The Boyz preferred to call it the "Gluttony Throne."
It was a marching pot over ten meters in diameter, forged from several-centimeter-thick adamantium and welded onto a heavy four-legged mecha. Inside, a full pot of stew bubbled and hissed, the brown broth roiling and emitting a thick, savory aroma of meat and spices. A dozen nimble Gretchins scrambled up and down the mecha, taking turns using giant copper ladles to scoop up the stew. Once it cooled slightly, they poured it into Ragnar's perpetually open, massive mouth.
Ragnar sat directly behind the giant pot, forever guarding this vessel of his most delicious creation. He was a meatball in every sense of the word—four meters tall and nearly four meters wide. Thick layers of fat bulged out of his armor, and his oily, glistening belly hung down to his knees. Yagg estimated it had been a long time since the Warboss had actually seen his own feet.
On his head sat a grease-stained Viking-style horned helmet. Beneath the brim were small, fierce eyes, and several drops of stew broth clung to his chin. He ate from dawn until dusk.
Yagg stood in the hall for a full half-hour, and Ragnar's mouth never stopped moving. Ladle after ladle of stew was poured down his throat; even chewing seemed redundant. Yet, despite looking like a fat man who only knew how to eat, he radiated a suffocating sense of pressure. It was the aura of a tyrant built upon a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood—one who had experienced thousands of battles and consumed countless enemies. He felt more massive than Chandler in his Gargant and more volatile than the psychically surging Siss.
Yagg's legs shook uncontrollably, nearly giving way. The Hokage Boyz behind him were in even worse shape, heads bowed, not daring to breathe.
"Taste'z good!"
Ragnar finally swallowed a massive ladle of stew and let out a burp so powerful it shook dust from the ceiling. He looked up, his small eyes scanning Yagg's group, his voice echoing through the hall like muffled thunder.
"Speak. Which clan are ya? An' wot really happened on Karl-2?"
Yagg's heart skipped a beat. Something's wrong. Why did he ask for the clan first? Shouldn't he have asked about the battle for Karl-2? A terrifying thought flashed through his mind: Does he already know about the Hokage Clan?
His back was instantly drenched in cold sweat. Forcing himself to remain steady, Yagg bowed deeply, his voice carrying just the right amount of tremor. "B-Boss! We're from the Blood Axe Clan!"
"We were fightin' on the edge of the space station when we heard about Boss Siss and Boss Chandler goin' at it. Word was, Siss suspected Chandler was plannin' to rebel against ya, so he built his own mob. Chandler decided Siss was tryin' to take the throne, so they started krumpin'. Lots of Boyz died on both sides!"
"In the end, them sneaky Humies took the chance to attack Karl-2. Boss Siss and Boss Chandler are both gone! We fought hard to get out just to tell ya—Karl-2 is gone."
A mix of half-truths was always the most believable. Aside from hiding his true identity and the fact that he was the one who instigated the conflict, everything else was a fact. Yagg kept his head down, not daring to meet Ragnar's gaze, his heart pounding like a drum.
"How'd Siss and Chandler die?" Ragnar asked after a moment.
"I... I don't know..." Yagg stammered.
The existence of Sarah was indeed a bit too far-fetched. Who would believe that two powerful Greenskin Warbosses were killed by an unidentified insect? Besides, those events happened in the Core Sector, which didn't fit the "low-level frontline soldier" persona Yagg had adopted for himself. Claiming ignorance was a more logical choice.
The hall fell silent. All the noise vanished, leaving only the sound of the stew bubbling in the giant pot. Ragnar stopped eating. He squinted his small eyes, staring intently at Yagg. The heavy pressure felt like a mountain pinning Yagg down, making it difficult even to breathe.
After a full minute, Ragnar finally spoke, his voice unreadable. "I got it. Some of ya, take 'em to get some grub and find a place for 'em to stay."
"Yes, Boss!" a nearby Bad Moons Boy grunted, waving a hand at Yagg. "Follow me."
Feeling as if he had received a divine pardon, Yagg hurriedly led his men out of the hall as if escaping. Only when they were outside the palace, breathing the fresh air, did his legs turn to jelly. He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath. Those ten minutes were more harrowing than any battle he had ever experienced.
