I summoned the Fourth Scourge in Warhammer

Chapter 215 Is Tyron trying to turn this place into Katachon?
Led by the elite Astartes-Oglin commando unit, the human army, like a red-hot blade, pierced deep into the Tyranid lines. They advanced for dozens of kilometers, but the scene before them remained unchanged.

Every area within sight had been dug into a vast, twisted labyrinth of trenches. The inner walls of these trenches were reinforced with a layer of slippery chitinous carapace, emitting a faint, fishy stench. And the pervasive purple spore mist, which greatly impaired perception, was everywhere, casting an eerie hue over the entire world.

"Why hasn't the scenery changed at all?" an Oglin muttered, carrying a tower shield. "Boss, have we fallen into some kind of time or space trap and gotten stuck in some kind of weird loop?"

"Don't worry, don't overthink it." Agman was used to Oglin saying things that were "too clever" for their status. "Stay alert and keep moving forward."

In fact, what annoyed these warlike players wasn't just the monotonous scenery—at least not the main reason. What truly frustrated them was the drastic reduction in the number of enemies. Aside from monotonous armed marches and the occasional aerial bombardment from Tyrannosaurus, they could do almost nothing, which was torture for a group of players eager for battle and glory.

Yes, after the commandos initially crushed the resistance on the Tyrann front, they encountered far fewer and fewer enemies. Apart from the occasional sneaky Licatt attempting to harass them from the shadows, they rarely encountered large numbers of enemies again.

Could these aliens be trying to lure the enemy in? Given Tyrannosaurus's cunning, it's not impossible... Agman pondered to himself.

Just then, a voice from one of his combat comrades came through his helmet communicator: "Brother Agman, you'd better come and take a look at this right away."

Agarman immediately followed the signal and arrived at the location of the Ultramariner. He found that many Oglins and Starclaws or Ultramariners' Astartes had already gathered there, all standing still as if an invisible barrier was blocking them all out.

He pushed through the crowd and stepped forward. With just one glance, he knew why the other party had specifically called him over—in Plantim, a place that had been burned several times by those who went to their deaths and visited by Tyrion, a flower was growing there. It was as black as obsidian, with petals as thick as leather, and it was slowly opening and closing in an unsettling slow motion, like a series of hungry mouths.

Agarman felt a chill run down his spine, a sense of disgust that came from the depths of his genes welling up within him: "What the hell is this thing?!"

The Ultramariner who had summoned him shrugged: "I don't know. Should we call a geneticist from the Cult of Mechanics to analyze it?"

“No, we keep moving forward!” Agman’s command was firm. “At least things have changed; we’re not standing still, are we?”

The commando team began to move again, but this time the march became unusually strange. Both the battle-hardened Astartes and the fearless players were filled with great curiosity and wariness towards the strange flowers wriggling at their feet.

They all chose to take a detour, walking carefully and trying their best to avoid any direct contact with these fleshy plants.

As they ventured deeper, a disturbing scene unfolded before them: the further they went, the more luxuriant and dense these fleshy plants became. After advancing another kilometer, the scorched earth vanished completely, replaced by a bizarre garden teeming with life. Glossy black weeds formed a subtly undulating, chilling carpet, almost as if alive. And atop these meadows grew countless strange plants, predominantly black, purple, and white, beyond human comprehension.

Some are translucent purple bulbs, their surfaces covered with pulsating, vascular-like patterns. With each pulsation, they spray a small cloud of spores into the air—these are the very things that constitute the ubiquitous, sensory-disturbing purple mist on the battlefield.

Some plants, pale as skeletons, extend from twisted stems, their tips revealing bottomless holes, like empty eye sockets, silently staring at these uninvited guests.

Some of these structures are shrub-like, with branches made of twisted chitin, and translucent biofilms stretched between the branches, pulsating in sync with some kind of internal rhythm.

Finally, a curious Oglin player put down his stick, carefully bent down, and pinched a blade of grass between his index finger and thumb. He tried to pull it out, but found that these seemingly delicate grasses were surprisingly tough, and he couldn't pull them out without some force.

He increased his strength and pulled hard, finally uprooting the weed. However, what happened next sent chills down everyone's spines—the roots of the weed, as if alive, twisted and coiled wildly between his fingers, seemingly trying to climb onto Oglin's hand!

"Holy crap!" The Oglin player was startled and flung the weed away as if electrocuted. The uprooted weed, upon touching the ground, immediately had its roots, like miniature drills, deeply embedded themselves in the scorched earth, as if it had never been touched.

Agman finally lost his patience. He raised his right hand, which was covered by power armor, and signaled the entire commando team to stop advancing.

By now, they were completely surrounded by this bizarre plant. Nowhere in sight could they see a trace of scorched earth, only an endless, writhing garden of flesh and blood, emitting a foul stench. It was as if they weren't marching on the surface of a planet, but had stumbled into the digestive tract of a colossal beast.

Just then, an Oglin player standing next to Agman broke the suffocating silence with a muffled voice: "I feel like there's life here... they're all watching us."

“What did you say?” Agman frowned and turned to the burly player. For Astartes, fear was an unfamiliar emotion, but the feeling of being watched by the entire world made him instinctively sense extreme danger.

“Uh,” the player said, feeling a little uneasy under Agman’s gaze, and scratched his head instinctively. “Sir, I’m not saying that a particular flower or blade of grass is alive. I know that all of these things are transformed by Tyrion. What I mean is, I feel that… this whole garden, in itself, is a living thing.”

The player seemed to be struggling to organize his thoughts, and finally muttered something that sounded more like a soliloquy than a report: "Damn, is Tyrion trying to turn this place into Katachon?"

(End of this chapter)