At the Empire's frontlines, under the command of the Warmaster, mortal regiments stood shoulder to shoulder—rank upon rank of soldiers, forming a living wall against the green tide surging toward them.
The formation was rigid, almost archaic—an inefficient use of their Destroyer-pattern carapace armor's mobility.
But there was no hesitation.
The sole objective of this static line was singular: protect the Warmaster at all costs.
If laying down their lives meant safeguarding the Warmaster of Mankind, not a single Imperial soldier would flinch.
This was faith made flesh—loyalty and honor forged in war.
The Imperial forces had steeled themselves for another brutal engagement against the greenskins. But there was no fear.
After all, they had just survived the unholy wrath of a daemonic crusade. What were xenos brutes compared to the legions of the Warp?
Many among them felt their blood run hot with battle-lust.
A chance to display valor before the supreme Warmaster himself—glory beyond measure.
But the battle... never came.
The Ork horde, having smashed through the remnants of the Chaos host, did not charge the Imperials.
Instead, they halted—then dropped to their knees.
A thunderous, unified "WAAAGH!" erupted from thousands of throats as the Orks pressed their faces to the ground.
The Imperials stood in stunned silence.
Confusion rippled across the lines.
What were the Orks doing?
Even Dukel froze momentarily, watching the vast mass of Orks kneeling before him and bellowing their warcry in what appeared to be... reverence?
He scanned their crude green hides. There were no overlapping wheel sigils—none bore the corrupted marks of Gork.
These were not the servants of Gork.
(T.N: In previous chaps I've translated Ork god's name as Dugo as it was what it appeared to me as and I thought it was an OC. But according to Warhammer cannon Orks have 2 gods Gork and Mork. I've corrected it in this chapter)
And yet... Orks were chaos incarnate—feral, fractious, impossible to truly subdue. Even after absorbing some measure of their Waaagh energy, Dukel had never succeeded in making them submit.
Their defiance was their nature.
Then Dukel's gaze settled on the warboss at their head.
And in that moment, his vision shifted.
Through his psychic senses, he perceived a figure standing just behind the warboss—a figure taller and broader than himself, skin dark as obsidian, eyes glowing like smoldering coals.
"...Vulkan?"
The figure did not reply, only reached out as though to clasp Dukel's hand.
But as the giant's arm extended, it fractured—splintering into motes of light—and the vision vanished, lost in the swirl of the Immaterium.
Yet Dukel did not doubt what he had seen.
It had not been a hallucination.
He smiled, quietly.
His brother—the Lord of the Salamanders—was still fighting.
Just as Dukel battled in the depths of the void, so too did Vulkan wage war in another shadowed corner of the galaxy.
The struggle was far from over—but the flame still burned.
It had been long since they last communicated. Though fragments of their being persisted within the Ork psychic network, they'd severed all ties to avoid alerting the gods of the Waaagh.
But now, the signs were clear.
Vulkan was breaking free.
The decaying faith sustaining the twin Ork gods—Gork and Mork—was failing. Their grip on reality weakening, just as the ancient Aeldari gods had before their fall.
Soon, Vulkan would return to the Imperium.
And with him, the Orks who still carried loyalty in their hearts—untainted by the gods—would also be freed.
This war was long, and bitter. But Dukel knew: his brother fought with him, and that was enough.
Doom approached, his voice sharp with discipline.
"Warmaster. How shall we deal with the Orks?"
On the battlefield, formal address was required. Not even now did Doom call him father.
He remained vigilant, bolter at the ready.
Dukel turned his gaze once more to the kneeling warboss.
"These Orks have pledged fealty. We no longer strike them down. The Imperium will form a new division—Imperial Orks. Should they prove themselves in future wars... and demonstrate the will to abandon their savagery... they will earn a place to live, under the Emperor's light."
Gasps and murmurs passed among the officers.
It was a decision as controversial as it was unprecedented.
Harboring xenos—no matter their allegiance—was heresy in the eyes of many.
And yet... who in the Imperium had not, at times, fought alongside alien mercenaries in desperation?
None among them would risk challenging the Warmaster himself, the mightiest warlord of the Empire.
Especially now, with the Emperor still silent upon the Golden Throne, and none capable of passing judgment upon Dukel.
