Chapter 515: I'll Form the Head!
Ghazghkull could hear the rhythmic thundering against the steel floorboards beneath his massive boots.
It wasn't a section of the fortress-monastery's ancient mechanism grinding into life. It was the sound of something climbing through the internal structure.
The Space Wolves were flooding in.
And behind them came the "Humies," encased in their iron shells, following closely behind the jagged, fractured battle lines torn open by the Astartes' multi-pronged breakthroughs. They moved like gardeners, systematically leveling the uneven pockets of resistance.
If the Vylka Fenryka had already reached the core of the palace, then time had run out.
The campaign for this sector was a failure. Chronology was no longer on the Prophet's side.
While they had been focusing their efforts on the ancient Palace of the Beast, a counter-offensive had been organized under his very nose. He realized too late that he should never have tried to control the war-intensity—he shouldn't have slowed the slaughter just to let more Boyz master the ancient weapons unearthed from the crust.
He should have unleashed the full, crushing weight of the Waaagh! from the start, pinning the totality of Mankind's strength against the trenches. At the very least, he wouldn't be facing this many enemies now.
But the present was a different reality.
The platforms groaned and buckled, spitting sparks into the soot-heavy air.
Ghazghkull analyzed the tactical meta.
His "Scout-Boyz" had seized portions of the fallen Webway anchors before the Astra Militarum could secure the impact zones. A significant number of these asteroid-nodes had fallen deep into greenskin territory, far beyond the reach of the Imperial vanguard. Most of the Ork Warlords saw this as a stroke of luck—looted tech falling from the sky.
But looking at the suspiciously smooth reports, Ghazghkull suspected a "Honey Trap."
The Imperial army had displayed a blatant indifference toward the Webway nodes. Instead, they had focused with terrifying resolve on dismantling every functioning piece of infrastructure and concentrating their strength to throttle the Prophet himself. They ignored the "trifle" of the anchors entirely.
Squelch... Squelch...
The overloaded command-cogitators were screaming status reports from across the fortress. The deeper the Humies pushed, the more fanatical the greenskin resistance became. Their weapons were evolving—the crude choppas and sluggas were being replaced by power-blades and psionic-resonant shootas. They were wearing "Power-Scrap" instead of simple iron plates.
But against the "Steel Tide," it mattered little.
In this era, weapon lethality was pushed past the breaking point. Local engagements were decided by initiative and volume of fire.
Unfortunately, his opponent—the "Old Bale-Eye"—possessed a clinical grasp of troop management. The authority Yarrick had built through his mythic kills ensured his men followed his orders to the letter.
A force with that level of discipline doesn't just "lose" strategic assets by accident.
Ghazghkull had no choice but to accept the "Open Conspiracy."
Massive Ork tribes were converging on the Webway nodes they controlled, forming direct arteries leading back to the Palace of the Beast. This, in turn, thinned the garrison within the palace itself.
The "Beakie-Cans" were climbing the elevator shafts. The Humies had officially breached the Beast Gate.
How much time is left?
Wiring his consciousness into the command array to maintain a finger on the pulse of the war, Ghazghkull strode across a vibrating sky-bridge. He moved toward the cadre of technical warlords led by Orkimedes.
Before them sat a titanous engine.
This was the machine that had, seven thousand years ago, consumed both a Primarch and a High Warlord. It had been silent for millennia. Now, dozens of Big Meks were huddled around it under Orkimedes' direction, hammering and welding, pulling at shattered components like surgeons at an autopsy.
The core of the engine was encased in a mass of rusted iron, jagged and interlocking. Arc-lightning lanced between the plates, and the screech of metal being dissolved into psychic residue filled the air.
Snotlings—their backsides smoking from plasma burns—hauled massive metal skeletons from the tectonic rifts. They were being grafted into a fractured giant, a construct that rivaled a ten-meter-tall Knight-chassis in scale.
HUMMM—
A sickly green radiance flared within the rifts. It felt like the yawning maw of Gork and Mork, vomiting an infinite hunger for battle.
Ghazghkull froze. The twin-roar of the Gods echoed in his skull. Ordinarily, such a sound would make a Boy jump for joy, eager to smash his fists into a Humie's face and take his teeth.
But now, the roar carried a different frequency. It was a frantic, cursing urgency.
It felt as though something truly horrific was approaching—something that made even Gork and Mork tell him to get out.
Thud... Crack... Boom... Gurgle...
The steel plating emitted a sound like a stalled engine.
Within the cluster of Big Meks, the Waaagh! field coiling around the engine surged. But just as it reached the threshold of ignition, it deflated like a punctured bladder. The pressure vented, and the core went cold.
The flickering rifts in reality shivered and closed.
