Chapter 526: This Isn't How the Great Game Works! We Refuse to Accept This!
The grueling, agonizing offensive had persisted for a duration that defied chronological measurement. In the Empyrean, time is a discarded concept; there is only the ceaseless friction of collision and the tearing of essence. The suffocating sense of "Strength without Leverage" had ground away at the patience of Gork and Mork, turn after turn.
But when their fists finally connected with the reinforced psychoreactive walls of the Webway, the Twin Gods of the Orks finally tasted a drop of positive feedback.
They rubbed their bruised, swollen features—temporarily ignoring the injuries that were low on lethality but devastatingly high on insult—as their dual-colored blue and green Waaagh! fields flared to life once more. With renewed vigor, they began to project their influence into the Labyrinthine barriers.
"WAAAAAAGH!!!"
The ecstatic roar sent tremors through the surrounding Warp-shards. Energy finally found a conduit, venting through the cracks in reality. It was a visceral release.
For the first time in this engagement, their Waaagh! energy wasn't being smothered by a mass of metaphysical "rubber" that expanded only to push back with silent, absolute resolve. The feeling of being "stifled" was replaced by the joy of the scrap.
As the roar faded, the fires wreathed around Gork and Mork erupted in a crackling brilliance, pushing aside the formless light that attempted to seal the breaches. They began pouring their essence into the Webway fragment, reaching for their Prophet, Ghazghkull, who was trapped within the snare.
The sticky, snot-colored 'Formless Lord' has grown weak!
Having brawled their way through the Empyrean for eons and traded blows with every deity in existence, Gork and Mork quickly gauged their opponent's status.
Previously, Ramesses had manifested as a high-tier Lesser God, capable of trading blows with the Chaos Four before succumbing. Now? He felt like an "Inferior Stallion," a bottom-tier entity on the level of the Laughing Jester.
Gork and Mork weren't bragging: they knew they could krump a thing like that.
Of course, the Twin Gods weren't so simple-minded as to charge in blindly. They suspected Cegorach—that ancient riddler and "Mini-Tzeentch"—was lurking in the shadows. Furthermore, they had seen Ramesses' habit of feigning weakness only to call upon his "Mystery Brothers" for a coordinated ganging-up.
The two "Gate-Guardians" of the Dawnstar were a terrifying deterrent. Especially when commanded by a being who possessed a staggering lack of martial shame.
If he can't win in realspace, he lures you to the Warp to kill you. If he can't win in the Warp, he tricks you into realspace to kill you.
The fate of Vashtorr the Arkifane was a grim warning. The daemon-smith had taken out a massive loan of essence to win a material war, only to find himself divided into five segments. The minor shards were now serving as battery-backups for the Primarchs' tech-gear, while the primary core had been "repossessed" by Romulus to expand the Imperium's technological memory.
Unlike those Pantheons who forgot their place and ended up as footnotes, Gork and Mork possessed a crystalline clarity of purpose.
The Orks had remained a dominant force in the galaxy for sixty million years—surviving three successive galactic hegemons—solely because their twin deities anchored them.
In this era, if you don't have a God in the Warp, you aren't a player; you're a pawn.
And among the Empyrean powers, Gork and Mork were a cut above the rest.
They didn't touch the Chaos Eight-Fold Path, ensuring their will remained un-distorted. They didn't chase the "Grand Ambition" of Vashtorr; they were content with their own "Green Domain."
They weren't like the Eldar Pantheon, who slacked off until Slaanesh turned them into a deck of cards. And they weren't like the Golden Emperor, whose greed and "All-In" gambles had left Him chained to a life-support commode.
The Twin Gods knew the risks. They never overextended their physical forms. Their presence in the material universe was a projection of their absolute safety within the Warp. From their fortress of brawling, they provided the "Boyz" with the best possible support.
Green is eternal.
CLANG—
Arcs of Waaagh!-lightning hammered against the formless light, dispersing the alien divine energy and reclaiming the trapped Orks within the green frequency.
It was a routine they had mastered.
The Orks possessed a preternatural resistance to Chaos corruption precisely because their gods were constantly scrubbing the influence of rivals from their souls.
The hunger for war, the satisfaction of the scrap, the "filthy" lifestyle, the sudden flashes of low-cunning, and the vast technical lore buried in their DNA—all of these traits made the greenskins a prized resource for the Dark Gods.
But Chaos was never a stable neighbor. To expect the Four not to meddle was as foolish as expecting a Gretchin not to sell out his Nob for a shiny bit of scrap.
