The modified motorcycle cut through the death storm like a bolt of black lightning.
The surrounding green-skinned Orks finally realized that this suicidal humie was carrying something at high speed toward their heavily wounded Warboss. Instantly, bullets poured in from all directions like driving rain, and the crude muzzle flashes illuminated the wasteland as bright as day.
"WAAAAAGH!! Kill da wheel-boy!!"
Yet, Eagle seemed fused with his mechanical beast at this moment. Slamming the bike low, he executed an incredible sharp-angled drift nearly flush with the ground, barely evading a stream of heavy autocannon fire. Moments later, he used a protruding rock to vault into the air, dodging a screaming rocket.
This dance through a hail of gunfire sent adrenaline exploding through their veins. Seeing the massive green-skinned figure drawing closer, Name, riding shotgun on the back seat, couldn't help but shout his praise: "Holy shit! Badass! You actually dodged that?!"
The wind howled as Eagle's wild laughter came from the front: "Hahaha! Aside from playing this game, my favorite thing is riding bikes in motorcycle simulators! I'd dare to charge down Mount Olympus at full speed, a tiny scene like this is nothing but a—"
Boom!
Before he could finish his sentence, a high-explosive shell detonated near their front flank. It wasn't a direct hit, but the point of impact was extremely close.
A massive shockwave, laced with countless searing shrapnel fragments, swept over them. Though Eagle's reflexes were pushed to their absolute limit as he veered sharply to evade, the blast's aftershock still slammed viciously into the motorcycle and both men.
"Ugh!"
Name felt his back go entirely numb, followed instantly by a sickening, chilling sensation that rippled through his whole body. His legs, which had been clamping tightly onto the bike, lost all feeling in a split second.
A sharp piece of shrapnel had sliced into his back like a knife through tofu, instantly severing his spine.
He screamed into the roaring wind, "Eagle! I'm paralyzed! I can't feel my legs man!"
However, the normally chatty driver in front of him offered no response.
The motorcycle's engine was still roaring, but the handlebars began to shake violently out of control. Eagle slumped powerlessly onto the dashboard, swaying limply with the jolting of the vehicle.
Name's heart sank. Trembling, he reached out his right hand and felt the back of the driver's neck.
His hand met a warm, viscous fluid and a jagged piece of metal shrapnel deeply embedded into the gaps of the cervical vertebrae.
"Holy shit..."
Looking at his blood-stained hand, Name was completely dumbfounded. He couldn't help but curse, "Motherfucker! You could have at least finished your bragging before dying!"
Without a driver at the helm, the speeding motorcycle behaved like a runaway bull. Carried by immense inertia, it charged up a small hill that served as a natural ramp.
Whoosh! The motorcycle launched into the air, losing its balance entirely and beginning to flip violently.
As the world spun wildly around him, Name? Eagle clung tightly to the backpack in his arms, forcing his eyes wide open.
In the next second, the sight before him instantly reversed his despair—
The blood-drenched Ork Warboss, Scarface, who was currently retreating under the cover of his boyz, happened to be right in the direct path of their aerial trajectory!
This was literally ascending from hell to heaven in an instant! Lady Luck had revealed her trump card at this exact moment!
"ROAR—!!!"
The heavily wounded Scarface also saw this hunk of iron falling from the sky, and endless fury erupted from its single eye. It did not dodge; its pride as a Warboss would not allow it to dodge such a "measly projectile."
Issuing a deafening roar, it raised its massive chainaxe high with its remaining intact arm. Like a baseball batter squaring up for a hit, it swung viciously at the two flying humies!
Staring at the approaching giant axe—close enough to see the spinning teeth—and the Warboss's hideous, massive face, a brilliant smile broke across Name's face.
Exerting the very last of his strength, he let out a battle cry: "For the Emperor!!!"
The next instant, man and machine slammed violently into the swinging chainaxe.
Click.
The pin was pulled.
Time seemed to freeze for a tenth of a second.
Then, a white sphere of light, thousands of times brighter than the midday sun, suddenly expanded outwards, centered precisely on Scarface's chainaxe.
BOOM!!!
The earth-shattering explosion swallowed all sound.
A small mushroom cloud rose over the wasteland. The terrifyingly high temperature instantly vaporized the Warboss, the motorcycle, and all the Ork bodyguards within a radius of dozens of meters who were still rushing over. The rampaging shockwave, laced with radioactive dust, swept outward in all directions, flipping countless Ork vehicles that had just arrived.
---
The Badab Sector
Huron stood before a massive holographic star map, his grim gaze locked onto a resource planet on the edge of the Maelstrom. It was a planet rich in refined ore and industrial semi-finished goods—outputs crucial for the expanding Astral Claws.
However, the planet's Governor—a man named Valens—had been acting up recently. The man had always been a greedy, foolish parasite. Taking advantage of being far away from the central authorities, he constantly made excuses when it came to paying the tithe, either crying poverty by claiming production had dropped, or using warp storms as a pretext to delay transport.
"It's about time to give this fat pig a warning," Huron cold-snorted, connecting the long-range vox-link.
While he didn't want to use military force to purge a planet's ruling class at such a critical juncture—as it would cause a short-term halt in production—if Valens continued to be ungrateful, Huron wouldn't mind separating his head from his shoulders.
The holographic projection flickered a few times, and Governor Valens's face, packed with fat and slick with expensive grooming, appeared before Huron.
Before Huron could even open his mouth to apply pressure, he had already prepared a threatening speech, ready to tell this fool that the Astral Claws fleet was only a single warp jump away from his palace.
