Meanwhile, at the command base of Legion Concordia Terra, a thunderous voice echoed across the preparation fields. A political commissar from the Astra Militarum—clad in a long greatcoat, the Aquila emblem gleaming on his chest—shouted with unshakable authority:
> "Move it! All artillery units, get into your assigned positions! For the Emperor!"
On the battlefield, every unit had its role. Infantry might win the fight on the frontlines. Tanks could shift the tide of major battles. But artillery—artillery decided who came back alive and who ended up as a name in a cold, official report.
It was an old saying, memorized by every cadet at the Imperium's military academies. And today, once again, it was proving itself true.
Thousands of Medusa-class siege guns were deployed in massive formations, their barrels aimed squarely at the enemy's main fortress on this yet-unnamed planet. These steel beasts were hauled into position by Chimera APCs, rolling along tactical paths mapped by orbital reconnaissance units.
Moments later, hundreds of Siege Tanks from the StarCraft universe followed suit—slow, but relentless. Within minutes, each tank began shifting into artillery mode. Their turrets rose, stabilizers locked in, and the machines became engines of pure devastation.
The Astra Militarum infantry disembarked one by one, forming tight, disciplined assault lines in true Imperial fashion. Silent, but ready—they awaited the signal to storm the enemy stronghold.
The commissar watched them all with a piercing gaze. He still wasn't fond of the Siege Tanks. Too damn slow to reload. But even he had to admit—one shot was all it took to turn enemies into memories.
> "Fucking hell... Six years in the military academy, and I'm still running World War II playbooks."
On the sidelines, artillery officers barked orders at the Wandering Earth Corps—a regiment of human soldiers from a distant Earth—to haul the massive artillery shells into place. The air was filled with sweat, curses, and the grind of heavy labor.
No one had an answer to the question that lingered in everyone's mind: how could the Imperium Caelestis—a galactic civilization armed with mechs, strategic AIs, and precision orbital weaponry—still rely on manually towed artillery and human muscle?
> "Dude, that guy in the gas mask? Looks like he time-traveled straight out of World War I."
Several soldiers from the Wandering Earth Corps glanced toward the formation of Death Korps of Krieg troopers—grim warriors from a world steeped in death and fanaticism.
Long bayonets, heavy trench coats, and radiation-proof gas masks—together, they cast a shadow darker than night itself. Even among allies, the Death Korps of Krieg felt like phantoms of the battlefield.
> "Death Korps of Krieg..." "That name's... seriously avant-garde. Who names their unit 'Death'? That's just begging for bad vibes…"
One of the Krieg officers came to a halt and slowly turned his head. Without a word, he walked toward a Wandering Earth soldier struggling to lift a massive artillery shell.
His voice, sharp and cold, filtered through the mechanical hiss of his gas mask:
> "Deadweight."
Blunt. Unapologetic. Void of empathy. He didn't see a fellow soldier—he saw an obstacle dragging down the Imperium's glory.
The Krieg officer let out a low, mechanical breath behind his mask, the rasping exhale buzzing through an old respirator that never quite stopped humming. Then, with zero ceremony—and to the stunned silence of the nearby Wandering Earth troops—he stepped forward and lifted a Medusa shell nearly the size of a torpedo.
With one hand.
The entire squad froze.
The same round that normally took two men to drag across the dirt was now being hoisted like a grocery bag by this strange, gas-masked man.
Then he spoke—flat, muffled, and utterly devoid of emotion:
> "I have been assigned by the Department of Military Affairs to oversee your artillery operations."
No room for questions. No hint of concern. He turned and, in one smooth motion, slid the shell into the Medusa's barrel with precise, mechanical ease. Left hand gripping the casing. Right hand locking the mechanism. It was as if he'd done it a thousand times in the same unending nightmare.
> "That is all," he stated curtly.
The soldiers of the Wandering Earth Corps looked at each other, silently asking the same question with their eyes.
> "........ It's not just the tactics that are old school," one of them muttered. "The whole operation feels like a retro war documentary."
But the Krieg officer didn't flinch. He ignored the comment, raised his hand—and gave the signal to fire.
> "Boom."
What followed wasn't just an explosion. It was the detonation of a world.
The shockwave rippled through the ground beneath them. The sound pressure alone felt like it could rupture eardrums.
The heavy shell tore through the air, curving low before smashing into the alien fortress wall. A chunk of the stronghold collapsed instantly, consumed in fire and debris.
