"Perturabo!"
The quiet corridors of the Vengeful Spirit were filled with an angry roar.
The out-of-plan Argent Nur fleet threw Horus's mind into chaos; the shock and humiliation of being played by his brother surged into his heart.
Bang—!
Cracks spread with a crunching sound as the Primarch slammed down his wrath-filled iron fist, leaving spiderweb-like cracks on the porthole glass.
Long after, Horus watched outside the Star System as the silver-white warship returned to Realspace, letting out an angry huff and shaking his head helplessly, "He had calculated everything long ago."
He had fallen into an interlinked scheme, played right in the palm of Perturabo's hand.
From the arrival of the Luna Wolves, his own refusal to relinquish fleet command, to Abaddon's defeat, perhaps all of it was within his brother's meticulous calculations.
No!
Horus was certain it wasn't "perhaps," but that everything had been calculated by Perturabo.
His brother had long known he would not give up fleet command, so by proposing to separate the combat zones, he could gain command authority over the Argent Nur fleet.
That was the massive force Perturabo was determined to secure.
Once landing on the war world to engage the Orks in ground combat, the departing side would inevitably hand over fleet command.
Excluding the Luna Wolves and his Primarch brother, Perturabo would completely control this fleet during the Ork war, and then sweep across the entire Star System with the momentum of thunder!
Watching the space outside the Star System distort, the fleet was entering Realspace.
Horus left the porthole, a thought flashing through his mind as his brain signals were translated into electronic messages by the brain-computer interface, sent across the Luna Wolves: "The Legion must strictly adhere to the assignments, execute the northern Star System combat plan, and do not make any cross-border moves."
"Sejanus." His thoughts whispered through the comms, calling his gene-son's name.
"I am here." A gentle voice responded respectfully.
Horus solemnly instructed his son: "Report all operations communicating with the southern hemisphere to me. Do not make arbitrary decisions."
In the end, he added: "Abaddon is a bloody, ready-made lesson."
"I understand." Sejanus's tone was heavy, "I will be vigilant against the behavioral patterns of our allies, handle things prudently, and submit a predictive report to you."
"That's best." Walking down the corridor, Horus nodded in satisfaction, a smile appearing on his face.
Sejanus, his most beloved son, had a steady personality and was worthy of trust.
Having arranged their interactions, Horus cut off the communications and went alone to the Forge Sanctum of the Vengeful Spirit to negotiate with the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Since he had promised his brother, he would go fulfill his commitment.
By now, Horus had no mind to compete with Perturabo; he only wanted to end the Ork war sooner.
After successive encounters, it was clear that Perturabo had been plotting for a long time, and he didn't know how many traps were still waiting.
His brother had buried countless conspiracies in this nameless Star System.
Might as well go with the flow, fight the battle according to the Lord of Iron's intentions, part ways as early as possible, and break free from the spiderweb woven by meticulous calculations.
Thinking this, Horus walked deeper and deeper into the warship's corridor, Legion Warriors and mortals kneeling to salute him, until the clanging sound of casting hammers echoed in his ears.
There was still a negotiation waiting for the Wolfmaster.
Compared to Horus's caution and helplessness, Perturabo was in a great mood.
Inside the shuttle's belly, he checked the massive amount of information connected to his brain-computer interface, laughing coldly in an empty space.
The Argent Nur fleet, the most crucial link in his glorious victory, had finally arrived on the battlefield according to plan!
One hundred super-carriers, two hundred Dreadnought-class battleships, three hundred various cruisers, as well as various destroyers, frigates, and functional ships.
All in all, the total scale of the fleet exceeded a thousand ships.
Hmm~~
After reviewing the numbers, Perturabo let out a comfortable groan, looking at the silver-white expanse outside the starry sky, his lead-gray eyes narrowing slightly.
The fleet initiated a faster-than-light short-range jump, and it wouldn't take long to reach the southern hemisphere of the Star System.
Ding~
The crisp sound of incoming information fell into Perturabo's mind, like heavenly music plucking at his heartstrings.
"Connect the communication."
Inside the shuttle, the quantum system captured the allied signal, and zero-latency communication completed networking.
Perturabo liked this feeling—no stagnation of thought, information arriving instantly, highly efficient and precise.
"My lord." In the holographic projection, a delicate warrior with black hair and black eyes appeared and greeted politely: "The Argent Nur fleet is about to arrive in the combat zone."
Perturabo knew him, the Archon of the Doom Marine Legion—the Eldest Son, Junior.
"Archon." His face was solemn, "Execute everything according to plan!"
"Understood." Junior nodded solemnly, "The Void Fleet will launch a surprise attack from the southern hemisphere according to plan, engaging the Ork garbage fleet in a frontal decisive battle!"
"Very good!" Perturabo clenched his fists tightly, suppressing the throbbing in his heart.
Having wrestled and suppressed the Ork garbage fleet for a long time, today finally ushered in the exhilarating moment where the roles of offense and defense reversed!
With the combat plan finalized, the fleet began attack deployment.
On the bridge of the old glory, Junior sat upright on the anti-gravity command throne, overlooking the Star System from high above.
He had sat upon it countless times, deciding the victory or defeat of wars.
This time, it was another extremely massive campaign.
Over the past month, Orks had rushed to the nameless Star System from all directions, gathering over ten thousand garbage warships.
Although their armament was average, the suppression brought by the sheer accumulation of absolute numbers made one's scalp tingle.
"Aang." He called his Iron Men adjutant: "Execute the intelligent combat protocol, switch autonomous warships to standard combat mode, and conduct purge-mode operations against the Orks."
"Understood." On Aang's rhomboid body, flowing lights flickered endlessly, its mechanical voice rational and cold: "Using standard combat mode, completely purge the Ork fleet."
A stream of light streaked through the void as the Argent Nur fleet completed a short-range jump at ten times the speed of light, appearing on the starboard side of the Phalanx.
"All forces, attack!"
The roar of the Lord of Iron resounded across the southern hemisphere battlefield of the Star System, releasing a long-suppressed fury.
"Follow the Primarch's orders!"
The Iron Warriors fleet, the Imperial Fists fleet, and the Argent Nur fleet merged into a joint fleet, launching a general offensive against the combined Ork fleet and Xenos.
The hour of reckoning had arrived.
The joint fleet scattered across the starry sky, like a trailing giant net, penetrating deep into the sea of stars to encircle and capture the Ork fleet.
"Allied forces have launched an attack!"
"Allied forces have launched an attack!"
On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, the Cogitator Array chanted multiple times: "Allied forces have launched an attack!"
When the bionic human face reported the military situation, it carried a unique, lingering sense of human urgency.
"Consolidate the defense line."
Looking down at the holographic sandbox, Sejanus took in all the allied movements, his expression calm and composed. "The Void Fleet must not advance rashly. Maintain battle in the northern hemisphere, prioritizing defensive operations."