Long ago, Gork and Mork had been birthed to fight the Star-Gods. When the C'tan were shattered by the Necron revolt, the Twin Gods had assumed the war was over. They had settled into an eternity of brawling with each other to pass the time.
Reality, however, had diverged from the "Theoretical."
Trailing behind Gork, Mork—the one who was "Mork-ishly Cunning"—swung a metaphysical axe, severing the tentacles of the Four who were attempting to capitalize on Ramesses' perceived weakness.
Mork kicked aside an interloping thought-tendril of the "Formless One," then let out a roar that cowed the lesser Warp-scavengers circling the fray.
To them, the Warp was a mirror of reality.
No allies. No trust.
Only the fight.
They knew that unless a variable like the Old Ones was introduced, the galactic stalemate was the only natural state.
They had to fight the upstart "Lesser Gods" like Ramesses. They had to fight the Chaos Four. That was a "Healthy Ecology."
It was a lesson learned through the shifting eons. They had transitioned from "C'tan-Slayers" to "Warp-Brawlers."
Now, they poured their essence into the Webway fragment while keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. They wanted to save Ghazghkull, but they wouldn't give Ramesses or Cegorach an opening to "Box" them in. They balanced the "Brutality" and "Cunning" of the greenskin soul to perfection.
The Webway walls groaned as the Waaagh! energy saturated them. Fissures spread through the psychoreactive bone. Inside, the roar of the Prophet echoed.
The Twin Gods grew more excited. Their radiance flared, yet their guard remained high.
They doubled their investment. They seized control of the fragment's frequency and began funneling raw power to Ghazghkull, jump-starting his evolution so he could slaughter his way out of the Labyrinth.
Once the Prophet escaped, they would toss him onto a convenient Space Hulk and return to their internal brawl.
The 'Prophet' will give the Humie Empire a surprise they'll never forget!
BOOM!
A tsunami of green fire invaded the Webway, coalescing into a network that linked every trapped Ork. To the creatures inside the tunnel, it looked like a literal river of emerald gods manifesting above their heads.
"The 'Muscle-Brains' are acting like... well, muscle-brains. Why aren't they taking the bait?"
Having ceded a portion of the Webway's control to lure the Twin Gods deeper into the trap, Ramesses muttered a few curses.
He was currently clutching a handful of minor daemons who had tried to "scavenge" his radiant form while he was distracted. He crushed them into data-shards.
"You really think a 'Dumb Brute' survives sixty million years in the Warp?" Cegorach retorted, his eyes fixed on the balanced aggression of Gork and Mork.
"They know their niche. They know they can't risk their essence, yet they know their duty as racial patrons. They understand the limits of their power. They move because they must, not because they are bored."
"Unlike certain 'High Deities' who slacked off while the world burned... I would have traded Asuryan for these two in a heartbeat. At least if you keep these two happy, the Eldar would still have a home..."
Cegorach's voice was thick with ancient resentment. The Craftworld Eldar nearby, who still held the "Phoenix King" as a central icon of their faith, shifted uncomfortably.
The Jester's grudge is a heavy thing.
"Fine. Tag Master Art in," Ramesses said, abandoning his hope for a "Miracle Extraction." He signaled Arthur, who had finalized the synchronization with Trazyn.
The time for games had ended. If they couldn't "Kill" Gork and Mork, they would secure their dominance within the Labyrinth. The primary goal was the safety of the Webway fragment and the initialization of the "Reclamation Protocol."
Where is the Golden Geezer? We've been brawling for hours and He's still 'Initializing'?
Checking the Emperor's status one last time, Ramesses contacted Arthur, who had already teleported into the Webway fragment to oversee the final deployment.
"The Twins are playing it safe. Initiate Plan B."
"Copy that."
Inside the Webway fragment, Arthur stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Trazyn. He looked up at the ceiling, where the Waaagh! energy had condensed into a physical slurry.
The blue-green fire looked like molten lava, seeping through the cracks in the bone-walls.
Arthur offered his partner a brief nod and turned to the Necron Overlord.
Trazyn immediately opened a channel to the Phase-Technicians stationed inside the twelve newly-forged Noctilith Obelisks.
As an Overlord with "Eccentric" tastes, Trazyn utilized human and Eldar specialists even within his private museum. But an Overlord was still a Sovereign of the Necrons. He might lack a Phaeron's treasury, but he had his own retinue.