Among the ranks stood a lone woman—her flak coat marked with the insignia of the Imperial Vox Tribune.
"Reporter," Dukel addressed her, his voice even.
Anna snapped to attention. Her throat tightened as she met the Warmaster's gaze.
"How will you report this?"
"Sir," she said, voice calm despite the pressure, "I will relay the truth to the citizens of the Imperium. That is my duty."
Dukel said nothing—only stared.
Under his gaze, Anna felt her blood chill, her breath shorten.
He wanted more.
"The Warmaster descended upon the battlefield... and the Orks bowed," she said quickly. "A sign of our species' Manifest Destiny."
Dukel nodded.
"That's more objective."
He stepped forward, stopping before the kneeling warboss.
"What is your name, greenskin?"
"Ironarmor," the Ork mumbled, pressing his face deeper into the mud in deference.
"Very well, Ironarmor," Dukel replied. "Tell me—how many gods do the Orks serve?"
"Two."
"A good answer," Dukel said. "What are their names?"
"I... I don't rightly know. We just call 'em Brother Gao and Brother Mao."
Dukel chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"No. You remember wrong."
"The Orks have two gods, yes. But their true names are—Gork and Mork."
"...Huh?" Ironarmor grunted, thoroughly baffled.
After a cordial exchange, the massive Ork Warlord barked orders to his Boyz. They hauled over several heavy crates filled to the brim with teeth—gleaming, sharp, and heavy. This was his tribute to Dukel.
In Ork society, teeth—or teef—serve as currency. The foundation of their crude economy, the value of a tooth depends on its strength, sharpness, and color. The creamier and whiter, the better.
To contribute such a wealth of teef was the highest expression of loyalty Ironarmor could offer.
Ironarmor himself was massive—larger even than an Ogryn, and only a head shorter than Dukel. Among Orks, size equates to power, and power bestows wisdom. The larger the Ork, the smarter and more dominant he becomes.
Yet Ironarmor was... different. He lacked the wild savagery typical of greenskins. His behavior was oddly civilized—more akin to a human warlord than a rampaging beast. He understood social exchange, read expressions, and even showed gratitude.
The officers present—veterans who knew Ork behavior all too well—couldn't hide their surprise.
Dukel, however, wasn't shocked. He had seen the truth behind this greenskin.
Ironarmor bore a grievous wound—half his skull gone, a chunk of his cranium exposed to the air. By all rights, he should have died long ago. Even with Ork resilience, such trauma would be fatal.
But Ironarmor would not die. In fact, he thrived.
He was Vulkan's Chosen—or more precisely, the Chosen of Vulkan within the Ork psychic gestalt. In the real universe, he was Fugo's agent—Gork's divine hand. Given time, Ironarmor would evolve into something rivaling even Bonebreaker Sakara.
Dukel accepted the offering without flinching. He regarded the crates of teef not with disgust, but with quiet approval.
Then his gaze turned toward the Living Saint Xi'rus and the Dark Angels Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai.
Their actions—though never beyond Dukel's control—had led to failure.
This was the first true defeat of the Imperial Fleet under his command.
Now that the battle had ended, the question arose: should punishment be delivered? Not for vengeance, but as justice—an explanation owed to the citizens of the Imperium.
Meanwhile, the modified Thunderhawk gunship hummed softly on the deck, a machine both elegant and lethal. It was designed not just for atmospheric dogfights, but also for rapid orbital deployment.
Tech-priests and Magos clustered around the craft, fine-tuning its systems in preparation for launch.
Anna, a reporter from the Imperialis Vox Tribune, waited anxiously nearby. Every minute spent grounded gnawed at her nerves. Time, to a journalist, is oxygen.
The Warmaster had already returned to the flagship via virtual teleportation, accompanied by the elite Slayers. A tribunal was about to commence—one that would judge both Xi'rus and Asmodai.
From Anna's perspective, the thought of placing these heroes on trial was deeply uncomfortable. In her eyes, both were paragons of Imperial virtue.
But facts remained. This was the Warmaster's first battlefield failure.
And Dukel was not one to overlook accountability, even among his inner circle.
Anna herself was only human—unaugmented, fragile. Virtual teleportation was a marvel that the Astartes could withstand with ease, but for a mortal like her, it would turn her body into pulp.
