The internal structure of an Ork warship is like a maze built of scrap metal and junk by a madman, filled with exposed cables, hissing steam pipes, and illogical dead ends. Yet, within this cramped and chaotic environment, the Ogryn players demonstrated a level of advancement efficiency that was terrifyingly high.
They didn't act like a race known for low intelligence; they were a precision-engineered steamroller.
At the very front, two rows of Ogryn players carrying heavy slab shields formed a mobile bunker. They didn't charge blindly in a fit of hot-blooded rage like typical Ogryns. Instead, they moved with steady, measured steps, advancing one footprint at a time. Whenever an Ork leaped from a ventilation duct or the shadows to attempt an ambush, the front-row shield-guards would immediately raise their shields to parry and swing their clubs, neutralizing the threat instantly.
Even more terrifying was their tolerance for error. When an Ogryn at the front collapsed after taking too much damage, the defensive line didn't crumble. Almost the exact second he fell, another fresh Ogryn from behind stepped into the gap, slamming his shield heavily into the deck.
Under the tight protection of these steel walls, the heavy weapon specialists—encircled at the core of the formation—were executing a textbook display of suppressive fire.
The heavy stubbers and autocannons in their hands never ceased. The players had spontaneously formed fire teams; when one group emptied their ammo belts and shouted "Reloading!" while ducking down, another group immediately rose to fire. The tongues of flame from the muzzles transitioned seamlessly, leaving no gaps in the barrage. This continuous metal storm tore through everything in the corridor ahead—whether it was Ork Boyz, Grots, or crude cover—shredding them all.
There was no chaos from pushing or shoving, no stragglers, and no friendly fire. The entire unit moved like a giant game of "Snake," slowly devouring and digesting the invaded Ork ship.
Following behind the main force to supervise and observe, several Astartes of the Astral Claws watched the scene. The expressions beneath their helmets gradually turned solemn, eventually reaching a point of incredulous shock.
"This truly makes my skin crawl, brother," one Astral Claw whispered over the vox-channel, watching the backs of the Ogryns advancing with mechanical precision.
The veteran Astral Claw beside him nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on the Ogryns' coordination—crude in form but high in efficiency. "While their cooperation isn't perfect—there are gaps, their pacing isn't entirely synced, and there are countless minor flaws, like that fellow who was half a beat slow on the reload or that shield stance being non-standard..."
The veteran paused, his tone complex as he continued, "But there are almost no major mistakes. They know when to advance, when to defend, and they even understand fire rotation. For an Ogryn, this is more than enough. Even the most elite stormtroopers of the Astra Militarum might not do better in this kind of chaos. After all, their physical stats are simply too overwhelming."
This unnatural discipline made the Space Marines feel an instinctive sense of threat. Ogryns were strong but dim-witted and easy to control. But if these monsters gained tactical literacy—
"If we had to deal with them, how do you think we should proceed?" the first Astral Claw asked, his grip on his bolter tightening subconsciously.
The veteran went silent for a moment, seemingly running countless tactical simulations in his mind.
"It can be done," he finally replied with a firm answer. "As I said, their minor issues are numerous. Their turning speed is slow, their flank protection is present but inflexible, and their formation is too dense. We have the capability to exploit these small problems, using precision strikes to widen them into advantages and eventually secure victory."
At this point, the veteran's voice turned dry. "But the casualties would be catastrophic. Against this level of firepower and durability, even for us... it might take the sacrifice of hundreds, perhaps even a thousand brothers, to completely wipe out these three thousand Ogryns."
A thousand Astartes.
The number plunged the vox-channel into a deathly silence. That meant trading an entire Codex-compliant Chapter's strength just to take the lives of these Ogryns.
Watching the giants ahead dismantling the Ork ship piece by piece while shouting all sorts of bizarre slogans, the Astral Claw let out a long breath. "Fortunately, they are loyal."
Just then, a roar of pure fury drowned out the sounds of gunfire on the battlefield.
A blast door at the end of the corridor was violently blown open. An Ork Warboss, a full size larger than an average Ogryn, thundered out followed by a group of heavily armed 'Ard Boyz. Seeing his once-mighty treasure of a ship now dismantled and riddled with holes and smoke, the Warboss was so enraged that visible black smoke puffed from his nostrils.