As soon as Yagg left, a shifty-looking Gretchin scurried up the mecha and whispered into Ragnar's ear. "Boss, there's sumfin' wrong wiv dat lot! Blood Axe Boyz ain't never dat helpful without wantin' a trade for info. An' they smell weird—definitely don't smell like Blood Axes!"
Ragnar picked up a whole roasted Squig and took a massive bite, grease dripping down his chin. He spoke through a mouthful of meat. "Shuddup. 'Course I know sumfin' is wrong. They don't smell like any clan."
"Then why didn't ya krump 'em and ask questions?" the Grot asked, confused.
"Krumpin' is borin'," Ragnar grinned, revealing a row of yellow tusks. "An' he wasn't really lyin' to me. Keepin' 'em around might be useful."
He scratched his massive belly, a sharp glint flickering in his eyes. Combined with the psychic warning Siss had sent out a while back, the news of Karl-2's fall was undoubtedly true.
"Hokage Clan..." Ragnar muttered the name quietly. "Interestin'." He suddenly threw the Squig bone onto the floor and roared toward the entrance.
"Pass the word! All the Boyz who can fight, get ready! Tomorrow mornin', we head for Karl-2!"
"I'm gonna see wot's goin' on wiv me own eyes, then I'm gonna chop them Humies into mince and boil 'em into stew!"
"WAAAAGH!!!"
The entire palace erupted instantly. Countless Greenskin Boyz raised their weapons in joy, letting out excited roars. The fanatical "Waaagh!" field intensified the green hue of the entire planet.
At dawn the next day, a Greenskin fleet that blotted out the sun had assembled in Dorido's orbit. Thousands of scrap-metal ships of all shapes and sizes were packed together—massive hollowed-out asteroids, small and agile fighters, and various warships warped into bizarre forms by the power of "I fink it works."
Though every ship was ramshackle and spewing black smoke, their sheer momentum and reckless aura were enough to make any Imperial fleet think twice. At Ragnar's command, countless engines roared at once, belching thick black exhaust. The massive Greenskin fleet departed Dorido's orbit, sailing majestically toward Karl-2.
At the exact moment the Greenskin fleet set out, space began to twist and churn violently in a desolate, uninhabited sector on the edge of the Calixis system.
A massive warp rift, radiating an ominous light, tore through the darkness of the universe. Viscous chaos energy surged from the fissure, corroding everything in its path. Several giant Space Hulks, which had drifted in the void for millennia, slowly emerged from the rift. Their hulls were decayed and overgrown with thick layers of what looked like heavy mold. Even in the vacuum of space, they seemed to exude a palpable stench.
They did not linger. After exiting the Immaterium, they immediately adjusted their course and headed straight toward Brevis. A grand plague was about to shroud the entire system.
Meanwhile, on Brevis, inside the underground command center of the Governor's Palace.
Raynor stood before a star map, watching the flickering points of light. A pink Ripper sat perched on his shoulder, its small head nodding rhythmically.
"Raynor, we have news," Sarah's voice echoed in his mind, tinged with gravity. "The half-insect Orks embedded within the Hokage remnants report that Ragnar has mobilized a massive force. Approximately several hundred million Greenskins aboard over a hundred warships set sail from Dorido yesterday morning. Their target is Karl-2."
Raynor tapped the star map, and the location of Karl-2 lit up with a red marker.
"Over a hundred warships? That's more than I anticipated," Raynor said softly. "Is Ragnar truly this impulsive?"
Raynor frowned. He hadn't expected Ragnar to act so recklessly, though it certainly fit the Greenskin style. However, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. His original plan involved using the swarm to pose as a Tyranid vanguard to force Dominic into cooperation. Now, it seemed that wouldn't be necessary. Ragnar's fleet could be used to test Dominic's stance.
"Sarah, have the swarm pause their current actions," Raynor said decisively. "Keep all Tyranid units hidden, just as they usually are."
"Understood," Sarah nodded. "What about Dominic?"