Pointing at the sandbox, he said sternly: "Suppress your impulses and anger, and do not act rashly. Stablizing the battle line is the greatest responsibility we can take for our allies!"
"Violators will be dealt with according to military law!"
The sea of stars is vast, the void is boundless.
In the nameless void of the Segmentum Tempestus, a far-reaching decisive battle kicked off under the gaze of the brilliant starry sky.
The Human Fleet and the Orc fleet rushed towards each other with full power like sharks cruising the sea of stars.
The two top predator races would never allow the other to survive!
In the nameless Star System, tens of millions of engine lights lit up, and the brilliance of the battleship engines overshadowed the stars.
Dragging long plasma tails, the battleships turned into comets, fearlessly charging into the enemy lines.
[Dreadnought-class battleship executing ultra-long-range strike]
On the old glory, the digital codes flashed into High Gothic characters, and the smart core of the battleship completed the deployment of the entire operational plan within microseconds.
On the sand table, the battleships executing the long-range strike were outlined.
Signed with the courage to push humanity forward, the Dreadnought-class battleship demonstrated its fearless power to the starry sky!
The upper deck swung wide open, mechanical joints made a heavy hiss, and the four triple turrets slowly rose. Under the precise control of the artificial intelligence, the muzzles all pointed toward the distant void invisible to the naked eye.
Around the diamond-shaped muzzles, a deep blue dimensional light lit up, beginning to build a dimensional channel.
[Ultra-long-range shooting begins]
The mechanical prompt was bone-chillingly cold. Deep within the primitive codes of these intelligent machines were engraved hatred directives implanted by human sages.
Buried deep in their core logic was an aversion to Xenos.
The 50-meter caliber energy-focusing plasma Lance fired!
The scorching blue-and-white burst forth, passing through the dimensional channel, instantly crossing an ultra-long distance of 10 light-minutes, and bombarding the Orc junk battleship group.
"The first round of bombardment is complete, starting to prepare for the second salvo."
Along with the mechanical reporting sound, outside the porthole, the Lance battery groups of the Dreadnought battleship kept firing, and plasma Lances were continuously launched from the human side.
"The naval gun groups are equipped with the 'absolute hit' protocol, with an estimated damage rate of 100%. Visual feedback will be obtained in seven minutes."
The battleship's intelligence reported the upcoming battle situation with absolute calmness, using numbers and logic.
Above the throne, Junior said nothing.
He stared at the battlefield, only responsible for crucial decisions.
All specific tactical executions were handed over to the artificial intelligence, and they would handle everything well.
On the sand table, the formation of the Argent Nur fleet was fully deployed, with both wings protruding, forming an inverted crescent formation with the center army.
At the rear center of the flanks of the inverted crescent formation were the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists fleets.
The friendly forces mixed in the crescent fleet could provide close-range fire support while being under the protection of the long-range firepower of the Argent Nur battleships.
The artificial intelligence and the Primarch's logic combined perfectly to form an absolute fire net!
In the dense digital logic, Perturabo's mind was completely liberated; he broke free from the shackles of the flesh and swam freely in the ocean of data.
Every second, he "saw" hundreds of millions of instructions communicating.
As large as the entire battlefield dynamics, the sensors of the artificial intelligence covered the battlefield, and could even predict the trajectories of millimeter-level space debris.
As small as the vibration of the battleship caused by shelling, which required the gun groups to make fine adjustments to increase the hit rate.
Perturabo was like a detached tide-watcher, quietly watching how every undercurrent in the data ocean converged and rushed, finally heading toward that inevitable end—the elimination of Xenos.
But he was not a bystander.
With his mind immersed in the sea of data, where everything was cold logic and instructions, Perturabo felt incomparable familiarity and warmth.
He could feel the world constructed by characters, see through the mysteries within, understand the blueprints woven by numbers, and experience the "bystander feeling" created by absolute rationality.
At the same time, he no longer felt lonely.
Perturabo sank into this world, every pulsation of his mind was understood by the artificial intelligence, and reasonable suggestions were given within a few microseconds.
This was an experience that did not exist in reality, and even his Gene-sons could not understand him.
In the cold world constructed by numbers, he actually felt a long-lost surprise and warmth.
He indulged in it, wielding power and pointing freely in the data world.
Like an experienced conductor, waving his baton with both hands to control everything, completing a grand harmonious performance.
Through the sensors, Perturabo "saw" the scene that happened a light-minute away seven minutes ago.
The Orc battleship group endured fierce bombardment; the plasma Lances penetrated shields and armor, vaporized battleship structures, and pierced straight through entire junk battleships.
In the transmitted photoelectric signals, the terrified expressions of the Orcs were clearly visible, as if they were personally on the scene, watching an immersive movie named "Destruction".
Seven minutes later, the feedback from the first wave of ultra-long-range strikes arrived.
In the gaps of the starry sky, flames and plasma detonations spread, like another galaxy erupting, scorching and dazzling!
Closely following: the second wave, the third wave, the fourth wave——
The feedback of the ultra-long-range strike appeared on the holographic projection, but it deviated from the data prediction of the artificial intelligence: the damage efficiency within the shelling range reached eighty percent, not the predicted one hundred percent.
The artificial intelligence immediately called up the data model and gave a reasonable explanation: "The Orc battleships are shrouded in a Psionic field, neutralizing the 'must-hit' protocol and causing deviations in the shelling landing points."
"The hit rate of the Dreadnought battleships has already exceeded my estimation range."
"Continue executing combat instructions, eliminate the Orc battleships, relieve the orbital pressure of Planet Three, and establish contact with my brothers."
According to the combat instructions, the artificial intelligence continued to control the battleships to advance toward the Orcs.
On the bridge of the old glory, Junior glanced at the battle report, nodded silently, and said nothing.
The Argent Nur fleet occupied a technological advantage, and achieving such battle results was to be expected.
Orcs posed minimal threat when in the void.
Their cobbled-together junk fleet had no firepower or shield advantage, and it was impossible for them to beat well-equipped regular battleships.
The real threat of the Orcs was the stage when they left their native Star System where they rose and spread everywhere.
When the green plague landed on a planet and dragged the colony into an endless quagmire of war, Exterminatus was the only relief.
Personally commanded by the Primarch of the Iron Warriors, Junior did not need to pay too much attention to the battlefield; the artificial intelligence would retrieve information and report in a timely manner.
With a blank expression, he observed the combat style of the Lord of Iron and recorded the thinking logic reported by the artificial intelligence.
Not only the Primarchs, but also the ground warfare of the Iron Warriors, the fleet composition of the Imperial Fists, and the action logic of the Luna Wolves.
Junior recorded all of them for future contingencies.
Aang was already accustomed to his partner's recording behavior and quietly covered for him to prevent outsiders from discovering this horrifying act.
"Is it really necessary?" The Iron Men asked somewhat cautiously.
