Seraphs of the Emperor’s Judgment

Chapter 158: The Embattled Astra Militarum

Vorenus V, Third Landing Zone, 4337th Infantry Regiment Positions, Standard Terran Time: 0915 hours.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!

As the greenskins approached, Guardsman Larry could see the drool dripping from their fangs. Deep malice and endless greed burned within their small, beady red eyes.

He could even smell the suffocating reek of sweat and blood emanating from the pores of these unstoppable, massive beasts.

The recruit, who had enlisted a mere six months prior, looked down at the lasgun in his hands, then at the comrades fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Every one of them had their weapons raised, wholly focused on pouring beams of blinding las-fire into the madly approaching greenskin horde.

Then, he looked back at the enemies roaring at him like rolling thunder.

"Hold the line!"

An officer's voice rang out from behind.

"In the Emperor's name, we shall not falter!"

A faint cheer rippled through the trenches, accompanied by a synchronous volley from the autocannon teams. The barrage tore apart an entire rank of greenskins just as they leapt the final few meters before the trench.Yet they still drew closer, charging relentlessly over the corpses of their own kind.

Simultaneously, a rain of artillery shells bombarded the human positions, kicking up waves of concussive force intermingled with dust and severed limbs.

Alongside the explosive shells fell an assortment of other debris: wrenches, bolts, boots, squigs, teeth, and Gretchin heads. No one knew how the greenskins were firing these items, but the entire front line quickly began to resemble a junkyard.

After trembling with his hands clutching his head for a moment, Larry finally broke. He turned and ran.

He had never fled before, but today, driven by abject terror, he discarded his rifle and pumped his arms frantically, his mind consumed by a single thought: run faster.

They had been bogged down in the landing zone for two days. During this time, the greenskins hadn't ceased their frantic counterattacks against the defending Imperial Astra Militarum for even half an hour. Meanwhile, in orbit, the Imperial Navy was wholly occupied dealing with greenskin fleet harassment and the punishing retaliatory fire from the moons themselves.

For the time being, they had become an isolated force, fighting a desperate ground war.

Rumor had it that the neighboring Second Landing Zone had already fallen, and everyone there was dead.

This rumor had become the source of Larry's daily nightmares. He was terrified of being killed. He was terrified of being eaten.

"Hah... Hah..."

Suddenly, a blinding sting flared through him. Mid-sprint, Larry pitched headlong into the dirt, his hands automatically flying to his chest in a reflexive gesture.

He looked down and saw blood seeping through his fingers, dripping down his green carapace armor.

He cautiously lifted a hand, revealing a massive gunshot wound inflicted from an odd angle.

As the feeling left his legs, he collapsed completely onto the ground. For the first time in his life, he saw a pair of highly polished boots standing right before him.

He mustered his last ounce of strength to raise his head, and the resolute face of the company Commissar instantly filled his vision. The pistol in the man's hand was still smoking.

Then, the seemingly youthful Commissar spat out the final word Larry would ever hear:

"Coward."

Commissars were a unique establishment within the Imperial Astra Militarum. Functionally, they were akin to military police, yet their authority extended far beyond that scope.

Whether from propaganda murals in the hive cities or Departmento Munitorum recruitment posters, every Imperial citizen recognized the distinctive cap and greatcoat of a Commissar.

To the general public, these men were the absolute symbols of Imperial authority. Their sole duty was to ensure that everyone fulfilled their obligations in the Emperor's name.

Commissars were typically selected from the students of the renowned Schola Progenium. While the vast majority of cadets would eventually become clerks across various Imperial departments or join the ranks of the Tempestus Scions, only the absolute elite were granted the opportunity to be recommended for service within the Commissariat.

Those selected were required to possess absolute faith in the Imperium. They had to demonstrate a genuine belief in totalitarianism and idealism, and possess the ability to simultaneously juggle the conflicting roles of a ruthless tactician and an inspiring hero, all while fighting with the skill of a master duelist.