> "You call this towed artillery?! This isn't a rocket launcher… it's a goddamn death machine!"
One of the soldiers cursed, half in awe, half in trauma.
But the Krieg officer remained unfazed. He continued the briefing with the tone of a military instructor—calm, clinical, unfeeling.
> "This artillery is called the Medusa," he explained. "It's designed to fire heavy projectiles at low velocity over short distances. Its destructive power is exceptional against static fortifications. However, its range is shorter than the Earthshaker, making it unsuitable for long-range counter-battery fire. Its main purpose is to demolish bunkers, border walls, and trench lines."
With that concise explanation, he turned and walked back to his position. His steps were steady and cold, like a corpse marching back to its grave.
The soldiers of the Wandering Earth Corps could only stare at his retreating back.
The political commissar raised his voice over the chaos.
"Alright everyone, our objective is to provide fire support for the advancing troops!"
He stood tall atop the command trench, a firm silhouette in the haze of dust and the flicker of explosions. His cloak billowed in the hot wind of war, his gaze cutting through the battlefield that had transformed into an open hell.
> "What kind of artillery support are they planning this time…?"
One soldier muttered, half anxious, half intrigued.
Before the thought could finish, a sharp whistle tore through the air. Immediately, the commissar's voice rang out, loud and clear:
> "ALL PERSONNEL, MANNING ARTILLERY POSITIONS! PREPARE TO FIRE!"
The soldiers' expressions turned grim. No one questioned the meaning of that order—the time for prep was over. The next phase was total destruction.
> "BEGIN ARTILLERY FIRE!"
And the world trembled.
> BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A relentless barrage of Medusa shells rained down on enemy lines in a precise bombardment pattern. Each thunderous blast shook the ground, kicking up clouds of dust and shards of metal.
The heavy Medusa artillery barrage pounded enemy lines with ruthless precision. Each blast shook the earth, throwing up clouds of dust and jagged metal. Amid the thunderous assault, Siege Tanks from the StarCraft dimension joined the fray—shifting into artillery mode with their iconic mechanical clunk, intensifying the devastation.
From the trenches, figures in gray uniforms surged forward. The infantry of the Death Korps of Krieg leapt out without hesitation. In an instant, the static line erupted into a brutal offensive formation. They charged through the flames—directly beneath their own artillery barrage—as if death itself was not a threat, but part of the plan.
Soldiers from other dimensions could only stare in stunned disbelief.
> "What the hell… Who's crazy enough to charge under their own damn artillery fire?!"
No one answered. They just stood frozen as the Krieg troopers—faces hidden behind gas masks, marching in perfect step like a parade straight from hell—stormed forward like a living nightmare.
> "What kind of tactic is this...? This is insane… This is a suicide run!"
The political commissar simply nodded, his voice calm, yet cold as he replied:
> "Krieg siege units don't fight like regular troops. They are made up of coordinated elements: infantry, artillery, armored vehicles, and specialist units. Their assaults aren't about bravery—they're about absolute discipline."
Waves of explosions from behind methodically carved paths through enemy defenses. From the outside, it looked like utter chaos—but beneath every thunderous impact lay precise calculations. The Krieg infantry seemed to charge straight into death, but in truth, they moved within mapped-out safe zones between the shell impacts.
The visual effect was stunning—a spectacle of both courage and madness. The aura of death that clung to them sent chills down the spines of allied soldiers who hadn't even fired a single shot yet.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, the alien fortress of Durmoth had just been rocked by the bombardment. Its walls were cracked, watchtowers crumbled, and its defenders were scrambling to reorganize their formations…
------
Inside the alien fortress of Durmoth, the surviving enemy soldiers—mostly shaken and still reeling from the artillery barrage—tried to steady themselves. But that fragile calm shattered as the dust and gunpowder haze swirling over the battlefield began to stir.
Gray silhouettes moved swiftly through the smoke.
> "Wha—?"
Durmoth's soldiers hadn't even raised their weapons before a metal shovel slammed into one's head. The sharp thud echoed—then, in an instant, his skull shattered, blood splattering against the fortress's stone wall. His body collapsed with a heavy thump.
The Death Korps of Krieg soldiers made no sound. Yet every step they took carried immense psychological weight. They advanced like an unstoppable gray wave—cold, methodical, merciless. No war cries. No emotions.
> "What the hell is this!?"
One Durmoth soldier tried to run, but his legs refused to move. His body froze, paralyzed by pure terror.
> "No! Please! Don't...!"