These technicians—the first to receive the "Health-Bar Upgrade"—were currently obsessed with open-sourcing Necron technology for the Dawnstar. They received Trazyn's command and engaged the primary cores without a second of hesitation.
"GLORY TO THE OMNISSIAH! THE TRINITY SUPREME! LORD OF THE MATERIAL, THE SPIRITUAL, AND THE UNION THEREOF!"
The technicians raised their staves, basking in the emotional feedback their mechanical bodies had lacked for millions of years. They shouted the new creed of the "Metal Abhumans."
HUMMM—
The phase-engines within the Obelisks let out a low thrum. Pale violet energy flowed through the conduits, activating the nested control nodes.
Click.
The technicians calibrated the parameters, importing the "Star-God Domain Data" Trazyn had provided into the cores.
BOOM!
The final initialization key was struck.
Through a chain of "Sub-Contracting," the super-weapons that had once contested galactic hegemony between the Necrons and the Eldar were revealed once more within the Webway.
Twelve distinct, metallic chimes rang out, sounding like stars colliding.
An indescribable weight of power spread from the interlocking orbits of the twelve Obelisks, flooding every corner of the crumbling Webway fragment.
The jagged, iron-grey pyramids unfolded in the void. They revealed the unconscious "fluid essence" of the C'tan shards trapped within. A pale gold radiance began to bleed into the air, manifesting in different forms according to the authority of the galaxy.
One light was heavy as a mountain; another, fierce as the sun; a third, treacherous as a shadow; the fourth, as cold as death.
The radiance reached its zenith and expanded, causing the invading Waaagh! energy to undergo a catastrophic phase-shift.
The surging green tide froze. It solidified like water hitting liquid nitrogen.
To Gork and Mork, the energy leaking through the cracks was no longer a network connecting them to their sons. Within the fragment, the "Theoretical" energy—unmeasurable by material physics—was instantly "Corrected" into a "Practical" state by the Star-God domain.
The rushing river lost its buoyancy. It fell from the ceiling, shattering into a million distinct raindrops.
Through his lenses, Arthur saw the truth: every raindrop was an Ork.
The formless power had been given a body. It was no longer transcendent or unfathomable.
It was something a man could touch.
THUD!
Arthur's fist, carrying the kinetic force of a thunderclap, slammed into the thick hide of the largest Ork manifestation. The dull impact echoed through the Webway ruins.
Outside the Labyrinth, Gork twitched as if suffering a phantom pain. His cosmic muscles corded into a map of vibrating tension.
Clatter—
Arthur flicked the gore from his gauntlet. He looked up at the "Falling Sky" of green.
His armor was drenched in ichor. It seeped from his joints and pooled on the floor.
His gaze locked onto the next monster. A fresh Ork manifestation roared, swinging its claws. Arthur sidestepped the strike, his blade blurring as it buried itself in the creature's shoulder. Blood sprayed, vaporizing into a red mist within the gap between the Warp and the Webway.
Gork and Mork were momentarily stunned. They roared in disbelief, stubbornly pouring more power through the fissures.
Without fail, every drop of energy that entered the Webway was immediately converted into a physical Ork.
"..."
Arthur watched the rising green tide. He was unmoved by the scale of the assault.
I do not fear your rage. I fear only your indifference.
If Gork and Mork had failed to react, Arthur would have doubted the Orks' capacity to repair the Labyrinth. But the Twin Gods had chosen to fight. They had provided the "Evidence" of their own utility.
As for the rest?
RIP!
Arthur caught a blade on his guard. He let the frenzied Ork smash its body against his steel until it simply expired from the exertion.
The transmigrators lived by a singular rule:
Dignity is found only upon the edge of a blade.
This was true between brothers. It was a law between species.
You think the galaxy is unworthy of a new Master? You think Mankind cannot reclaim the Webway?
If you cannot even handle Gork and Mork, how do you expect to seize the heritage of the Old Ones?
Can you protect it?
Arthur intended to prove it to them.
Forms had become substance. Invisible energy had become quantifiable data. Abstract concepts were now a contest of matter against matter.
To swing a blade required muscle. To pull a trigger fired a shell.
Lasers heated metal until it melted. Bolters tore flesh until life departed.
Sound traveled at 340 meters per second. Light traveled at 300,000 kilometers per second.
Arthur raised the Holy Blade, now stained a deep, burning gold.
BOOM—THUNDER—!!!
