For most armies, the solution to retreat was simple: if you couldn't take something with you, you destroyed it. A few well-placed explosives ensured that no enemy could use what was left behind. But with orks? That rule broke down. A vehicle wasn't truly destroyed until it was vaporized into nothingness. As long as the wreckage still existed, an ork could find a way to bring it back to life.
That was the problem facing Sir Tigait and Marshmallow Squad now. If they did nothing, the greenskins would soon have over twenty armored vehicles under their control. And if the stories of their mechanical "talents" were true, it wouldn't stop there. They'd learn. They'd adapt. And before long, the front lines would be staring down an entire armored division of crude but deadly ork war machines.
But if they called in a missile strike, what would they even be hitting? Vehicles that had already been scrapped? How much more "destroyed" could they be?
"You don't need to do anything," Zoggit said without hesitation. "Pull back and look for better targets. Over."
"Understood. Coordinates reported, we're moving out."
Zoggit watched their blips shift on his tactical display, then switched to a secure command frequency. "Valyra, get me No. 2 Artillery Base."
"Transferring now."
Miles away, deep beneath a mountain, a red phone rang. The young soldier standing watch nearly jumped out of his skin. That phone was more than a line of communication—it was a legend. In the thousands of years since the base had been constructed, it had never rung. Not once. Generations of the Imperium's most disciplined soldiers had been stationed here, waiting for a moment that never came. They had lived and died guarding this single red phone, never knowing if it would ever be used.
Now, it was.
By the third ring, the soldier had snapped out of his shock and grabbed the receiver. No pleasantries. No wasted words. A low voice on the other end rattled off an access code. The soldier meticulously recorded each number, then punched them into his terminal. "Code confirmed. Orders?"
"Full-area bombardment with cluster incendiary warheads," Zoggit commanded. "Turn that whole sector into an inferno."
"Understood. Coordinates locked. Expect firestorm in five minutes. Advise all ground teams to clear the area."
A new voice cut in over the channel. Valyra. "Zoggit, that's at least a hundred missiles. Why not just use the air force? It'd be more accurate."
"My missile crews have been sitting idle too long," Zoggit replied. "They need the exercise."
Five minutes later, Sir Tigait's voice burst onto the comms, filled with awe. "Throne of Terra, it's raining fire. It's raining fire! The whole place is an inferno! Those orks are burning like grox on a spit—this is incredible! Boss, I think I might be falling in love with you."
Zoggit smirked. "Appreciate it, brother. Now listen up—I've got orders."
The channel quieted instantly. "Boys, we need to slow these bastards down. Every moment we buy is critical. The main force is mobilizing, but setting up proper defenses takes time. Right now, the orks have nothing but open plains ahead of them. If they keep charging forward unchecked, the only thing stopping them will be the sea—and if we let them get that far, we lose everything. Our best bet? Cut off the head. Orks run on brute force and sheer numbers, but their warbands are only as organized as their leader. Kill the boss, and everything falls apart. The second he dies, they'll start infighting—fighting each other, scrambling for dominance, wasting precious time. So here's the plan. If you think you've spotted the warboss, report it immediately. Don't engage alone. Link up with nearby squads and track him. Ork bosses aren't just brutes—they're monsters. If we don't do this right, we'll get slaughtered."
He let that sink in before continuing. "Even if we can't find the boss, we cannot let these greenskins get comfortable. Harass them. Bleed them. Starve them out. Burn everything they could possibly use. If we have to turn Velmorian into scorched earth to slow them down, so be it. If we don't act now, this invasion won't be a battle—it'll be a full-scale collapse. The orks are a virus. Left unchecked, they will spread. We must contain them. I'm en route to the front. We'll fight together. And we'll burn every last greenskin that dares set foot on Reach. In the name of the Emperor, we will finish this."
A unified roar erupted from the comms: "In the name of the Emperor, grant him death!"
Then, silence. The radio fell deathly still, the only sound the faint electronic hum of an open channel. The sun dipped below the horizon, the last golden light swallowed by encroaching darkness.
Inside the shuttle, the soft white cabin lights shifted to a deep crimson, signaling proximity to the drop zone. The pilot's voice crackled through the speakers. "Lord Zoggit, we're at the coordinates."
Zoggit secured his gear, adjusting the straps on his chest rig and double-checking his weapons. Finally, he inspected the parachute pack one last time. Satisfied, he slung it over his back, moved to the open hatch, and without hesitation, leapt into the abyss. The wind roared past him, his silhouette cutting through the dim afterglow of the dying sun. As he plummeted toward the battlefield, he muttered a silent prayer.
"I carry fire to drive away darkness. I carry faith to drive away ignorance. Those who welcome it shall live. Those who reject it shall fall. Death and eternal damnation.
Tremble, my enemies.
For death comes from the sky."
***
Greenskin Warcamp – Zoggit's Stronghold
"Boss! Boss! We's got a problem! A big problem!" Zoggit, the largest and meanest ork in the tribe, barely acknowledged the panicked voice behind him. He was bigger, stronger, and stinkier than any other greenskin under his command. A permanent haze of stench clung to him, the kind of foulness even other orks found unbearable.
Which was saying something.
The boy yelling at him? Didn't matter. His tribe was huge, and he was the most important git in it. He wasn't about to waste time remembering every little runt who ran up screaming. But this particular runt wasn't giving up. "Boss! Are ya deaf?! Why ain't ya answerin'? Somethin' bad's 'appened! Or mebbe ya got too much earwax again?!"
The boy suddenly turned to Zoggit's guards. "Oi! You lot! Why ain't ya helpin'?! Can't ya see the boss got too much earwax? Get in there and clean it out!"
The four burly orks flanking Zoggit glanced at each other before nodding solemnly. Each one unsheathed their cleavers. "You little gits, watch close," one of them said. "Boss's earwax is real tough. Only way ta get it out is by choppin' real hard. If ya ain't got da skill, ya ain't touchin' it."
That was enough to push Zoggit over the edge. He turned, his massive arm swinging in a wide arc. "QUIET!" His fist connected with the loudmouthed ork, sending the poor git flying in a perfect arc through the air. As he tumbled end over end, Zoggit exhaled and shook his head. "Don't panic," he muttered, watching as the boy finally landed with a thud in the dirt. "Look like proper warriors, not sniveling grots." It took a moment before he remembered. "Wait… what was he yellin' about?"