Furthermore, Commissars were obligated to study the culture and customs of their assigned regiments. Whether attached to the dutiful Vostroyans or the stubborn, isolationist Catachans, they had to command the same level of respect.

If the discipline or morale of their regiment wavered, it was the Commissar's duty to take any steps necessary to restore order, possessing unwavering conviction in the necessity of their actions.

Under the resolute gaze of such an individual, soldiers could be inspired to achieve feats they once thought impossible.

In extreme circumstances, a Commissar was required to execute fleeing soldiers or incompetent officers without a shred of hesitation—after all, nothing restored discipline quite like the summary execution of malcontents and cowards.

When soldiers witnessed the brains of their errant comrades splattered before them by a bullet through the skull, they quickly recalled the paramount importance of duty and discipline.

Such a brutal display of a Commissar's authority ensured that, most of the time, the first soldier to attempt desertion would also invariably be the last to try.

On this battlefield, the effect was exactly the same.

After executing the first deserter, the Commissar, clad in his black-and-red greatcoat, turned and shouted at several other soldiers fleeing wildly from the front line:

"You cowards!"

Then, he fired a series of precise shots into the traitors' backs.

The deserters flailed their arms in vain before crashing to the ground, kneeling in the dirt like lowly insects as they awaited the embrace of death.

"Listen well! You can choose to fight to the death beneath the Emperor's gaze, or you can die a meaningless death right here. Make your choice!"

The Commissar swept his stern gaze across everyone in the trench, addressing a group of men who had just turned around in an attempt to flee the battlefield:

"You bastards are utterly worthless anyway! You might as well die like the vermin you are!"

Under the Commissar's harsh reprimand, these men, faces etched with indescribable panic, made the agonizing choice.

They hesitated, trembling. The enemies behind them terrified them, yet the man standing before them filled them with profound shame and dread.

The very first lesson every Astra Militarum recruit had to learn was to carve the fear of the Commissar deep into their very bones.

Such an education was often accompanied by copious amounts of flogging and execution.

"You ball-less runts! Turn around and fight!"

A burly, bald man suddenly threw a crisp, forceful salute at the Commissar. He then hefted the heavy machine gun by his side, spun around, and roaring with fury, poured mad suppressive fire into the chaotic battlefield.

Inspired by their comrade's heroic action and cowed by the Commissar's steely gaze, the others immediately followed suit.

However, the reality was that a single Commissar was powerless to stabilize an entire front line. Moreover, he was unwilling to expend all his ammunition on deserting soldiers when there were still greenskins waiting to be slaughtered.

Masses of Astra Militarum troops turned and fled toward the rear logistics base—a destination relatively safe, yet still exposed to the barrage of Ork mortars.

Left with no other choice, the Commissar strode toward the barricades. Holstering his execution pistol, he picked up a heavy stubber dropped by a soldier who had presumably met an unfortunate end while defending the position.

"For the Emperor! For Humanity!"

He shouted out as he fired into the roaring, surging green tide. Around him, a chorus of answering war-cries erupted.

"Waaaaaagh!"

Simultaneously, a war-cry reverberated from the rear of the greenskin formation. An Ork was struck by an enormous iron jaw and subsequently knocked off a ramshackle trukk.

The Warboss pointed at the human defensive lines and roared once more. Stepping down from his command post, he casually snatched a Gretchin and slung it around his neck.

The knocked-down Nob thrashed wildly, clawing at the Warboss and emitting a series of hisses and screeches.

However, the Warboss merely whipped his neck around violently, repeatedly smashing the smaller Nob against the trukk until it ceased struggling.

Then, he hoisted the subordinate into the air with one hand, his head held high as he stared directly at the battlefield.

The next second, the Nob, having served as a punching bag, was thrown heavily to the ground, cursing wildly as it spat a mixture of saliva and blood from its jagged maw.

"Mork's teef!"

It grumbled incoherently, then struggled to its feet and joined the ranks of the other squads.