A deafening roar tore through the Webway, drowning out the discord. It was the sound of material destruction.
The inhabitants of the storm were already beyond hearing.
A torrent of infinite golden radiance was funneled through the corridor. It drove against the massive, physical river of green, creating a sequence of staggering explosions that overlapped into a singular wall of fire. The impact pushed back, venting out through the Webway breaches.
Energy from the material universe hammered into the Sea of Souls, triggering a landslide of ripples in the Warp.
In a heartbeat, the "Green Nest" was empty. Within the zones locked down by the Noctilith Obelisks, every trace of Gork and Mork's influence vanished. The sector was wreathed in a shroud of falling ash and rolling heat-waves.
The wall of smoke acted as a curtain, isolating the warring denizens of the Webway from the slaughter.
Only the ceaseless, world-tearing explosions and the rhythmic tremors announced that a conflict beyond their vision was still raging.
"Come then."
RIP.
Standing amidst the ash, Arthur stepped over the corpse of a giant Ork.
He flicked his black sword. The Ork was bisected. The blood-spatter formed a jagged line across the empty space of the Webway.
The Obelisks shifted into an offensive frequency. No longer needing to suppress a C'tan consciousness, the released energy "licked" across the green hives like an eraser moving across a whiteboard.
Arthur looked up. His eyes, devoid of any emotion, watched the crowds of Orks still trying to reach him.
"Try to step past me."
The war in the Webway was eternal. The tides of the Empyrean were restless.
"WHAT IN DA ZOG IS ALL DIS?!"
Faced with a repertoire of tricks that seemed bottomless—and a move that had just countered their own—Gork and Mork scratched their heads in profound confusion.
They tried to remember how many opponents had actually joined this raid on the Prophet.
Humanity: They'd just beaten the Boyz until they ran into a hole.
Ramesses: A Lesser God of the Warp. Not "Strong," but possessing a trick that allowed him to scale his power to match millions of years of their own accumulation in a second.
The Eldar: The defensive measures were saturated with the scent of the "Beaded-Ones." Cegorach's stench was everywhere.
The Necrons: The Blackstone arrays were pure "Old-Iron" tech. No Warp-nonsense. Just Star-God shards and plug-and-play logic.
The C'tan: That thing standing in the tunnel was clearly a "Sun-Eater" manifestation.
Humies, Lesser Gods, Eldar, Necrons, C'tan...
As the composition of the enemy host flickered through their minds, they realized that this was actually happening. A visceral sense of "Wrongness" enveloped them.
This ain't right.
Something'z glitchy.
Gork and Mork leaned over the edge of the Webway fragment, their lips twitching. They wanted to scream, but for a second, the words failed them. They had forgotten they were even in a war.
Why are they all workin' together?
If the Humies can't krump it, the God-thing tries. If the God-thing fails, the Beaded-Ones step in. And then the Iron-Men?!
And what's that thing standin' with the Iron-Men?
WHY WE'Z FIGHTIN' A STEW OF HUMIE-BEADED-IRON-GODS?!
WHY THEY'Z ALL ON DA SAME SIDE?!
AREN'T YOU LOT ENEMIES?!
The questions erupted from their collective consciousness, coalescing into a single, resentful demand.
GALACTIC争霸 (HEGEMONY) AIN'T DONE LIKE DIS!
You're s'posed to let your people rot in misery, greed, and despair! You're s'posed to use cruel, greedy policies to turn your empire into a powder-keg! You're s'posed to do 'Race-Cleanin' and 'Galaxy-Killin' until everyone, even yourselves, are the enemy! Then you scrap with us!
And then we all hit each other until your 'Big Bosses' turn on you and we use our 'Old Fists' to finish you off! Then everyone rots together and waits for the end! That's the Game!
How come you lot made peace with the 'Sane Ones' of the other races? Why are you tradin' secrets and poolin' your strength? Why is a Warp-thing fused with a Star-thing? Why are the Eldar and Necrons checkin' each other's homework? Why are you handlin' the Warp and Reality at the same time? Why are you treatin' US like WE'Z the Chaos Daemons?!
GALACTIC HEGEMONY AIN'T DONE LIKE DIS!
Facing a roster of enemies that were all too familiar yet should logically never stand together—feeling the crushing ambition and sovereign will of such a unified foe—and looking at the arrayed power of the Noctilith Obelisks, Gork and Mork realized they were powerless.
They hammered their fists against the Webway walls.
WE REFUSE TO ACCEPT DIS!
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