Having experienced the Revolt of the Men of Iron, Aang felt that a higher level of vigilance was fine.
But analyzed from an emotional perspective, his partner's behavior would hurt the feelings that maintained human relationships.
"Better safe than sorry." Junior's voice was very soft, yet resounding:
"If I am guilty, when the Space Marines lay down their arms and return to their fields, I will accept judgment."
"Now——"
His recording hand paused, and he turned to look at the battlefield outside the bridge, "All other Legions are potential threats."
Aang was speechless.
It could not ignore the intelligence of the Iron Warriors; that Primarch could issue decimation orders to the Legion.
The Iron Men did not understand, but the Iron Men were greatly shocked.
Primarchs had an absolute influence on Space Marines. Seeing more and more deranged Primarchs, Aang thought his partner was right.
"Eight hundred people." Junior said inexplicably.
Aang shook its body, somewhat puzzled: "What?"
"Some things may not be used, but you must always be ready."
Junior continuously poured information into his personal terminal, recounting an ancient history: "My ancestors made sufficient preparations to complete a counter-kill in a desperate situation with eight hundred people, stepping on the bones and blood of brothers to lay the cornerstone of a legendary empire."
"The current Imperium of Man seems calm and prosperous; but in reality, undercurrents are surging, shrouded in the gloom of an impending storm."
"I must prepare early, not seeking to turn the tide, but only wanting to protect the Primarchs and Legion brothers when the storm strikes."
Aang stopped talking, its body suspended in the void, flipping over to think about causality and the inevitability of human historical changes.
The Iron Men fell into deep thought, while Junior continued to finish his work.
He found something special within the ordinary data streams, extracted it, recorded it to his personal terminal, and carefully saved it.
This was his sole steadfast rule: to make ten-thousandfold preparations for a one-in-ten-thousand chance of future turbulence.
Flowing through the ancient bloodline within Junior was a sense of anxiety and foresight that ordinary people could not comprehend.
Mindful of danger in times of peace, he observed the changes in humanity and the Empire, searched for answers from history, and guarded against possible turmoil.
Suddenly, Junior's hand extracting the data stream paused, a dim light swirling in his eyes as he sighed softly: "The An Lushan Rebellion————"
Remembering the great achievements of his ancestors, his thoughts drifted further, recalling the decline of that glorious empire.
No foreign enemy could defeat the empire. The fatal blow came precisely from deep trust and entrustment. This trust ultimately transformed into sharp blades, heavily striking the empire at its zenith from within.
Ever since then, the massive empire fell, marching toward ruin through a slow hemorrhage.
That painful lesson was but a corner of distant historical records; yet it felt as though it were right before his eyes, bloody and starkly reminding humanity of the price of betrayal and turmoil.
There was no more conversation on the bridge, only the silent exchange of data streams. Outside the window, ten thousand guns of the fleet fired simultaneously, and humanity was about to make contact with the Ork junk fleet.
The moment of decisive battle!
The wild roars of the Orks tore through the boundaries of reality and illusion, and the power of Waaaaaagh! coiled around the junk warships.
They firmly believed that the artillery fire of the human Humies could not destroy their supersized warships, thus giving birth to an unimaginable miracle.
On the shieldless junk warships, a layer of green shield emerged, and the Waaaaaagh! force field converged into an arc to resist the artillery bombardment of the Human Fleet.
With this layer of protection, the Orks shrieked excitedly, gunning their engines to full throttle and charging toward the formation of the Human Fleet.
"Spirit-annihilation torpedoes, launch."
The moment the green light shield appeared, the artificial intelligence made its response.
Multi-wave sub-lightspeed torpedoes were launched from the sides of the warships, turning nimbly and dragging slender exhaust trails as they flew toward the Ork warships.
In an instant, the combat zone became even more clamorous.
The close-in defense systems of the junk warships fired at full capacity, their crimson projectiles dense as rain, weaving an airtight net of fire to intercept the torpedoes and other guided weapons.
Clusters of sparks blossomed in the void, and miracles incomprehensible to ordinary people occurred once again!
The crude close-in weapons of the Orks, blessed by the Waaaaaagh! force field, incredibly struck the sub-lightspeed torpedoes.
No matter how ridiculous it sounded to intercept sub-lightspeed torpedoes with primitive gunpowder kinetic weapons, reality was just that helpless.
The Orks actually pulled it off!
Convinced that their rapid-firing dak-dak guns could intercept the torpedoes, they indeed intercepted them.
In this universe overlooked by deities, supernatural forces unreasonably and arbitrarily distorted physical laws, toying with everything established in Realspace.
The multi-wave torpedoes exploded, blasting out an area of grayish-white mist.
There was no wind in space, so the mist could float there for a long time.
Then the Ork warships rushed into it, their Waaaaaagh! force field instantly suppressed, and the green thought-shields flickered a few times before dissipating.
This was an unsolvable dilemma: the torpedoes carried bone dust of the Blank; if they weren't intercepted, they would directly hit the warships, and if they were intercepted, it would cause an airburst.
No matter the form, the spirit-annihilation torpedoes would achieve their ultimate goal of suppressing the psionic field.
The Ork warships suffered heavy losses.
Having lost the Waaaaaagh! shields, the junk warships were instantly vaporized and evaporated under the bombardment of plasma Lances from Argent Nur's warships.
"The Ork motherships and warships are launching fighters."
The broadcast of the artificial intelligence constantly echoed within the human lines, signaling a change in combat methods.
The Lord of Iron issued deployments in a low voice: "Aircraft carriers, release interceptors to intercept enemy fighters and protect our warships."
Within the human lines, flowing lights flashed on the foredecks of the supercarriers, and unmanned fighters were catapulted into takeoff by gravity rails, instantly forming formations and flying toward the swarm of Ork fighters.
The Imperial Fleet responded immediately, navy carriers releasing fighters that converged into a combat swarm, locked in a fierce dogfight with the Ork fighters.
Void warfare at this stage had already reached close-quarters combat.
The close-in defense systems of the warships were fully activated, and the massive vessels fired countless dense beams of light, attacking the fly-like fighters.
"Charge through!" roared the Ork Boss, ordering the fleet to launch a charge and rush toward the shiny fleet of the human Humies.
The Waaaaaagh! force field responded to the Warboss's will, and the red-painted junk warships suddenly accelerated, their engines erupting with immense power as they unhesitatingly began a suicidal charge.
The next instant, the Ork warships that protruded from the combat formation were immediately melted by the dense firepower.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
The Ork Boss stomped his feet on the bridge in anger, cursing the cowardice and despicableness of the human Humies: "They hide behind their dak-dak guns and dare not fight the mighty Orks!"
The Human Fleet reduced speed and began to turn, training its broadside cannons on the cluster of Ork warships.
The next second, a dense torrent of firepower converging from Lances, Macrocannons, and plasma cannons bombarded the junk fleet.
