment, opening his mouth as if to say something, but upon meeting Elias's murderous gaze, he immediately swallowed his words and roared, "Yes, sir! Quickly! Aim the lumberjacks at those cowards!"

The heavy gun was quickly mounted on a tripod, its dark muzzle, thicker than a normal person's fist, turned towards the direction in which their own men were fleeing.

"Fire!"

"Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!"

The dull, terrifying sound of gunfire echoed across the battlefield. It wasn't the sharp whistling of a laser gun, but a deafening roar like a heavy hammer striking a drum. Each shot represented the firing of a deadly bullet.

A bloody corridor suddenly burst open in the fleeing cult members' ranks.

One cult member's upper body was torn in two by the immense kinetic energy; another cult member was kicked through the air as if by an invisible giant, turning into a blurry cloud of blood mist mid-air. After piercing through three or four people, the bullet continued its momentum, carving a deep trench in the ground.

The scythe of death swung down from behind, more efficient and more desperate than the slaughter by the horde of crazed Ascendant soldiers in front.

At this moment, all the fleeing cult members froze.

They turned around and saw the heavy logging guns, spitting fire, set up on the high ground behind them, and the ferocious, cold faces of the warlords.

A harsh reality was laid out before them:
If we retreat, we'll be riddled with bullets by our own side's supervisory team and die a meaningless death.

Keep charging forward, facing those fearless monsters. Although it's a nine-out-of-ten chance of death, maybe you'll survive.
The instinct to survive overwhelmed everything.

"Ah ah ah ah ah--!"

The surviving cultists let out a scream more piercing than ever before, their voices now devoid of fanaticism, filled only with pure fear and despair. They turned and, like sheep herded by sheepdogs, gritted their teeth and launched another charge towards the players' positions.

Watching this desperate tide, driven forward by death, Elias felt no remorse, only a morbid, all-encompassing satisfaction. He had successfully used the blood of his own people to build a dam preventing the collapse.

(End of this chapter)