They were seconds away from jump-starting the ancient War Engine. Ghazghkull had ordered Orkimedes to focus on a single sector—to secure a power-junction so they could drop a "Physical Singularity" on the Humies below. It was better to have a localized win than to lose the whole world.
But Ork luck is a fickle mistress. Just as the Humies never expected what the greenskins were cooking, Ghazghkull hadn't expected Old Bale-Eye to be hoarding this many reserves.
Ghazghkull stepped forward, his boot crushing a Snotling that was trying to steal a copper coupling.
Suddenly, his personal Kustom-Force-Field rippled. It had just deflected a beam of pure disintegration—Necron technology.
Cursed runts! They're already under my nose!
Ghazghkull lashed out. The power-claw welded to his left arm sheared a Callidus Assassin in half before she could even shed her greenskin disguise. Her remains were tossed into the churning gears below the walkway.
The Big Meks at the core turned to look at him.
These were the geniuses of the Waaagh!, their sensitivity to greenskin logic second only to the Weirdboyz.
They heard the noise echoing through the walls. The "Human Psychic-Signatures" were clashing with the Waaagh! field, making everyone hypersensitive. They were drenched in sweat and filth, too exhausted for words. Their eyes told the story.
Irritation.
Orks loved a scrap, but they loathed a one-sided slaughter. It robbed them of the fun.
And look at the monsters they were fighting.
It was like playing a high-stakes fighting game. Every time you tried to "Green-Dash" in, the opponent hit you with a "Perfect-Parry," a counter-pump, and a frame-perfect combo that left you at one health.
Where was the "Battle-Vibe" in that?
The opponent's "Stat-Lines" were simply too high.
Ghazghkull watched the hololith as an Imperial Titan Legion engaged a cluster of Mega-Gargants. After a mutual slaughter that cost the Humies five times the losses, another fresh line of Titans simply stepped out from behind the Capitol Imperialis.
He's still got more?!
"Boss, what'z the plan?" one Big Mek asked, using a hammer to beat a loose screw back into the reactor.
"Is the Big Job ready?" Ghazghkull countered.
Orkimedes, the lead architect, shook his head.
"These Beakie-Cans... and Old Bale-Eye..."
Ghazghkull looked into the distance. A mob of Deathskulls was being encircled by a wedge of Baneblades. Their attempt to use the terrain for an ambush was useless against the multi-turreted "God-Hammers" that could fire in every direction at once.
The Imperial tanks moved in perfect synchronization. Every turret barked, erasing the Ork offensive in a heartbeat.
Seeing this, a group of Gretchin dropped their stolen lasguns and fled, screaming "WE'Z BEAT! WE'Z BEAT!" only to be flattened into two-dimensional grease by the Baneblade treads along with the Nobz they had tripped over.
It was pathetic.
Ghazghkull's face turned a darker shade of green. He seized Orkimedes by the gorget.
"The Ladz are gettin' chopped into mincemeat! Think of summat! Give me some real Dakka!"
Saliva sprayed from his tusks, coating Orkimedes' face.
The tempo of this war was alien to them. Usually, it was the Humies racing against time to stop an invasion. Now, the Orks were the ones on the clock.
"I know, I know! Leggo!" Orkimedes pushed back against the Prophet's scarred face, breaking the grip.
"The Fort ain't gonna wake up. Bale-Eye is too fast. We don't got the time. The Beaded-One's 'Web-Eye' has dropped. I reckon we gotta take the Ladz and leg it."
The Orks, as a race, didn't care about "Winning" in the human sense. They cared about the fight. But this fight was becoming... boring. They couldn't out-Waaagh! the "Cans."
And the Humies apparently had "Mega-Cans" of their own.
By Ork logic, it was time to "Tactically Reposition."
"Runnin' is easy! But I ain't runnin' like a whipped Squig! I'd rather be a Grot!" Ghazghkull roared. Armageddon was precious, but he wasn't stupid. Losing a scrap wasn't a shame—it was a lesson.
"I gotta do a 'Big Gimmick.' You gotta find me a real Proppa Job to leave 'em with!"
He gripped Orkimedes again. He wasn't leaving without a grand finale.
He was being pressured by the Humies; now he was going to pressure his own Ladz.
"I got an idea. I got a plan. We can use the Snotlings to juice the Shokk Attack Gun. We'll tear it off the mount. Then Grotsnik and the Shamans can handle the rest."
Orkimedes barked back, pointing a finger at Ghazghkull.
"You worry about the 'Leggin' It' part. You're too small right now. You shouldn't be tryin' to look like them Mega-Cans."
Ignoring the Prophet's growing rage, Orkimedes kicked open a storage crate covered in Squig-hide and scrambled onto the remains of the Beast.
The wreckage of the High Warlord who had almost ended the Imperium.
The armor had not been entirely consumed when it plunged into the core with Vulkan. Even after millennia, the echo of the "Ard-est, Mean-est, Big-gest" Beast lingered within the metal. Every Ork who saw it felt a primal urge to strip naked and crawl inside.
