The Warhamr 40k universe, a world synonymous with grots for transmigrators, was nothing but good news for Zhang Ge at this mont.
A system captured the high-dinsional information he carried the mont he crossed over to this side. Now, as long as Zhang Ge dies through a reasonable thod, the system can instantly make him invincible by utilizing this high-dinsional data. Then, punching the Four Chaos Gods and kicking the Cold Sun would be trivial feats.
If he were unlucky enough to cross into certain "garden worlds," Zhang Ge might have to fret about finding a plausible way to die. But gazing at the sky shrouded in sothing resembling clouds yet closer to smoke, feeling the damp trenches around him, his exhausted comrades, and the lasgun in his hands...
Zhang Ge declared that there had never been such a wonderful beginning.
Though he couldn't yet ask where this place was - lest he be mistaken for Chaos corruption and face trouble, getting shot by an Inquisitor or Commissar might not even count as a normal death - given the Astra Militarum's average casualty rates, Zhang Ge's desperate attempts at self-preservation would most likely fail anyway. How much more hopeless then, when deliberately courting death?
"Ah, excuse ..."
A woman's voice snapped Zhang Ge out of his wandering thoughts. As he wondered why there would be a woman on the battlefield, he turned his head toward the source of the voice and saw her force-feedback power armor with dicae insignia.
dicae Sister, then it's okay.
"Apologies, I an no harm. It's just that everyone else seems to be resting, and you appear to be more alert," the dicae Sister said, wearing a faint smile as she raised her empty hands in a placating gesture.
It was then that Zhang Ge realized his body had instinctively reacted to the anomaly. His palm had already gripped the body of the lasgun beside him, and before his head even turned, the barrel had tilted toward the Sister.
"Password."
No, that's not right.
While shouting the challenge phrase, Zhang Ge's sense of dissonance peaked - sothing was fundantally wrong.
As suspicion flashed through his mind, the lasgun in his hand unexpectedly emitted a crimson glow before he pulled the trigger, its searing beam abruptly striking the dicae Sister before him.
The gunshot - more accurately, the sound of superheated air expanding around the lasgun's muzzle - jolted nearby allies awake. Only then did Zhang Ge's sluggish mind finally grasp what was wrong.
The procedure is flawed. When allied forces from different organizational structures are deployed, the first step must always be coordinating with officers in advance. Only then should officers relay precise details to ground troops - exact timing, direction, specific units, and number of personnel.
Even under the most generous assumptions, during initial contact protocol dictates that password verification must always be initiated by the party making first contact before any communication occurs. A dicae Sister couldn't possibly be unaware of this protocol.
For a daemon to suddenly appear in the midst of the battlefield like this, and for to have inherited this body's instincts and fragnted mories yet only realize it now - there could only be one possible explanation.
As the las-beam made contact with the Sister's skin, a burst of flas tore away the abominable disguise. Flesh lted and tore from her face as dozens of pink tentacles instantly shredded the "force-feedback powered armor" from within.
A newly awakened comrade reacted with lightning speed, instantaneously realizing certain death at this proximity. Instead of reaching for his firearm, he imdiately attempted to yank the grenade's safety pin embedded in his chest.
Yet even so, the tentacle moved far faster. Its slender tip pierced through the carapace-unprotected area beneath his neck in a blur imperceptible to the naked eye, penetrating the brainstem and inducing physiological cessation of all motor functions.
But the worst was yet to co. By so unknown ans of communication, the mont the daemon was exposed, frenzied roars of heretics erupted from the distant battle lines.
On Zhang Ge's flank, the mont the ally was impaled, the tentacle—delayed only slightly by the las-beam—had already thrust itself before his eyes.
Zhang Ge felt no fear—or rather, he hadn't even processed it. In his previous life, the average human reaction ti was around 300 milliseconds; even top-tier athletes with specialized training barely reached 150. In this life, as a trained Astra Militarum soldier, he likely operated within 100 milliseconds. The tentacle's speed far surpassed the secretion of fear-related chemicals.
At such close range, even against the lowest-tier warp entity, mortals could only rely on their body's own instincts.
One could only marvel at how fitting it was for the Warhamr universe, where human lives were as worthless as discarded thrones.
But to his surprise, in that split-second mont, the lasgun that had autonomously fired once before erupted with a crimson beam again. Despite being semi-automatic, the hellgun-like radiant light showed no sign of pause, instead spewing forth relentlessly.
The trendous recoil from superheated compressed air threw Zhang Ge backward, sending him crashing diagonally to the ground. This unexpected movent caused the lashing tentacle to miss its target. The daemon emitted a wailing roar as the sustained high-intensity attacks montarily overloaded its form, freezing its movents for a crucial instant.
In that frozen mont, the throaty roar of a heavy bolter erupted from behind. Adamantine-tipped rounds slamd into the daemon's exposed pinkish flesh-matter, spinning projectiles tearing through its corporeal form in the material universe. Relentless explosive impacts ripped apart its massive fra, detonations shredding the warp-spawned flesh.
Confronted by overwhelming heavy weapons fire, the daemon that could have annihilated an entire Astra Militarum squad was obliterated in the blink of an eye.
Zhang Ge lay sprawled on the ground, drenched in slowly burning ashes. His laspistol flickered with intermittent energy pulses from its power cell, seemingly expressing emotions as he wore a complicated expression.
Bro, aren't machine spirits supposed to be high-maintenance tsunderes? How did yours end up like this?
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