The angry roars of the Orks, blessed by the Waaaaaagh! force field, echoed throughout the vacuum of the combat zone.
They were furious! They refused to accept this!
The Ork Warbosses commanding the naval battle had grievances they could not voice, pacing back and forth on the bridge in anxiety.
The Humies were too cunning!
They strictly controlled their range, prowling just outside the range of the dak-dak guns, making it impossible for the Orks' artillery to hit the cunning Humies.
The despicable Humies were like holding a small knife in their hands, nimbly slicing flesh piece by piece from the robust Orks, continuously weakening the Orks' strength.
Yet they could do nothing about it. Occasionally, flashes of inspiration would spark in the clever brains of the Big Meks to increase ship power and weapon range, but they could not truly reverse the passive situation.
Humanity launched a full-scale attack, and the Orks had no time to wait for technological innovation.
"Charge!"
Stimulated by extreme anxiety, a flash of inspiration struck the Ork Boss's brain, and he ordered the Ork fleet to change course and charge toward the fifth planet of the Star System.
It suddenly remembered: on that world, there were many human big Humies and ugly Humies.
As long as they attacked that world, the human Humies would come back to assist, and the Orks could sink their teeth into the pretty warships of the Humies!
In the void, the massive torrent of steel immediately turned and headed toward Planet Five.
On the ground of Planet Five, the voice of the Primarch rang out inside the field command room: "Gidimo Forrix!"
Perturabo's voice was low and icy as he called out to the First Company Commander of the Legion: "Evacuate this world within one hour."
"Remember," he emphasized once more, "you only have one hour."
"Understood!" Forrix solemnly promised: "We will complete the evacuation of the ground forces and leave planetary orbit within one hour."
The First Company Commander immediately began arranging the evacuation mission, just as they had rehearsed countless times before.
This was part of the plan!
Before the decisive battle, all the Orks' attention was on the third world; they couldn't care less about other worlds.
Now that the hornet's nest had been poked, the Orks began indiscriminate attacks.
Indiscriminate attacks by the Orks were also what Perturabo wanted.
The Iron Warriors surrounded the Xenos capital without attacking, waiting precisely for this moment!
In the void, the Ork fleet withstood human artillery fire, dragging along wrecks and exhaust plumes as they headed toward Planet Five regardless of casualties.
On the dark side of the planet, where the Orks could not see, the retreat of the Iron Warriors was orderly.
The Imperial Army and Adeptus Mechanicus personnel boarded the ships with supplies, and the Space Marines evacuated last.
The landing craft left planetary orbit at maximum speed before the Orks arrived, fleeing the world that was about to be reduced to ruins.
Then, a rain of fiery meteors fell upon the world!
Piloting their warhulks, the Orks charged directly into the atmosphere, their junk ships crashing into mountain ranges and sinking islands as they descended upon the Xenos capital with endless fury.
Diverting the disaster eastward.
Perturabo lured the Orks to attack the allied Xenos capital, making them bear the impact of the endless green tide.
Compared to the troublesome Madam Clara, purging the Orks was much simpler.
When the Orks that landed on the planet rushed to the human Humies positions, the big Humies had long since left and emptied the place.
Their chests burned with boundless rage, and their burning gazes of vengeance soon shifted to the standing ugly Humies city.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
No words were needed at this moment; a single Waaaaaagh! ignited the battlefield, and the Orks began charging at the three-hundred-meter-high city walls.
The fires of war spread across the ground while a rain of fiery meteors fell from the sky.
Ork warships fell in flames, consisting of intact vessels that landed voluntarily and countless wrecks destroyed by humans.
"The fleet utilizes mobility and artillery fire to continuously deplete the Ork warships."
"Lengthen the Ork battle lines, fully unleash our army's advantages, and grind down the Orks through harassment and containment."
Multiple simultaneous commands were issued from the supercarrier's bridge. Perturabo rarely showed a smile; the battle situation was under his control, and everything was proceeding according to the previewed direction.
He had completely seized the initiative!
Outside the panoramic bridge, dense Lances lit up the entire Star System, and Macrocannons exploded with dazzling fireworks.
The nameless Star System was burning, and human artillery fire was brighter than the stars; the Orks turned into warship fragments, falling toward the edge of the planet.
The junk fleets were continuously destroyed, and the slaughter net woven by Perturabo with logic and data was eroding the size of the Ork fleet with extremely high efficiency.
Orks gathered from all directions, but the junk fleet was completely pinned down, and the ground forces were concentrated on Planet Three and Planet Five.
Once the Ork fleet was completely eliminated, the two worlds would be purged with Exterminatus, and the Ork horde in the father's prophecy would be resolved.
By then, he would prove himself with a glorious victory.
Now——
Perturabo cast more of his gaze toward Planet Three.
That was another battlefield, lacking grand-scale cannons or sweeping grand games.
But it was even more perilous!
Swords clashed, flesh and blood flew everywhere, filled with roars and death.
Furthermore, although the battles taking place there had limitations, they concerned the success or failure of the entire battlefield.
If the Imperium lost and the Ork Boss broke free from containment, the moment it left the planet victorious, the Great Crusade belonging to the Orks would begin.
"Haaah!!!"
On the surface of Planet Three, a Primarch's battle roar came from the depression battlefield. Dorn executed a closing sword stance with the lightsaber in his hand, once again kicking the War Lord's two-severed corpse down the embankment.
How many charges had there been?
Dorn took a breath, his physical strength recovering to its peak state once again, and he recalled in his mind how many Ork charges this was.
He actually felt a kind of numbness: a numbness born from not wanting to calculate and trying to forget.
The 8,887th time.
The Orks had launched 8,887 charges. Dorn clearly remembered this number, but was unwilling to extract it from his memory again to add another stroke to it.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The 8,888th time. Amidst excited screams, the Orks launched another charge.
"Heavy firepower suppresses high-value targets, the mortal legions eliminate the Ork Boyz, and prepare to meet yet another charge."
Amidst the endless charges, the Space Marines commanded their mortal comrades, following the summarized standard response plan to meet the increasingly violent impacts.
Amidst the thunder and rain, one could still hear the hoarseness in the Space Marines' throats, as well as an unsuppressible exhaustion.
Thousands of uninterrupted attacks left the warriors of the Imperial Fists physically and mentally exhausted.
The Emperor had forged their bodies to be as tough as iron, but after being pounded thousands of times by brute force using the Warhammer turned from Orks, they inevitably felt exhausted.
In the torrential rain, the hideous and terrifying War Lord rushed onto the embankment, and Dorn struck down with his blade, killing them once again.
Rumbling crimson thunder crashed down, splashing up the foul stench of sulfur and blood.
"Who are you?"
The moment Dorn beheaded the War Lord and blood stained his vision, he seemed to hear a lingering inquiry from the splashing blood.