For if they could wear that plate, they would become the Beast. A monster capable of breaking a Primarch.
Pity the current Bosses were too puny. Even Ghazghkull was barely four meters tall. He could only look at the armor and sigh.
If they could pilot that suit, they'd be hunting Beakies for sport instead of hiding from a decapitation strike.
"GROTSNIK!"
Orkimedes signaled the Big Meks to haul over a massive, bizarre apparatus. It didn't look like a gun. It had giant propeller blades and a series of screaming, high-speed gears.
The Shokk Attack Gun. The pinnacle of Ork Warp-tech. It used Gretchin and Snotlings—or anything small enough to fit in the tube—as projectiles.
In the modern Dawnstar psychic curriculum, such weapons were classified as a form of "Primitive Warp-Sacrifice Technology."
And as a sacrificial device, it was an unparalleled power-source.
"WHOT?!"
The Mad Dok, currently elbow-deep in a "Fungal Reconstruction" on a Nob's skull, looked over.
Even as he spoke, his hands didn't stop. A rusted saw-blade was churning through the Nob's brain-matter; the tip of the blade actually punched through the cheek-plate from the inside due to his sheer enthusiasm.
Grotsnik expertly threaded copper wiring through the gaps, scooped the leaking grey-matter back into the gears, and slammed the whole mess into the Nob's cranium.
To any mortal medicae, it was a murder.
To an Ork, it was a miracle. The "treated" Nob began to snore loudly, his vitals spiking as his biology merged perfectly with the scrap-metal and Squig-bone used to patch him up.
"Grab some Nobs! I need 'em to drive the Suit!" Orkimedes shouted, wiring the Shokk Attack Gun into the Beast's power-armor.
Yes, the machine was too big and too "Waaagh!" for one Ork to pilot. They couldn't harness that much energy. But Orkimedes was a genius. If one Ork couldn't drive it, then a team would.
Inspiration flooded his mind, driven by the rhythmic thumping of Gork and Mork brawling in the Warp. He began to weld and wire with frantic speed.
"You link their brains together! Keep 'em from fightin' each other!"
"I'Z GONNA BE DA 'EAD!"
The words were barely out of Orkimedes' mouth when the Nob on Grotsnik's table jumped up.
Because the skull-plate wasn't bolted down yet, a shower of brain-matter and spare parts flew across the room.
But an Ork only needs a bit of brain to be dangerous. Losing a third of it was a minor setback.
"LET ME! I'Z DA BEST!" another Nob, half-dead and waiting for surgery, scrambled to his feet in a burst of "Second Wind."
"I SAID IT FIRST!" the surgery-Nob roared, tackling him.
"I DON'T CARE!"
The two Nobs began a wrestling match on the floor.
"DA 'EAD IS MINE! MINE!"
"YOU'Z GONNA BE DA BUTT!"
"GO EAT A SNOTLING!"
Within seconds, the entire room of Nobs was a chaotic brawl, swept up in the competitive spirit.
Total anarchy.
Ghazghkull and Orkimedes simultaneously slammed their palms against their faces.
Before, they thought they were a force of nature. Now, after meeting the Humies and seeing the "Beauty of the Stat-Lines," they realized their army was a management disaster.
"The Warp is moving," Ramesses said to Arthur.
"Gork and Mork are actually being reliable for once. They're giving the Boyz a roadmap. I can't say for sure if They'll intervene personally yet, but I'm keeping the scrying live."
"Understood. I'll be ready."
Arthur was wiping his blade.
It was a ritual of focus, his way of centering his intent before the drop.
The vanguard had reached the Webway exit. As the primary individual combat asset of the species, he had to be the first into the breach.
Orks were different from the Eldar. Their racial traits were extreme. A blade had to physically strike home to mean anything; they didn't care about deterrence.
"Targeting Ghazghkull directly?" Ramesses asked, clicking a daemon-icon to maintain the prophecy.
"Correct," Arthur replied.
"I will be the primary pressure. If Gork or Mork try to put a finger on the scale, I'll be there to break it. We control the momentum from second one."
Ramesses sometimes felt Arthur took his enemies too seriously.
The Lord of Knights never cared about "using a macro-cannon to kill a fly." Once a target was identified, the strike was absolute. No mercy. No holding back.
Saturation pressure.
"And if Gork and Mork actually step in?" Ramesses asked.
"Then it's their lucky day."
"And if they actually breach the Webway?"
"Then it's our lucky day."
"And if we just kill him?"
The Knight's silhouette moved toward the drop-pod.
"Then he deserved it."
☆☆☆
-> SUPPORT ME WITH POWER STONE
-> FOR EVERY 200 PS = BOUNS CHAPTER
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you