So she waited inside the Thunderhawk, fingers trembling slightly as the clock ticked onward.
The gunship was fast—thirty minutes to the battleship at full speed. But each second felt like a small eternity.
Then finally, the status light on the lead Magos' console turned green.
"Praise the Omnissiah," the tech-priest intoned. "The Machine Spirit is in harmonious alignment. All systems optimal."
Anna gave a weak smile. "So... everything you've been doing was to cheer up the machine spirit?"
The Magos glanced at her with mild exasperation. "You organics never understand. This Thunderhawk was constructed to bear the Warmaster himself. Now, it carries only you. The Machine Spirit is... insulted. You cannot fathom its indignation."
Anna sighed. There was no point in arguing with a tech-priest whose faith was soldered to every cog in his brain.
She tactfully fell silent.
Two Primaris Astartes flanked her—her escort back to the fleet. Some might think that a journalist's place was behind the lines, carefully writing reports in safety. They were wrong.
Anna had followed the Warmaster into the fire. She had documented the clash of blades and bolters, endured artillery tremors and Ork warcries. Her job was to bear witness, and that meant standing where stories happened—in the warzone.
Still, she was not free to publish as she wished. Without Dukel's explicit approval, the Imperial Press could not release a single word. Countless reports remained classified, buried in vaults. Some would never be read by the public.
Anna understood. The Imperium thrived on order and secrecy. She followed the rules, because doing so was its own kind of honor.
To chronicle war on behalf of the Imperium was sacred.
The pilot completed the last systems check. A moment later, the Thunderhawk's engine thrummed to life. The vibration was subtle—barely perceptible—but Anna felt it all the same.
Details mattered. And this, the low growl of a primed engine, meant they were finally leaving.
Blue-violet thrusters flared, casting the hangar in ethereal glow. The Thunderhawk rose with a hiss of pressure and flame, soaring toward the stars—toward justice, reckoning, and the future of the Imperium.
The pilot shoved the power lever to its limit. The Thunderhawk roared, trailing a plume of white vapor before surging into the sky with savage force.
Through the forward viewport, Anna caught a glimpse of the golden clouds above.
She wasn't a scholar of the warp nor a Magos of the Ordo Astartes, but she understood enough. The Eye of Terror was not meant to shine. It should have been a churning void of despair and darkness, devoid of any light.
Yet that radiant gold was no natural phenomenon. It emanated from the Warmaster's personal banner—an icon of Imperial glory that pierced the gloom, casting light across the wounded planet and into the stars beyond. Even the Warp recoiled before it.
The Thunderhawk climbed higher, slicing through the luminous mist. It weathered flaming storms, acidic clouds, and multicolored warp eddies that twisted around the craft like serpents of unreality.
These were the scars left behind by Chaos.
The ruinous powers had not claimed this world entirely, but their invasion had warped it irrevocably. Though repelled, the daemonic horde had permanently altered the planet's essence.
To truly purge the lingering taint of the Warp would require an exhaustive cleansing campaign—a luxury the Imperium did not have. The Great Crusade ground ever forward, and Vigilus, like many worlds before it, would be left to mend its own wounds.
Victory, Anna knew, did not mean safety. It did not mean salvation.
Even the mighty Adeptus Astartes, paragons of transhuman strength and will, could be corrupted if exposed too long to the Eye of Terror's influence. The Warp did not relent. It waited—patient and insidious.
Anna stared out at the war-torn landscape below with awe, her fingers tightening around the edge of her dataslate.
She had to capture every detail. The citizens of the Imperium needed to understand the true cost of survival. They needed to know what horrors their champions—those few who had risen from the masses—faced on their behalf.
And she would be the one to show them.
...
TN:
Hope you Enjoy~😊
⚔️ Support me on P-com/LordMerlin.
I'm grateful for your support! 🙇 ️
...
Reason for Hiatus:
Hey guys,
It's Merlin here! ✨ This story was put on hiatus for a while because I was bogged down with other projects and real-life issues. 😅 Hopefully, updates will become regular again from now on until the very end.
Thanks so much for your love and support for this story! 💖
...
P.S: This story is already complete on Pat-reon, and you can access all the chapters there! 🚀
Check it out, and I hope you enjoy~ 😊🔥