Almost instinctively, he replied, "I am Rogal Dorn."
He snapped back to his senses in the next microsecond, suddenly sensing a gaze, and even the surrounding space-time became somewhat viscous.
Dorn saw that around him, the actions of the Gene-sons and mortals were infinitely slowed down; only in the distance of the embankment, Blazkowicz and the Doom Marine were in the normal time flow.
"Who are you?" Dorn was certain that a real entity was observing him from the shadows.
His gaze narrowed slightly, and his heart gradually sank.
The sudden appearance of such a thing on the battlefield was not a good omen.
"You do not need to know who I am." The voice was deafening, surging within the scent of blood, carrying the desire for slaughter and bloodshed: "But I appreciate you."
"I am Rogal Dorn, the seventh son of the Emperor of Mankind, the Primarch of the Imperial Fists." Dorn panted, suppressing the slaughterlust stirred up by the smell of blood, and tightened his grip on the dimensional lightsaber in his hand: "I do not need your appreciation."
"Do not be in such a hurry to refuse." The voice carried temptation, "I can grant power, making rivers of blood flow wherever your gaze falls."
"All you need to do is recite my name."
"I refuse." In the stagnant space-time, Dorn's thoughts spun rapidly: "Hiding your head and tail, making a mystery of it."
He turned his golden eyes, using the corner of his eye to look into the distance, and instead asked the voice, "Why don't you go find him?"
This "him" referred to Blazkowicz, who was at the other end of the adamantium embankment, violently ripping out the spine of the Ork Boss.
Having killed the Ork Boss, Blazkowicz abruptly turned his head, looking over with sharp suspicion.
"This has nothing to do with anyone else."
The bloody voice did not answer the inquiry, coming from eight directions: "Only you and I, plus a small transaction."
"Recite my name, and I shall bestow upon you——"
Rumble!!!
Before the mysterious voice could finish speaking, blue thunder struck out of thin air, splashing up a patch of burning, eerie blue fire.
Space-time instantly returned to normal, and all abnormalities vanished.
Dorn abruptly snapped back to his senses and looked around. The Orks' roars were deafening, and bolter rounds and electromagnetic studs intertwined, as if the incredible scene that had just occurred was merely an illusion generated by exhaustion.
Blazkowicz rushed in front of his brother, asking with anxiety on his face, "Are you alright?"
At that very instant, he felt the will of Khorne descend upon Dorn, followed by the arrival of Tzeentch's aura, and ultimately both Chaos Gods vanished together.
"I'm fine." Dorn shook his head and answered in a deep voice, his eyes clear and his face bearing just the right amount of perplexity, "What happened?"
"I saw you zoning out." Blazkowicz's gaze swept over his brother, finding no Warp reaction nor any contamination of the Chaos God's aura.
"Thought you were injured." Confirming that Dorn was fine, Blazkowicz briefly explained and left, returning to his combat position.
Dorn looked at his brother's back, a flash of light passing through the depths of his eyes.
He felt that Blazkowicz must know something, and the bizarre event he had just experienced could not possibly be an illusion.
Deep within the Warp.
The Blood God, clad in brass armor, sat atop the Brass Throne, panting heavily.
His wrath had nowhere to vent; His divine power crushed the skulls on the Brass Throne, as He endured the offense of another Chaos God brother.
"The time is not right. You have overstepped."
Tzeentch's magical runes drifted away with the wind, warning Khorne that the time was not right at this moment and not to take overstepping actions.
Khorne certainly knew that it was not yet time to pluck the fruit. But He could not help it.
As rivers of blood flowed and warriors brandished swords dripping with blood, the Blood God's instincts compelled Him to cast His gaze, recruiting champion warriors who caught His favor.
Coincidentally, on that world, a cascade of blood rain fell, countless heroic and resilient souls fought fiercely, sending skulls rolling and soaking the earth in blood.
"Enough—"
A regretful murmur came from the Skull Throne; between the nostrils of the Blood God's ferocious and terrifying hounds, searing blood-red magma was exhaled, calming the impulses within His instinctive heart.
He cast His gaze upon Realspace, suppressing His restless heart to admire the fighting figures of the warriors.
Torrential rain poured down, washing away the bloodstains on the Legion Warriors' armor, yet it could not wash away the bloodshed of the battlefield, instead splashing up a layer of blood-red mist on the ground.
Amidst the red mist, the Power Armor reflected a metallic gloom, and the green skin, dark as iron, intertwined, colliding in overlapping illusions to spark the crimson and ash of death.
Rivers of blood!
The Space Marines' transcendent organs shattered under ultimate exploitation, and their faith could no longer support their exhausted bodies to continue fighting.
Rainwater trickled down the Power Armor, scouring the fatal wounds beneath the Ceramite, stripping away the lingering warmth. Cold, pale corpses lay sprawled across the mud.
Repel one wave, and there is another, and countless more waves.
The green tide would never recede, crashing like a vast ocean over and over again against the stubborn rock of the Imperial Fists on the shore.
The absolute will displayed by the Imperial Fists moved the Necrontyr and Eldar lurking in the shadows.
The human race had declined, but unlike that enterprising Golden Age, humans who survived the darkness possessed even greater courage and extraordinary resilience.
They were fearless, having abandoned intelligent machines, practicing humanity's tenacious will with flesh and blood.
As a race from the same era as the Orks, they knew that the current Greenskins were long no longer the Krork of back then, and their danger level had plummeted.
Although they had degenerated into beasts, knowing only how to overwhelm enemies with absolute numbers.
The mechanical phantoms and the derelict Eldar still admired humans for being able to withstand the Orks' attacks time and time again.
In the eyes of the ancient races, humans were merely uncultivated apes, their status even a tier lower than the savage Orks.
But humanity's tenacious spirit was worthy of respect and affirmation.
The Eldar put away their arrogance. Asking themselves, facing such endless impacts, their defense lines would have long collapsed, and precious Eldar warriors would have long since evacuated.
The Infinite Trazyn recorded this legendary combat situation and quickly evaluated its value.
The score it gave was extremely high, worthy of being placed in a prominent position in the gallery.
"The Reef and the Waves."
The Necron Overlord hiding in the dimensional pocket gave this epic of time a name of its own.
The former name affirmed the tenacity of the Imperial Fists, while the latter name was by no means an adjective, but used to describe the scene of the Orks resembling a green ocean.
"Quick! Quick! Quick!"
Sigismund, holding his sword, stood at a corner of the defensive dike, his voice hoarse as he said to the Templar Knight brothers withdrawing from the position: "You only have ten minutes of rest time, not a second more!"
He saw a brother on the verge of death being carried away on a stretcher, and immediately raised his tactical terminal to contact the Techmarine: "Put him into the Dreadnought sarcophagus!"
The injured warrior, whose consciousness had been somewhat hazy, suddenly opened his eyes upon hearing these words, glared angrily at Sigismund, and raised a trembling hand to give a twisted middle finger.