"I'll pay him a visit personally," Raynor smiled faintly. "I want to see what choice this noble Major General from Ventria will make."
In the guest house near the starport.
Dominic sat at his desk, leafing through the thick stack of reports sent back by his three teams of investigators. He had lived here for five full days. During this time, he spent the majority of his hours learning about Raynor. He waited patiently for the results, wanting to verify for himself whether this "God-Chosen" was truly worthy of his reputation.
He first opened the report from the Under-city. It was filled with praise for Raynor from the commoners. Almost every person surveyed had eyes that lit up at the mention of the name "Governor Raynor."
"Lord Raynor is a good man. If not for him, my family would have starved long ago."
"My son serves in the Vanguard. The grain he sends back every month is enough to keep five of us alive."
"The previous governors didn't care if we lived or died. Only Lord Raynor gives us food, finds us work, and drove off the Greenskins!"
"He is an angel sent by the Emperor to save us!"
"Even the Wildmen on the ice plains are willing to work for Lord Raynor. They used to come here to raid, but now they've gone to fight the Orks!"
The report included detailed statistics. In the six months since Raynor took office, the Vanguard had recruited twenty-three million people. While this number wasn't huge compared to the nearly ten billion residents of the Under-city, the fixed wages supported nearly a hundred million people. Furthermore, Raynor frequently extracted food from the nobles to distribute to the citizens under various pretexts. Although it only reduced the mortality rate by less than five percent, Raynor had given them the one thing they needed most: hope.
To ensure the authenticity, Dominic even personally questioned a few Under-city residents. They looked no different from the downtrodden masses of any other hive city, but their eyes were no longer entirely numb. Even a fleeting spark of vitality was enough to shock Dominic. Brevis truly seemed different.
Next was the report from the Mid-city. The labor union leaders and workers held Raynor in similarly high regard.
"The nobles used to monopolize all the grain. Our factories were on the verge of closing because we couldn't feed the workers."
"Lord Raynor gave us the equipment orders for the Vanguard and provided us with food!"
"Now our factories run twenty-four hours a day, and the workers can finally eat their fill!"
"Lord Raynor isn't just a good governor; he's a brilliant military strategist. He led us to defeat the Greenskins and protected our homes. We're all willing to follow him."
Data showed that industrial output in the Mid-city had increased by eighty-one percent compared to before Raynor took office, and the unions' productivity had surged by a full three hundred percent.
Finally, there was the report from the Upper-city. In stark contrast to the overwhelming praise from the Under and Mid-cities, the nobles of the Upper-city offered nothing but curses and accusations.
"Raynor is a goddamn tyrant through and through!"
"He forcibly requisitioned our grain and seized our factories to turn them into public property. It's utter lawlessness!"
"He has no respect for noble dignity. Those dregs actually dare to walk all over us now, and it's all because he permits it!"
"God-Chosen? It's all a lie. He's just a pretty boy who used a woman to climb to power."
"A vulgar barbarian with no sense of noble grace or rules."
The report listed Raynor's various "infringements" on noble interests: cracking down on grain monopolies, confiscating private armies, reforming the "tax" system, and restricting noble privileges. Every single point struck a nerve.
Dominic put down the report and couldn't help but laugh. Based on his understanding of Imperial nobility, a governor's quality was never judged by whether he improved the lives of the commoners. It was judged by whether he maintained noble interests. As long as they could exploit the masses in peace, even a degenerate fool of a governor would be called a "wise monarch." Conversely, if anyone touched their interests, no matter how well the planet was governed, they would be labeled an "unpardonable tyrant."
The commoners' evaluation was exactly the opposite. Therefore, a conclusion could be drawn: The harder the commoners cursed, the worse the governor was. The harder the nobles cursed, the better the governor was.
It appeared that Raynor was indeed a rare, good governor. In this dark and decaying 41st millennium, there was actually someone willing to stand with the common people and offend the entire noble class for their sake. Such a person, even if not a God-Chosen, could be called a saint.
Dominic stood up and walked to the window, gazing down at the blue-gray planet below. He had made his decision. However, there was still one thing he hadn't figured out.
What exactly was the "Frost Dragon" mentioned in the local rumors?