Orks, also known as greenskins, are one of the most belligerent races in the Warhammer 40K universe. Their entire existence revolves around a single, pure concept — fighting.
So long as they are immersed in battle and conflict, Orks derive the greatest possible direct gratification. Furthermore, Orks are born with a collective psychic phenomenon known as the 'WAAAGH!'
The most dominant and powerful individuals — under the influence of the WAAAGH! energy field — will continue to 'atavistically' ascend, inspired by both themselves and the surrounding Orks, growing larger and stronger, ultimately becoming the tribe's leader: the Ork Warboss.
And now, those trembling on the verge of unconsciousness from Nyx's mere presence were the Gretchin — these creatures, little different from goblins, belong to an Ork subspecies typically occupying the lowest rung of Ork society. They are usually employed as labourers, ablative armour, or — for the unlucky — directly used by the Warboss as ammunition.
"No... Don't kill me!"
A Gretchin curled in the corner emitted a piercing shriek.
"Kill you?"
Nyx gazed down. His deep voice echoed through the battle‑barge.
"No. I have no interest in that. Instead, I will... put you to proper use."
Nyx casually flicked the green blood from his hands. He switched communication channels and issued directives to all his sons aboard the vessel:
"All Star Wardens. From this moment, secure the Ork flagship's core. Apprehend every non‑mechanised greenskin specimen. Ensure they are rendered harmless."
After a brief pause, Nyx added:
"The Ork Warboss is mine. I will handle him personally."
Poached. Boiled. Stewed... Various Ork dishes flashed through Nyx's mind.
He could think no further — otherwise, he might immediately select a lucky Gretchin on the spot.
Yes. The objective of this excursion was to procure edible units aboard this Ork battle‑barge. He harboured no mental barriers against consuming greenskins — his years on Nostramo had already acclimated him to every variety of Warhammer cuisine.
Within the Warhammer universe, the sole comestible Nyx found truly unpalatable was corpse‑starch. Greenskins, by contrast, had been on his edible list from the very beginning. Moreover, the essence of greenskins is fungal spores; they are not even animals. Plant a greenskin in the soil, and next year you can harvest a planet of greenskins.
Thus, in Nyx's view, eating greenskins was no different from vegetarianism. He could even assert, with perfect justification, that he was a vegetarian.
Having issued his orders, he ignored the trembling Gretchin and turned to proceed deeper into the battle‑barge's corridors.
Almost simultaneously with his departure, several Star Warden warriors in golden power armour materialised like phantoms, their lenses glowing with subdued crimson radiance, sealing off all avenues of egress. The Gretchin stared at these suddenly manifest 'big uns' and wept with terror.
The interior of the Ork warship was even more brutal than anticipated: corridors were cramped, walls coated in dried dark green blood, the air thick with the reek of grease, fungus, and feral beast. Nyx half‑suspected the damage inflicted by the earlier light lance barrage had actually carved out 'additional space' within this chaotic den.
"WAAAGH!!"
Suddenly, a guttural war cry erupted from a corner ahead. Despite the battle‑barge's severe damage, these greenskins appeared not only fearless but increasingly agitated as combat drew near.
Truly, quintessentially Ork.
Nyx accelerated forward, his form becoming a golden lightning bolt. Within this passageway, his sons were already engaged with the Orks. Dozens of Star Warden warriors wielded power swords, unleashing a torrent of precise, efficient slaughter upon the green tide. Most Orks never even swung their crude metal blades before their weapon‑limbs were sent flying by the hum of energy fields.
Each time a wounded Ork howled, a warrior would immediately materialise, neutralise it, and drag it from the battlefield — the entire operation executed with seamless simplicity.
"Father!"
Upon noting Nyx's approach, the warriors paused in their work and saluted him, their blades still raised. Nyx did not stop. He returned the salute with equal swiftness and plunged deeper into the vessel without hesitation — he could clearly sense the most powerful WAAAGH! energy field ahead.
Thus far, the engagement had been a complete, one‑sided suppression. These Orks appeared to have only recently entered the interstellar age — it was their almost instinctive lust for war that had driven some unknown 'Big Mek' among the greenskins to devise the technology for Warp navigation. They had ranged across the void seeking worthy foes — until they encountered the XI Legion.
For the Orks, this was both fortune and calamity: they had at last found the formidable enemy of their dreams, but the XI Legion was equally determined to prove its worth before Nyx. The Star Wardens already possessed a solid understanding of Ork habits; their current ruthless, efficient purge had completely shattered the remaining morale aboard the entire Ork vessel.
Though Orks delight in combat, they do fear death. Only under the near‑primitive influence of the WAAAGH! energy field are low‑tier Boyz inspired with fanatical courage — or simply cease thinking altogether, becoming war‑machines that obey only command.
Thus, the most effective method of dealing with Orks is to slay the Warboss at the outset. With the leader fallen, the greenskin horde swiftly descends into panic and chaos, following their instincts to turn on one another in internecine conflict — until the most brutal and powerful among them emerges victorious as the new leader.
Nyx recalled this facet of Ork behaviour. At this moment, he had arrived at the epicentre of the violently pulsing WAAAGH! energy field.
Before him loomed a bulkhead, covered in crude graffiti and rust. The roars and vibrations from beyond were almost tangible. He did not pause. He raised his leg and kicked — hard.
With a thunderous crash, the entire metal wall collapsed inward. Nyx stepped over the twisted rebar and entered the Ork battle‑barge's bridge — the Warboss's sanctum — in the crudest manner possible.
His gaze fell upon the towering figure enthroned at the chamber's centre.
Deep green hide. A formidable physique nearly three metres tall. And — what gratified Nyx most — almost no visible mechanisation.
Warboss‑calibre Ork leaders frequently 'upgrade' their bodies through countless battles. When a Nob loses a limb or sustains grievous injury, they invariably jury‑rig a mass of riveted metal and exposed piping to serve as a so‑called 'sturdy' prosthesis. These devices are powered entirely by Ork 'belief' and contain not a single scientific element.
The specimen before him had preserved an almost completely pristine, unmodified state. Pure. Unblemished. A true rarity in Ork society.
In this moment, Nyx suddenly understood Khorne's obsession.
My boy. This greenskin wants to come home with me!