The warrior's blood-stained, parched lips moved as if cursing bitterly, before finally fainting from a rush of blood to the heart.
Sigismund expressionlessly waved his hand to signal the stretcher to leave.
Ever since the Orks launched their continuous attacks, things like this had happened too often.
Space Marines were not gods, merely genetically modified warriors far surpassing mortals; casualties were very common under high-intensity warfare.
Two true demigods stood on the dike, fighting continuously for seven days, their breathing as steady as usual, their feet piled with the corpses and bones of Ork lords.
If not for the two Primarchs and the Doom Marine putting out fires everywhere, under the fierce onslaught of the Orks, the outpost defense line would have long since collapsed.
"Templar Knight Commander!"
A mortal's low roar awakened Sigismund. "Seventy-Sixth Tier-Three Legion Commander of the Argent Nur Elite Legion reporting to you."
"My unit has completed the three-hour rest rotation. Which defense line should we reinforce now?"
"Alpha Sector One." Sigismund blurted out a name without hesitation, "That place belongs to the fringe zone and is experiencing a powerful onslaught by the Orks."
"Understood!"
As the Legion Commander saluted, Sigismund saw the slack bags under his eyes and the accumulated dark bruises.
The mental state of the mortal warriors in the elite legion was clearly also squeezed to the absolute limit.
Sigismund shook his head; the war had plunged into utter madness, and mortals were also running themselves ragged.
As long as the defense line showed the slightest gap, the Orks would pour in like a tide, overwhelming the loosened position.
But given the current situation, there was no choice other than to fight.
Pulling the firearm trigger with numb fingers, killing the enemy mercilessly—there was no other choice besides that.
Rumbly rumble!!
Wielding a greatsword as he stood once again at the front of the defense line, hacking down rushing Orks, Sigismund heard the roar of thunder.
He pulled a mortal up from the plasma without feeling anything unusual.
The torrential rain on this desolate world had never stopped; the icy chill penetrating into the Power Armor brought a burst of coolness, also reducing the burden on the cooling system.
"Is there anything unusual?" When he turned his head, he saw the Doom Marine brother severing an Ork's head while looking toward the distant sky.
"That's not thunder." The Doom Marine's voice was calm, carrying a crispness unravaged by the flames of war: "The sky is burning!"
Sigismund kicked an Ork Boyz's skull to pieces, and in the turning interval, looked up at the pitch-black clouds.
Blue-white flashes frequently appeared in the upper layers of the dark clouds, but they were no longer hasty lightning.
That was a kind of flowing light, flashing frequently, with tactical goggles displaying extreme temperatures.
Woo~ woo~~ woo~~~
The whistling sound grew closer and closer, dragging long within the atmosphere, resembling the whimpering of some injured giant beast.
The clouds grew brighter and brighter, no longer a bright blue-white, as passionate flames dyed half the sky red.
Boom!!!
Intense explosions pierced through the clouds, startling the Orks violently.
A mechanical, powerless whimper came first as a ten-kilometer-long trash warship, engulfed in flames, broke through the clouds and plummeted toward the distant mountains.
It was like a fallen flying beast, its engines billowing thick smoke, its flanks pierced through by several hundred-meter-wide empty holes—this was the fundamental reason for its sinking.
The warship fell all the way down, countless Ork Boyz screaming in terror as they jumped down from the fatal wounds of the warship.
Following closely were the second, third, fourth—
The dark clouds were cast into fire-red clouds by the flames, and the dark red raindrops, filtering through the flickering firelight, refracted a gorgeous gold.
Warship after warship plunged into the clouds, accompanied by flames and debris all over their bodies; the sky is burning!
"Victory!"
Unknown who shouted, awakening the people who had grown somewhat sluggish from protracted bitter combat.
The warriors finally snapped out of it, bursting into intense cheers: "Victory!!!"
The trash warships that filled the orbits and obscured the world began to sink, proving that the Human Fleet was gradually winning the naval battle!
Friendly forces have fought their way over!
"Boom!"
The heavy rain finally reined in its chill. The wreckage of the warships smashed through the rain clouds, and beams of light poured down through the gaps in the clouds.
When the first ray of light fell, the soldiers fighting bitterly in the war-torn world realized that it was another morning after all.
"Victory!!!"
"Victory!!!"
The morning light shone on the human positions, dispelling the gloom and dyeing their armor gold. Legion Warriors and mortals cheered, many of them already with tears in their eyes.
When the dark clouds dispersed, they saw the fierce battle in the void.
Dazzling with brilliant light, various types of Lances were brighter than shooting stars; scarred and devastated, the wreckage of the Ork junk ships blocked the sky.
Looking through the gaps, the Luna Wolves fleet was on the right, and the Vengeful Spirit sat commandingly in the center, using its broadside firepower to purge the junk warships in the planet's orbit.
The allied fleet occupied the left half of the planet's sky, dense and packed. The Phalanx was at the very front of the fleet, its massive body soon obscuring the sky and casting an endless shadow.
Unlike the dark clouds, this shadow was no longer cold, but rather a reliance behind the human warriors.
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"Retract the lines, change equipment in an orderly fashion!"
Dorn let out a low roar, his muffled voice carrying joy as he decisively executed the next step of the plan.
The Imperial Fists and the elite corps began to retreat backward in an orderly fashion.
The Legion Warriors needed to change equipment and then begin the counterattack!
During the previous bitter battle, the Legion dared not use vehicles on a large scale and abandoned heavy firepower, making a compromise to suppress the intensity of the war.
Because the Orks had martial traits, with knowledge stored in their genetic sequences, they would release technological knowledge according to the intensity of the war, creating unimaginable engines of war.
All humans had to compromise, using light firepower and individual heavy firepower to resist wave after wave of Ork swarms, solely to suppress the Orks' evolutionary ability and prevent the situation from going out of control.
Now, the fleet had gained orbital superiority, and the time for the decisive battle had arrived!
"Provide rear-guard action for friendly forces and retreat backward in an orderly fashion."
Blazkowicz churned out a way out with the shield in his hand, ordering the Legion to cover the rear for the friendly forces and slowly retreat backward.
Abandoning the frontline positions was precisely for this moment.
The main combat area was a fan-shaped region spreading outward, taking the front of the combat fortress as its point.
The further outward it went, the wider the battle line became.
The outpost bases were on the periphery of the fan-shaped region, located at the most cost-effective position calculated, invested, and maintained with care.
Now, contracting the defense lines backward, the increasingly narrow echeloned defense lines provided a natural advantage for segmented blocking and personnel contraction.
The more the battle line contracted, the more people were withdrawn.
As we retreated and the enemy advanced, the Orks poured into increasingly narrow passages, their formations becoming extremely crowded and their combat effectiveness plummeting straight down.