"Humies! Yuz dare break my shiny ship!" The Warboss waved a massive Power Klaw, his cobbled-together heavy mega-armor clanking with his roar. "I, Grog Iron-Bar, am gonna smash ya to bits!"
Before his voice even faded, Grog charged like an out-of-control locomotive, slamming directly into the Ogryn frontline.
"WAAAAAGH!!!"
Accompanied by the screeching sound of tearing metal, the massive Power Klaw flickered with a deadly energy field, slicing through the shield of a front-line Ogryn player without resistance before tearing away half of his torso. Blood sprayed everywhere, but the player didn't retreat an inch before dying; he swung his heavy club with his last breath, slamming it hard against Grog's wrist.
Thwack!
The blow was heavy, sending a jolt of pain up Grog's arm and even causing the servo-motors of the Power Klaw to let out a mournful whine.
"You junk-collecting piece of crap!" A nearby Ogryn player roared in fury at seeing his teammate insta-killed. "You killed my bro!"
"WOT?!" Hearing the name, Grog's red eyes bugged out, as if he had heard the most vile curse in the world. "Yuz callin' me a junk-collectah! I hates it when folks call me junk! Deez are my trophies I worked hard to loot!"
"Are you anything else?" The Ogryn player didn't back down. Seizing the moment the Boss was staggered, he lunged forward and slammed his club into the Ork's skull. Though Grog raised an arm to block, the impact still left him dizzy. "You belong in a scrap heap! That's your home!"
"WAAAAAGH! I'S GONNA KILL YA!"
Grog swung back in a frenzy, his Power Klaw whistling through the air as it pierced the player's chest and lifted him high. Watching the player struggle on the Klaw, he let out a triumphant, mad laugh. "Hahaha! Now I's killed ya, and yuz just a pile of rotten meat! Now tell me, is yuz da junk-collectah now?"
To his surprise, the player spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm onto his face before dying. "Ptui... you're... still a piece of junk..."
Before Grog could even toss the corpse aside, another Ogryn player stepped up to the gap in the line, shouting, "Swap tanks, picking up aggro!" He then slammed his shield into Grog's face like he was swatting a fly.
The battle turned into a brutal war of attrition. Grog was indeed peerless in valor; every swing took the life of one or several Ogryns. But these "humies" were like an endless swarm of cockroaches—one fell, and two immediately replaced him. Moreover, every Ogryn, in their final moments, would desperately land one last heavy blow—a club swing or even a bite.
While the damage from these "suicide attacks" wasn't high individually, the cumulative effect was staggering.
The two sides traded blows in the narrow corridor for a full hour.
Puff... puff...
Even with the hardy constitution of an Ork Warboss, Grog was beginning to wheeze. The energy of his once-proud Power Klaw was more than half depleted; the once-brilliant disruption field flickered dim and bright, occasionally sputtering sparks.
Worse was his physical condition.
His entire body was embedded with countless bullet fragments. Those damned "turret" Ogryn players hadn't stopped shooting for the entire hour. Although the heavy rounds were caught in his thick muscle without hitting vital organs, the constant impact and pain were making his movements increasingly sluggish.
His right arm fared the worst. Because the melee Ogryn players had specifically targeted it with their clubs, the massive limb was now twisted at a grotesque ninety-degree angle, hanging limp at his side. The bone had clearly been pulverized into grit; it was completely useless for the rest of the fight.
"Zog it... why ain't deez humies dead yet..."
As Grog laboriously crushed another Ogryn's head with his left hand and snapped out of his killing frenzy during a brief lull, he instinctively looked around.
What he saw made the heart of the arrogant Warboss skip a beat.
The group of strongest, toughest 'Ard Boyz he had brought with him were mostly gone. The floor was covered in layers of Ork and Ogryn corpses. As far as the eye could see, the "humies" in their mismatched armor and heavy weapons were still surging forward like a tide, their numbers seemingly undiminished.
Not only that, but those cunning "humies" had somehow flanked him. Countless greedy, murderous eyes were fixed on him, like a pack of wolves watching a wounded prey about to collapse.
Grog Iron-Bar, the master of this warship, was actually being surrounded by a group of "humies" on his own turf.
'I fink I may be gorked!'