They cried out. They begged. But the Krieg forces showed no mercy. Their steel shovels answered for them.
CRACK! THUD! SCHLUK!
One by one, Durmoth's soldiers fell, blood soaking the stone floor. Above it all, the Krieg engineers pressed onward.
Elsewhere, the frontline engineers had reached the inner city walls.
They were no ordinary engineers. They were miners, explosives experts, architects of systematic destruction. They dug, built, and—most importantly—tore down.
Some planted liquid explosives along the base of the walls. Once set, they withdrew to the flanks, clearing space for the launch teams behind them.
> RAT BITE.
The "rat" launchers—small torpedo-like weapons strapped to their shoulders—were fired. Unlike regular rockets, these torpedoes didn't explode on contact. Instead, they burrowed into the enemy's foundation. Once they reached their target—tunnels or structural weak points—the operator triggered them remotely.
> BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Precision explosions rocked the fortress's foundation. Cracks thundered, and soon the entire side of the inner city wall collapsed like ancient ruins no longer able to support themselves.
From the dust and rubble, the Krieg engineers ready to storm the city surged forward, firing their Lucius Mark 22C semi-automatic rifles.
> RAT-TAT-TAT! RAT-TAT-TAT!
Each shot wasn't just lethal—it was devastating. High-powered rounds tore through enemy bodies, leaving blood-soaked holes in their wake. In the brutal close-quarters combat, gunfire exploded alongside screams and the sound of bones shattering.
Durmoth's soldiers could only scream as one by one, their ranks were cut down by a storm of bullets and steel shovels.
As the Krieg engineers surged the frontline, rookie Astra Militarum troops from various universes began to move too. Lines of grenadiers and regular infantry pushed through the gaps in the fallen fortress walls. What awaited them was not instant victory, but brutal, close-quarters battle—blood, bullets, and bayonets haunting every step.
---
Meanwhile, on the planet Concordia IX—
Kenthelion lounged casually atop a black metal throne in the main command room of the western sector's frontline base.
Swinging his leg and staring at the semi-transparent tactical interface floating in the air before him, he clicked his tongue in frustration.
> "System, I still feel like my Space Marines aren't enough to back up the war expansion into the Outer Ring. Are you sure there's no bulk discount or something?"
The tactical display showed a roster of units already deployed—hundreds of battalions, dozens of Astartes squads, and a supporting fleet. Yet the numbers felt like a drop of ink in an ocean compared to the vast multiverse.
> "Damn it... this universe is too big," he muttered. "And my Space Marines now are more like limited editions—few, expensive, and easy to kill if not guarded properly."
Kenthelion glanced briefly at the Chaos Space Marines recruitment tab on the system interface—and promptly closed it like a suspicious popup ad.
> "Nope. That water's too deep. And those guys are like hardcore fans who hate other fans... not worth it."
Suddenly, the system chimed with a soft but firm notification.
Ding—Is the Host interested in unique and rare Chaos Space Marines faction: Company of Misery (formerly known as Desolate Brotherhood)?
Kenthelion narrowed his eyes.
> "Give me the full rundown. Keep it brief."
The holographic display instantly filled with historical data, flashbacks, and audio recordings about the faction.
---
Company of Misery — Chaos Space Marines Faction (Unknown Allegiance)
Their origins trace back to a loyalist Imperium Chapter, the Desolate Brotherhood, which suffered drastic genetic seed stock degradation in the 32nd Millennium. Since then, they were continually sent on impossible missions: infiltrating Death Worlds, scouring Space Hulks, and entering hazardous quarantine zones.
Every time they seemed close to redemption or honor, they were thrown into even more brutal and horrific tasks—until a catastrophic incident in the acid swamps of the world Misery transformed them completely.
Shedding their old identity, they became a free faction: servants of chaos, but unclear to whom their loyalty truly lies. A force no longer seeking victory... only destruction and release from eternal suffering.
They first appeared as a Chaos force on Maddean IV (37th Millennium). Intel data hints at a vague connection to a mysterious group called the Brethren of Misery—though whether they are one entity, a sub-faction, or mere military legend remains unconfirmed by the Inquisitorium.
---
Kenthelion rubbed his chin, murmuring.
> "Hmm... frustrated, heavily traumatized people who are strong and don't expect to live long? Sounds like good cannon fodder. But yeah... I gotta make sure they don't kill their own teammates just from PTSD."
System: "Records show they hate Imperium bureaucrats more than their battlefield comrades."