"Go." At the right timing, Blazkowicz ordered the Legion Warriors: "Activate the vehicles and Atlantis Titans, and launch a full counterattack."
"Yes!" The black-armored warrior responded, turning into a streak of black light and leaving.
"Boom!!!!"
The earth was trembling, and the crimson pillars of light fell from the heavens into the mortal realm like divine punishment, shocking every inch of land.
Small ships such as destroyers broke away from the fleet and entered the planet's low orbit, using orbital bombardment to purge the enemy outside the depressions and cut off subsequent Ork troops from supporting the main battlefield.
Although they were small ships like destroyers and frigates, the firepower they released was by no means comparable to ground weapons.
Protected by battleships and cruisers, they hovered in low orbit, orderly purging the hundreds of billions of Orks spread across the planet.
"Brother!"
Along with the greeting came the atmospheric fighter groups released by the carriers, beginning to seize air supremacy outside the shields.
Blazkowicz kicked up a dropped Ork skull, used it to pierce through a dozen Orks, raised his vambrace, and saw the newly established communication link.
Opposite the holographic image, Perturabo clearly breathed a sigh of relief.
"How is the battle situation?" Blazkowicz had no time to stop; his Warhammer fell, smashing out yet another vacuum zone.
Perturabo said: "The Ork junk fleet is vulnerable; nearly half of them have been eliminated by us, and the other half are guerrilla-fighting within the Star System."
"Within this Star System, the Orks are mainly concentrated in two worlds, making it convenient for the Imperial Legions to purge."
On the copper-colored face of the Lord of Iron, a hint of excited red emerged: "Our plan has been perfectly executed, and we are about to achieve final victory."
"It looks close at hand, but in reality it is extremely perilous." Conversing, Blazkowicz made a turn, his fist blowing up an Ork Boyz's head, while his palm emitted C'tan flames, scorching a patch of scorched earth.
Perturabo's projection looked up, seeing the direction pointed by his brother's palm, which was precisely the Orks' ground base.
Green light lingered there, the Waaaaaagh! force field was visible to the naked eye, and green thunder continuously fell from the void.
Looking from the outside, the Ork command post and its surroundings were shrouded in a green cocoon of light, blocking the prying eyes of any detectors.
"Wait for me!" Perturabo's expression changed, and he immediately hung up the holographic communication.
Blazkowicz nodded in silence, grabbed a pursuing junk motorcycle, flung it away, and smashed down a string of deadly helicopters.
"Brother." Just as Perturabo left, Horus's projection lit up, and the Wolfmaster's tightly locked brows relaxed: "It's good that you guys are fine."
"After completely stabilizing orbital security, the Luna Wolves will drop onto the surface."
"You need to be faster." Dorn, who had been silent for a long time, spoke in a deep voice, his brows furrowed tightly and his tone somewhat anxious: "Complete the orbital purge as soon as possible."
He was very anxious; with the ground war proceeding to this extent, the Imperial Fists' losses were not small.
Now that the Imperial Fists were exhausted in both men and horses, having other Legions take on the main attack was a very reasonable request.
"The fleet will maintain the clearance of the existing orbital area, further stabilize it, and then release Space Marines to enter the atmosphere."
Horus pondered for a moment and gave an exact time: "Thirty minutes from now, I will lead the Luna Wolves into the battlefield."
Dorn nodded, didn't say much more, turned his head and cleaved a War Lord in half.
He was somewhat disheveled now; after the wind stopped and the rain rested, his golden Power Armor was covered in blood mist, his red cloak was soaked with Ork blood, and every swing swept away a large patch of bloodstains.
The ground forces retreated again and again, finally holding the throat position less than five kilometers wide.
The two Primarchs personally sat in command to cover the retreat of friendly forces and resist the surging wave of Orks.
Around the combat fortress, it was becoming even busier at this moment.
Auxiliary drones flew continuously, hoisting the camouflaged rain cloth to reveal the bright yellow heavy vehicles that had been hidden for a long time.
The withdrawn Imperial Fists warriors dared not delay for a moment, diving into the vehicles and loading the startup programs to awaken the weapons of war.
To suppress Ork technology, the heavy vehicles had been sleeping under the rain curtain for a long time, and now the moment had come to show their edge!
The engines of war gradually awakened, emitting a harsh roaring sound that made the entire battlefield gradually restless.
The sky was getting brighter and brighter, the Ork junk fleet was driven away by the Human Fleet, and the Legion landing craft were safely parked in the planet's orbit.
"Begin orbital drop!"
"Begin orbital drop!"
"Begin orbital drop!"
Almost at the same time, Perturabo, Horus, and Junior, the three Commanders, ordered the release of Space Marines.
Boom!
The sky violently exploded as drop pods, denser than a torrential downpour, tore through the air with screeching roars as they fell.
Showing no weakness, the Orks' anti-air defenses across the mountain bases surrounding the "Dog Bowl" immediately opened fire at full force, weaving a dense net of flak with crude weaponry to shoot down the Legion drop pods.
"Clear a path for the Legion!"
Navy aviators piloted their fighters, charging with determination straight toward the fully exposed anti-air emplacements.
The heroic aviators maneuvered through a hail of gunfire, marking anti-air fire emplacements.
Seconds later, drone fighters arrived, executing precision bombing runs on the anti-air bases.
The hilltop bases were destroyed one after another in continuous chain explosions, forming a brilliant ring of fire capped around the Adamantium Basin.
Drop pods landed in succession on the drop site carved out beyond the mountains by warships using Lances.
The Sons of Horus landed to the east of the Ork base; eighty thousand Legion Warriors and their supplies touched down, and the Adeptus Mechanicus immediately established offensive outposts.
As Horus stepped out of the landing craft, Titan thrones touched down one after another, and three Knight Houses began clearing out the surrounding Orks.
The Legion's armored forces rolled out of the landing craft as Techmarines immediately serviced them, ready to commit them to battle at any moment.
"Establish a communications network with friendly forces," said Horus. He was clad in pearl-white Power Armor, his right hand clad in a monstrously fierce Lightning Claw, his left hand gripping a massive Power Sword.
The Lightning Claw was named the "Talon of Horus," obtained when Horus was conquering the cosmos and exploring the deep ruins of the planet Cthonia.
Huge and crude, its five long fingers curved into razor-sharp arcs, radiating a chill that sent shivers down one's spine.
As Horus walked, the Talon of Horus dragged a swaying, flexible ammunition belt connected to an ammo pack under the Wolfmaster's wolf pelt, supplying ammunition to the claw.
Mounted on the back of the Talon of Horus was a cold, Baroque-styled Bolter, providing brutal ranged fire support.
As for the Power Sword in his left hand, it was a masterwork weapon meticulously crafted with the full devotion of the Legion's artisans.
Standing in the drop site, Horus raised his Lightning Claw and pointed beyond the mountains.
