Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 320 Fierce Battle on the Ice Plains
The transport ship on track finally broke through the atmosphere, its hull burning fiercely from the friction, the dark red, high-temperature metal flowing like molten lava, drawing scorching trails in the dark night sky.

The heavy armor plates twisted and deformed due to the extreme heat, emitting a tooth-grinding metallic groan, but the million warriors inside the ship had no time to care—they were about to step into hell.

As the hatch swung open with a deafening roar, the hydraulic system emitted a piercing shriek, and a blizzard of icy winds instantly poured into the cabin, slapping against every tense face.

Half a million new recruits and half a million holy warriors surged out like a tidal wave, their heavy military boots shattering the ice, and a torrent of steel poured onto this war-torn ice field.

Their breaths condensed into white mist in the extreme cold, only to be torn apart by the howling artillery fire.

This is a peculiar mixed force—female recruits fresh out of training camp, their brand-new uniforms standing out against the snow, their red, frozen fingers gripping laser guns; fanatical and devout holy warriors, chanting the Emperor's name, the golden holy seal on their battle robes gleaming in the firelight; and the gray-haired veterans, silently inspecting their weapons, their calloused fingers expertly manipulating the bolts, as if they had never left the battlefield.

However, the battlefield doesn't care about their origins.

The biting wind, carrying the roar of artillery fire, swept past, and shrapnel and ice crystals intertwined in the air to form a deadly web.

An elderly Rostov veteran with white hair knelt on one knee on the frozen ground, his heavy winter cloak fluttering in the wind.

His scarred face contorted behind the scope, his murky single eye locked onto a charging green-skinned orc.

"Remember! The green-skinned guy's head is his weak point!" His roar pierced through the explosion, and he pulled the trigger.

With a roar from the heavy-duty shotgun, a burst of explosive shells precisely tore apart the orc's skull, the green brain matter scalding into a hissing crater in the snow.

"Shoot accurately, girls!" he roared, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping. "Shoot accurately if you don't want to turn into mincemeat!"

The female recruits were initially in chaos amidst the deafening artillery fire: some knelt on the ice and vomited, their pale gold braids stained with stomach acid; some trembled as they repeatedly pulled the safety pin, but could not fire it; and some stood frozen in place, their pupils reflecting the afterimages of their comrades being vaporized by the plasma cannon in the distance.

Until they witnessed firsthand the girl who had taught everyone to sing military songs on the transport ship being cleaved in two from her shoulder blade by green-skinned barbarians with a rusty machete.

Her broken body left a ten-meter-long, bright red trail on the snow, her still-closed eyes gazing in the direction of her sisters.

"For her! For the Emperor!"

The roar exploded from the center of the battlefield, like a blunt knife cleaving through the wind and snow.

No one could see who shouted it first. Perhaps it was the blonde girl who always secretly mended the uniforms of her sisters in the barracks, or perhaps it was the short-haired girl who silently carried an extra box of ammunition for her comrade who was exhausted during training.

At this moment, her voice sounded like it had been sanded, her sobs filled with burning hatred, as if she wanted to tear her vocal cords apart.

The next second, a fighting instinct dormant deep within his bloodline awakened.

The female soldiers' pupils suddenly contracted, and their knuckles turned white from the excessive force.

The three of them stood with their backs against the ice crevasse, their boot heels firmly pressed against the frozen ground, and the butts of their laser guns against their shoulders, just as their fathers and grandfathers had practiced countless times.

"Crossfire!"

Thirty crimson beams pierced through the blizzard, precisely weaving across the fuel tank of the green-skinned war machine.

The monster charged forward, spewing black smoke, its crude pipes exposed beneath the shattered armor plates, seemingly mocking humanity's weakness. But the next second, the exploding fuel blasted it into scattered scrap metal, its fiery claws tearing through the snow, vaporized ice crystals hissing and dissipating in the intense heat.

The towering flames illuminated their faces—their frostbitten cheekbones stained with their companions' blood, their eyelashes covered in frost, but their eyes had been tempered into steel.

On the other side of the battlefield, the fanaticism of the holy war army turned into a blood-red hurricane.

A fanatical cultist with a face full of tattoos lunged at the orc boy in front of him, his teeth digging deep into the boy's neck and tearing out half of his throat; another warrior who had lost his right arm used his stump to hold a molten bomb, his maniacal laughter even drowning out the greenskins' war cries, before turning into a dazzling explosion.

Under the emperor's banner, they are all blades.
-
Meanwhile, on the other side, the assault team led by Blood Knights Chapter Master Joel was engaged in a fierce battle on the outskirts of the ancient ruins.

The ancient greenskins that awakened from the ice were more troublesome than expected. They not only had a larger and more robust physique, but also powerful weapons and equipment, and combat experience that modern greenskins lacked.

Can you believe that two greens can put together such a brilliant attack?
This completely overturned the Empire's previous perception of orcs as merely barbaric and rude!

Yor's chainsword severed one orc head after another, but more greenskins crawled out from the ice crevices, seemingly endless.

"Chaptermaster! There are too many of them!" a Blood Knight roared in the communications channel. His power armor had been cleaved open by the Greenskin's axe blades, and blood seeped from the cracks, freezing into ice in the extreme cold.

Joel did not answer; his gaze was fixed on the depths of the ruins—where the green-skinned tech-savvy kids were frantically chiseling at the solid ice that held Krok frozen, using crude welding tools and ancient artifacts they had dug up from who-knows-where.

With each strike, a crack appeared in the ice, from which an eerie green light seeped out, as if some dormant will was awakening.

"It must be destroyed...it must be!" Joel gritted his teeth, but the orc warlord in front of him blocked his way.

It was a behemoth comparable in size to a dreadnought mech, its body covered in rusted metal plates, and crackling electric currents crackling around the power hammer in its hand.

It grinned maliciously and roared in broken Gothic language: "Human shrimp... die!"

Meanwhile, the mixed forces of new recruits and jihadists stabilized their position on the main battlefield.

The veterans of Rostov played a crucial role, shouting the war cry of Valhalla and directing the female soldiers to build crossfire points together with the Mujahideen.

The terrain of the ice field was cleverly utilized, with every crevice becoming a natural cover and every ice hill being equipped with heavy weapons.

The green-skinned soldiers' charge was torn apart by precise bombs and lasers, leaving piles of green corpses on the snow.

"Maintain suppressive fire! Don't let them catch their breath!" a one-eyed veteran roared, his heavy explosive rifle spitting fire.

Beside him, a young female soldier trembled as she pulled the trigger; the laser beam grazed the orc's shoulder but failed to kill him.

The veteran cursed, but still grabbed her by the collar and pulled her close: "Aim for the head! Don't waste ammo!"

The female soldier gritted her teeth and nodded; the second shot finally pierced the green-skinned soldier's forehead.

Her gaze gradually hardened, as if she had finally come to understand the cruelty of the battlefield.

(End of this chapter)