"Valens," Huron's voice was low and heavy with oppression, "regarding this quarter's refined ore quota, If I hear you've encountered 'unforeseen' difficulties again you better prepare for unforseen consequences!"
Huron was fully prepared for the other party to make excuses, and was even ready to put on a show to terrify him.
However, to his absolute surprise, Governor Valens on the other side of the screen didn't cry poverty at all. Instead, as if seeing his long-lost father, his face broke into an intensely flattering smile.
"Oh! Lord Huron! How could you personally trouble yourself with such a trivial matter!" Valens rubbed his hands together, speaking at a frantic pace, "No difficulties! None at all! I have completely prepared this quarter's quota. No, not just this quarter's—to show my utmost respect for you, I took the liberty of packaging next quarter's projected output as well! The transport fleet can set sail immediately!"
The threats Huron had prepared choked right back down his throat.
He froze for a moment, subconsciously blurting out, "Hmph, I knew you'd—uh, what did you say?"
"I said the materials are all ready! And in double the amount!" Governor Valens nimmediately snapped to attention, even forming the Aquila sign over his chest, declaring loudly and righteously, "Lord Huron, you may not know this, but this subordinate has always been the Emperor's most loyal servant!
And you, as the Protector of the Maelstrom Zone, fight for humanity's survival even when misunderstood. I have always been filled with boundless admiration for a hero like you! It is my honor to contribute to your grand cause!"
Staring at the impassioned fat man in the holographic projection, who looked ready to shed his blood for the Imperium at any second, Huron felt utterly bewildered and even found it quite amusing.
Did this guy take the wrong medication?
Huron knew exactly what kind of trash Valens was: a opportunistic, profit-driven hypocrite. Hearing such high-sounding words from his mouth was more absurd than an Ork discussing philosophy.
Still, Huron wasn't one to overanalyze someone else's internal drama, so long as the result was what he wanted.
Even so, he noted this anomaly, intending to send someone to investigate later. Huron did not suspect the Helldivers. Once he knew that only a few hundred Helldivers had gone to raid that Ork empire, he had stopped paying attention to the matter entirely.
"Very well," Huron masked his confusion and nodded faintly, "It seems you have finally recognized the situation. Maintain this loyalty, Valens, and the Astral Claws will not mistreat a friend. But if you play tricks like before, you know the consequences."
"Yes, yes, yes! This subordinate understands! I will certainly do my absolute best!"
The transmission cut.
Staring at the vanishing projection, Huron sneered, "At least this insect knows what's good for him, otherwise I'd have to consider replacing him with someone more obedient." He didn't dwell on the matter, turning away to handle other, more pressing military affairs.
---
Meanwhile, inside the Governor's palace thousands of light-years away.
As the communication ended, the previously energetic Governor Valens collapsed into his luxurious armchair like a man whose spine had been removed. He gasped heavily for breath, his clothes long soaked through with cold sweat.
"Lord Governor, the inventory list has been sent over..." An adjutant carefully handed over a handkerchief.
Valens tremblingly wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking at the far end of the star map with lingering terror.
In truth, the reason he was so compliant—even willing to pay out of his own pocket to make up the tax—had absolutely nothing to do with any bullshit admiration. It was because just a few standard Terran hours ago, he had received intelligence that frightened him out of his wits.
Right next to his planet, the Ork empire that had been entrenched for years, posing a massive threat and launching raids every now and then, had collapsed in a single day!
The Warboss who had caused him endless headaches and commanded an army of millions of Orks—Scarface—was dead.
If it were just that, Valens would only be happy. After all, he wouldn't have to worry about Ork raids anymore, and his planet could save a fortune on defense spending every year, naturally leaving him with excess resources.
But what truly struck terror into his bones was the intelligence description of the "killers."
With trembling fingers, Valens tapped open the intelligence summary once more.
According to his spies, the force that destroyed this massive Ork empire was not the main fleet of the Astral Claws, nor was there any sign of Adeptus Astartes involvement.
Huron had only sent a few hundred mortals.
Yes, a few hundred mortals!
"How is that possible... how can this be..." Valens murmured to himself, his face as pale as paper.
A few hundred mortals had managed to take the leader's head right out from the midst of an army of millions, blowing the terrifying Warboss and half his camp straight into the sky. What kind of horrifying combat capability was that? What kind of precise tactical execution?
Who are these people!?
In Valens's imagination, this had to be a super special forces unit secretly trained by Huron, as terrifying as the Officio Assassinorum. They came and went like ghosts, possessing the terrifying strength of one in a thousand.
It was simply mind-boggling!
Valens repeatedly verified the authenticity of the report, and each confirmation deepened the fear in his heart.
He felt both joy and dread.
Joy that the Ork threat was gone.
Dread because Huron only needed a few hundred mortals to kill a fully armed Ork Warboss. If Huron ever became dissatisfied with his performance and sent those few hundred "mortals" to infiltrate the Governor's palace...
Valens glanced at his guard of several thousand, a force he was usually proud of, and suddenly felt they were as fragile as papier-mâché.
"If he decides to deal with me..." Valens shuddered, feeling he wouldn't survive for even a second.
"Quick! Go pressure the transport fleet again!" Valens jumped up abruptly, shouting at his adjutant, "Open my private vault too, and gather a shipment of rare crystals for Lord Huron—no, for the great Tyrant of Badab! He must see my loyalty!"
Compared to material wealth, his own life was far more important. This was the sole reason he was being so proactive, obediently handing over the taxes Huron demanded, and even voluntarily increasing the amount.