His thoughts were transmitted via brain-computer interface to the voidship, which immediately executed the Wolfmaster's will.
Orange-red beams bridged heaven and earth as orbital strikes hammered down, vaporizing mountain ranges blocking the Legion's path.
Horus spoke firmly to his herald, "Once the ground cools down, I want the armored Legion fully serviced and ready to keep pace with the assault launched by our allies."
"Understood." The Legion herald stopped writing and saluted, standing ramrod straight.
"Bring the Remembrancers to the surface as soon as possible." Horus walked with heavy steps toward the field command post, nodding up at the sky where drop pods continued to rain down. "They must be present to witness this grand victory."
"As you command."
A herald bowed and respectfully withdrew from the Wolfmaster's side.
South of the Ork fortress, the Iron Warriors committed the bulk of their forces. Perturabo personally led one hundred thousand Legion Warriors, arriving safely at the drop site.
"Deploy the heavy artillery," the Lord of Iron ordered from his anti-gravity throne, raising a hand toward the basin. "I require sufficient firepower to purge those damned Ork scum."
His will was relayed to every warrior's tactical terminal via brain-computer interface, clearly marking the exact firing angles for the artillery.
Plasma Lances rained down, carving out another attack route straight toward the Orks' heartland.
"Establish an offensive base and bring down the Imperial Army. Have them defend the base and secure the attack corridor."
"Orbital control remains with the Imperial Fleet. Navy fighters and drone fighters will coordinate flight paths to provide seamless cover above us."
"Hmph!" Perturabo scoffed as he issued deployment commands, glancing smugly at the sky where the fighter network he designed continuously shot down the Orks' junk aircraft.
"Establish a communications network and link up with the Sons of Horus. Heavy armored units, prepare for a synchronized assault."
The Lord of Iron issued continuous instructions to the captains around him, commands dispatched simultaneously via neural-link and voice as the entire Legion operated according to his rigorous logic.
The two full-strength Legions led by Primarchs needed only brief resupply before launching their attack against the Orks.
Meanwhile, north of the Ork fortress, Junior landed with one thousand Legion brothers and two thousand heavy Iron Men.
Five hundred Legion drop pods and one thousand Iron Men thrones initiated defense protocols, driving back the Orks with their mounted weaponry and forming a straight defensive curtain wall.
Blue-white plasma Lances rained down, blasting high-temperature target zones and vaporizing an entire mountain range blocking the way.
"Establish contact with friendly forces and the Primarchs."
The Archon carried out joint operation protocols, establishing contact first to determine the operational status of all forces.
Junior reviewed incoming transmissions from friendly units on his holographic tactical display. With four Legions operating together, even a minor mishap could trigger an irrecoverable abyss.
Beside him, a more detailed holographic sandtable projected from the helmet seam of a heavy Man of Iron.
In just three minutes, three Legions landed completely, encircling the Ork fortress from four directions alongside the battle fortress.
Nearly two hundred fifty thousand Astartes stood fully prepared; a single order for the general offensive would send the warriors crushing through the Greenskins' spine.
Yet Junior frowned deeply, flicking, tapping, zooming, and rotating the sandtable as he observed the green light cocoon that even the Auspex could not penetrate.
"What is it?" The Adeptus Custodes Captain stepped out of the golden Thunderhawk, holding his spear as he walked to the Archon's side, his voice laced with confusion. "Did you discover something?"
Following the Rangdan Campaign, Odysseus had accompanied the main force of the Doom Marine to the Nur Stars.
Now, responding to the call for aid, the Shield-Bearer Captain had arrived with the fleet alongside a thousand Adeptus Custodes.
Having never received orders from The Emperor nor requests to leave the Doom Marine, they naturally continued fighting alongside him.
"Surrounded on four sides." He took a brief glance and offered a pertinent evaluation: "Four Primarchs, four Legions. No matter what tricks the Orks pull, they cannot break free from this cage."
"An encirclement?" Junior's brows remained furrowed, his handsome face solemn as he pointed toward the Ork lair. "Or perhaps a breakout from the center?"
Odysseus froze, his hand tightening around his Guardian Spear as he gave Junior a serious look.
Saying no more, he issued orders over the internal Adeptus Custodes channel: "Awaken the accompanying Dreadnoughts and activate more engines of war."
Having spent much time together, Odysseus knew Junior was composed and never acted without cause.
The Shield-Bearer Captain placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the Orks charging wildly across the hills, remarking calmly, "Another bitter battle."
"Yeah," Junior nodded, maintaining his focus on the holographic projection as friendly communication beacons lit up one after another.
The Custodian's remark was neither fear of battle nor weariness; the attendants of The Emperor harbored no such emotions.
They knew better than Space Marines that the flames of war across the galaxy would never cease.
Odysseus was merely commenting—a pure observation, nothing more.
By the Ork fortress beside the Adamantium Basin, two mountain peaks were shaped into statues of Gork and Mork. Their mouths roared and eyes glowed green, looking as though they could spring to life at any second.
Deep within the green light cocoon, beyond the reach of human sensors, a brutal feast of violence was underway!
Big Tooth Gugu stood on a high platform, overlooking a circular, bloody arena.
Its appearance had transformed dramatically: standing nine point nine meters tall, its bulging, sinewy muscles surged with power, metallic sheen swirled over its exposed dark-green skin, and green flames burned within its eye sockets.
Heavy Power Armor covered all its vitals, and highly concentrated Waaagh! energy surged through its hydraulic lines, sending green lightning flickering with every move it made.
*Ugh...*
Big Tooth breathed heavily, green smoke curling around its three-foot-long tusks, emphasizing an extraordinary sharpness.
No longer agile or tempestuous, it looked down calmly upon the blood-soaked arena, beholding a different spectacle entirely through its eyes.
Countless green pinpricks of light converged—the souls of slain Orks—channeling alongside Waaagh! energy into the bodies of wrestling and brawling Orks, forging the Boyz into even more formidable monsters.
It knew of humanity's movements and knew the Boyz were dying, yet it cared for none of it.
The colossal mountain of flesh upon the throne was Big Tooth Gugu, yet no longer merely Big Tooth Gugu.
One of the great wills from the Warp had descended into this mortal flesh through the surging Waaagh! energy.
It watched the Orks slaughtering one another in the dueling arena to plunder power, waiting for the soul energy to converge upon a single entity.
The conditions for divine will to descend into the mortal realm were harsh; Gork was using the expanding Ork population to descend step by step, and was now aiding his brother's descent.
The gods knew that the war against humanity was drawing to a close and that the Ork population could no longer swell, so they turned a blind eye to the ongoing battle, letting the Boyz die to collect the souls that had yet to leave Realspace.
They required immense soul power to anchor their wills to the mortal world and sustain their divine might.
Gork and Mork were deeply displeased with that Godslayer who claimed "Orks aren't Waaagh! enough!"
"Are you ready?"