Luna had guessed correctly. The ambush her fleet suffered in the asteroid belt was indeed inextricably linked to Raynor.
If it had been anyone else competing with Raynor, or even if Caladog had come himself, Raynor might not have resorted to such measures. That old man, though stubborn, still held to the baseline of being human and knew the meaning of rules. But Luna? A Tzeentch sorceress who exploited her family and climbed to power through Chaos—Raynor felt no psychological burden whatsoever in dealing with her.
Thus, on the day Luna began the first test flight of the Measure of Discipline, a peculiar ship quietly departed Dead World-B and set course for Karl-2.
It was a flesh-and-blood vessel covered in tentacles. Its hull was not metal but chitin, shimmering with a sickly purple light under the starlight. Its power source was a biomass conversion furnace, each pulse sounding like the beating of a massive heart. Unlike standard warships, it possessed almost no long-range weaponry, only deployment hatches. Inside were countless spore sacs ready for launch, clinging densely to the ship's surface like clusters of ripening wild fruit.
The Purple Crystal.
This was the old ship modified during the escape from Necromunda, the mobile nest of Sarah's swarm, and the first cornerstone of the Hive in this system. It hovered in the darkness on the distant outskirts of Karl-2, a hunter lurking in the shadows.
"Begin," a cool female voice echoed through the bridge.
Her true body was not on the ship; the eight-meter-tall behemoth still slumbered in the nursery deep within Twin Peaks. However, there was a reinforced Warrior organism on board—a node of consciousness sufficient to control operations here.
The belly of the Purple Crystal slowly opened, revealing a squirming internal chamber. Then, the first wave of spore sacs began to pour out. They drifted toward Karl-2 like dandelion seeds, thousands upon thousands of them. Each spore sac contained dozens of small Rippers or a few Termagants. Their overall combat strength was not high, but they had one mission: to harass, to provoke, and to leave the Greenskins with no peace.
The first batch of spore sacs landed on a floating scrap base where a group of boyz from the "Taste-Real" Clan were gathered around a massive pot, fighting over "Munzi" stew. It was a five-meter diameter pot filled with a thick, yellow-green sludge that bubbled and hissed, emitting an aroma that made humans gag but drove Orks wild. Dozens of boyz crowded the rim, scooping the sludge out with various containers, shoving and cursing at each other.
The spore sacs slammed into the scrap heaps, ruptured, and out crawled a swarm of creatures barely half a meter long. The bugs scurried everywhere; some were hacked to death by choppas, while others were stuffed into mouths as snacks. These Taste-Real boyz dared to eat anything, and their digestive systems were unnervingly powerful. Other bugs crawled deeper into the station, disappearing into ventilation ducts and crevices in the scrap.
"Wazzat?" an Ork boy chewed on a bug, frowning. "Tastes sharp. Bit sour."
His companion shrugged and continued fighting for the stew. No one took it seriously.
But the second and third waves of spore sacs arrived soon after. The Purple Crystal deployed spores almost twenty-four hours a day without interruption. Each subsequent wave wasn't large—just dozens or a few hundred sacs. Moreover, after every deployment, the ship would change its position, never lingering and giving the Greenskins no chance to track it.
Initially, the Orks were curious. They fought the Termagants and Hormagaunts, caught Rippers to study and play with, and even ate them. Some boyz started competitions to see who could eat the most bugs. But curiosity soon turned to annoyance.
There were too many bugs. They appeared every day, from every corner. You'd be sleeping, and a bug would crawl on your face to bite your nose. Or during a fight, a swarm would land nearby, disrupting the rhythm of the brawl. More irritatingly, while brewing their favorite stew, a bug would fall into the pot and ruin a good batch.
The most frustrating part was that they couldn't find the source. That damned meat-ship moved every time it appeared, hitting and running, impossible to catch. Just as you gathered a mob to hunt it down, it vanished. When you lowered your guard, it reappeared and resumed launching those annoying bugs.
The entirety of Karl-2 was like a beast being constantly poked. It was woken from its slumber, enraged, and driven into a manic frenzy by countless tiny stings. Now it was awake, its blood-red eyes open, swearing to make every intruder pay the price.
The Warboss in charge of Karl-2 was a Big Mek named Ironclaw Chandler. He was a massive Ork, standing over four meters tall. His right arm was not flesh but a set of hydraulic power claws, rumored to be salvaged from a Warhound-class Titan, capable of tearing through the frontal armor of a Leman Russ tank with a single swipe. Thus, he was named Ironclaw.
Chandler stood in the main control chamber of Karl-2, looking at the annoying reports with a grim expression. The hall had been modified into "Ork-style" using scrap. Exposed conduits, flickering lights, and mechanical devices of unknown purpose were everywhere. Several Mekboyz squatted in the corners, hammering away at a humming machine.
"Them bugs... still comin'?" Chandler's voice was a mix of organic and synthesized tones; his level of cybernetic enhancement was high.
"Still comin', Boss," the subordinate replied, shrinking his neck back cautiously. "Every day. Can't catch 'em all. Da boyz is goin' zoggin' mad."
Chandler's iron claw slammed into the console, leaving a deep crater. The hydraulic system emitted a piercing hiss of pressure, making the Mekboyz nearly jump out of their skins.
"Find 'em!" he roared. "Find which git is doin' dis! I'm gonna tear 'em to bits and boil 'em in da stew pot!"
Receiving the order, the various Ork Bosses began setting traps around Karl-2. Mekboyz attached thrusters to asteroids, turning harmless rocks into high-speed "shells." They hid Ram-Ships deep within the asteroid belt, camouflaged with scrap metal.
"I finks da enemies won't see da Ram-Ships dis way!"
They scattered the scrap fleet in ambush along every possible flight path, waiting for the command to surge out and tear into the enemy.
"Let 'em keep comin'," Chandler sneered, his hydraulic metal jaw creaking. "Once dey's here, dey ain't leavin'!"
But strangely, starting two days ago, the bugs suddenly vanished. The spore sacs that had been launching 24/7 never appeared again. The Purple Crystal had seemingly fulfilled its mission and silently retreated into deep space.
The Greenskins waited patiently for two days, but nothing came. "Did we do all dis for nuffin'?" some boyz muttered.
Chandler was also puzzled. But he didn't rescind the orders; he believed that when dealing with prey, one needed a certain amount of patience.
Thus, on the third day, they encountered Luna's fleet.
Deep within the asteroid belt, an Ork ambush force hid in the shadows. Their leader was a Mek named Katchi. This git wasn't particularly big, but his brain worked much better than the average Ork's. He wasn't a Warboss, nor even a Nob, but his ambition was larger than any Warboss's.
He had always wanted to take Chandler's place!
Among the Greenskins of Karl-2, Katchi's status was stuck in an awkward middle ground. He had the skill, the ability, and a mob of boyz willing to follow him. But Chandler was too strong; once that power claw was planted there, no one dared to speak up.
Katchi had been waiting for an opportunity. An opportunity to prove he was stronger than Chandler.
When Luna's fleet appeared within detection range, Katchi's mismatched eyes—one large, one small—lit up.