I summoned the Fourth Scourge in Warhammer

Chapter 245 Alien on the Tip of the Tongue
After a brief discussion, the men who were going to their deaths led Regan away from the camp and headed towards the war-torn wasteland of Planet Prantim.

This also answered a question that had been bothering Regan—why he hadn't seen a mess hall or cooking station in this fairly large regimental camp. It turned out these guys didn't have a unified mealtime; they all ate their own meals.

The reality was even more extreme than Regan imagined—most of those who went to their deaths didn't eat at all. For many of them, surviving to the point of hunger on the battlefield was a rare occurrence in itself.

The group ventured beyond the camp into the desolate wilderness. The fog was thicker here, the ground was uneven and littered with metal fragments and the bones of unknown creatures. How wild was the environment? So wild that Regan began to suspect that these people heading to their deaths were trying to lure him out so they could secretly finish their business in this desolate place.

The political commissar's "unexpected disappearance" on his way to take office was not unprecedented in the chaotic war zone. He calmly placed his hand on the explosive pistol at his waist, secretly observing his surroundings and calculating his chances of victory should the situation change.

Fortunately, at that moment, another person who was about to die emerged from behind a hidden mound, dispelling his doubts.

Regan blurted out instinctively, "So you suicide squads had scouts on the outskirts?!"

“Of course there are,” the player leading the way looked at him strangely, as if it were common knowledge. “There are quite a few players who like to play solo, and these people love the scout position the most.”

Regan immediately pressed on, "Then why didn't I encounter any of your scouts when I arrived? I only met a sentry at the entrance to your camp."

"Seeing that you're not an enemy, I just didn't bother to come out," the player replied matter-of-factly.

This answer made Regan frown even more. Too lazy to come out? Is this the attitude a scout should have? Before Regan could figure out what kind of attire or posture he was in that made the scout from the Death Tribe 100% certain that he wasn't an enemy, to the point that he couldn't even be bothered with a routine inquiry or warning, the newly appeared Death Tribe scout had already approached him.

He glanced at the commissar badge on Regan's shoulder and asked, "And who is this?"

“Our regiment’s new political commissar,” the man leading the way waved his hand, a hint of helplessness in his voice, “insisted on eating [their usual] food with us…”

"Oh," the scout immediately understood, a "I get it" expression appearing beneath his gas mask. "Then... I'll still give you the prey as usual?"

"Hmm." The other man responded, taking a small bottle from his waist and tossing it over. The scout caught it cleanly, and Regan recognized it as a standard bottle of RadAway issued to the Imperial Guard.

This is a unique ecosystem within the Death Squad. Reconnaissance positions inherently require small-scale operations; large-scale operations would be offensive rather than reconnaissance. Furthermore, Death Squad scouts don't even need to periodically return to report, since players aren't likely to betray them. If they die in a truly difficult situation, they can simply respawn and report back on their encounter.

This is arguably the best position for players who prefer to play solo. However, this means that resupply becomes a problem when wandering around for extended periods. While you can purchase supplies with merit points in the system shop, it feels a bit unfair to have to pay for them when you can get them for free from the Empire. This has led to the current situation: some players, driven by curiosity and wanting to experience different alien "flavors," actively seek out scouts and exchange Empire-issued supplies for them; while the scouts, who are bound to encounter enemies while wandering, see this as a freebie, saving them the trouble of playing survival mode or constantly running back to camp for supplies.

By now, you probably have some idea what they mean by "prey" and what these players usually eat... I can only say, it's more than that.

The scout caught the RadAway and turned to disappear back into the thick fog. A short while later, Regan stared wide-eyed as he dragged a worm corpse, still dripping purple blood and disgusting slime, towards him.

Before Regan could even process the horrifying fact that "they're going to eat the Tyranids," a fact that would have been enough to get him shot on the spot, the suicide squad delivered an even more brutal blow to him—the leader of the players took off his backpack and poured out a dozen fist-sized, bright green mushrooms, as well as two cans of Ant-Cow food bearing the Eagle Emblem.

"This...this..." Regan stared at the glossy green mushroom, feeling his tongue go numb and unable to speak coherently. "This is...this is..."

He had seen information about this thing in his alien biology class. It wasn't a mushroom at all; it was the life source of the Orcs, the foundation of their entire ecosystem!

“Ouk fungus,” the man facing death casually pulled a cooking pot from the side of his backpack, lit a fire, and started boiling water, his movements as practiced as if he had done it a thousand times before. “Commissar, you really have to admit, this mushroom soup is incredibly delicious, and when cooked with ant beef, it melts in your mouth. Add to that the chewy Tyrannosaurus meat, and it’s a once-in-a-lifetime delicacy!”

Regan's lips twitched violently. He was right. This pot of highly toxic concoction, a fusion of three top-tier alien organisms, would likely kill any human who ate it within a day… no, within a Terra hour. It truly was a "once-in-a-lifetime" delicacy, because there was simply no second chance.

As the man facing death skillfully dissected the carapace of the knife-wielding insect with his bayonet, he sighed with feigned seriousness: "Alas, it's a pity we haven't fought against the space undead yet, otherwise we could have gotten some of their metal bones to make a delicious soup."

Another person going to their death uttered a rebellious remark with longing: "It would be even more perfect if the wine was made by a little elf girl."

After the player finished speaking, he seemed to suddenly remember something and turned around enthusiastically to ask, "Oh, by the way, Political Commissar, are you still eating?"

“No…no,” Regan managed to squeeze out the words through gritted teeth, “You…you can enjoy your meal here, I’ll just have some energy bars…”

After saying that, he forced himself to sit down, took the nutrition bar that was kindly handed to him, and began to eat it stiffly, which was in stark contrast to the lively scene of the other players who were in high spirits after successfully completing the task, like eating hot pot.

(End of this chapter)