"WAAAAAGH!"
"WAAAAAGH!"
The air outside the Main Defense Territory was thick with the chanting of a million voices. The Orcs, a green ocean of muscle and fury, stomped their feet in a primal rhythm that shook the very ground. Their roars merged into a single, deafening war drum, a sound that promised nothing but joyful carnage.
The green-skinned army stretched for miles, a sea of gnashing teeth and crude weaponry. At the epicenter, a colossal figure that was more tank than humanoid rested on a throne of tusks and scavenged scrap. This was the Orc Boss. His patchwork armor was a vibrant, lucky red, and his left hand was a giant, crackling power claw. His right arm, meanwhile, was a chaotic mess of two crudely welded firearms, more for show than anything.
"Oi! Da zoggin' shrimpz is crawlin' out! WAAAGH!" A smaller Orc with a pair of pilfered binoculars squealed, pointing a thick finger at the city gates.
"Waaaaaagh!!!!!!!!!!"
The green tide rippled with a furious energy. All they needed was a command, and they would charge. The Orc Boss, a malicious grin splitting his face, held up his power claw for silence.
"Not yet, ya runts! Let all dem shrimpz crawl out first. We wantz a proppa scrap, not a zoggin' chase!"
He knew from a subordinate's report that the humans were at their end. This was their final, desperate stand, and he intended to savor it.
The humans, in stark contrast, were a picture of silent, disciplined rage. Amidst the bloodthirsty chaos of the Orcs' shouts, the Sentinels' heart rates remained as steady as their formations. They marched out of the gates, their pure white armor covered in the grime and scars of a three-year siege. Their eyes, visible through the narrow visors of their helmets, were unblinking, unwavering.
All twenty thousand of them exited the city, a chill radiating from their ranks. They were here to die, but they would do so on their own terms, protecting their people to the very last man.
"Sentinels!" King Nowick's voice boomed, cutting through the din. He raised his sword. "We have two ways to die now! Drowned by the green tide on the city walls, or drowned on the field of attack! Which do you choose?"
"ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK!"
The Sentinels slammed their armored hands against their chest plates, the clang of metal against metal a defiant echo. A warrior's death was in the field, not cowering behind a wall.
"Advance! Humanity Endures!"
With that, the Sentinels charged. Their Guardian Spears, tipped with azure energy blades, blurred as they fired at the oncoming tide. Each beam of light vaporized dozens of Orcs, but the gaps in the green ranks were instantly filled by countless others.
The youngsters on the city walls fired their makeshift guns, their energy beams creating pathetic ripples in the endless sea of green. It was all futile. The Sentinels were a force of pure combat, each a match for a hundred, even a thousand, Orcs. Their spears danced, slicing through bone and sinew, creating mounds of gore at their feet. But even a pure warrior gets tired.
A Sentinel's fluid movements suffered a momentary delay. A hulking Orc seized the chance, tackling him to the ground. The warrior's personal force field glowed blue as the Orc's broken knife scraped across his armor. Calmly, the Sentinel drew his sword, and with a single, elegant sweep of the energy blade, the Orc's head was severed. He kicked his spear back into his hand and rejoined the fray.
But the gaps in the human line were growing. They were being overwhelmed, one warrior at a time. The floating war fortresses above fired their last rounds, their energy conduits glowing hot from constant overuse. It was a drop in the ocean.
In the center of the line, King Nowick and the Grand Swordmaster fought back-to-back, a seamless machine of destruction. "It has been an honor to fight beside you, my friend," Nowick said, taking a moment to wipe the gore from his sword.
Behind them, lightning crackled. The High Priest's eyes glowed with an azure light as he summoned bolts of pure energy, turning swathes of Orcs into ash. He was smiling. Everything was unfolding just as his prophecy foretold. He closed his eyes and saw it—the coming of the Divine Son.
When he reopened his eyes, tears streamed down his pale face. "Sentinels, hold on! We are saved!" he screamed, his voice amplified by his power. "Our savior has descended from beyond the heavens, and he will bring destruction to our enemies!"
He pointed to the sky. A golden star, a shimmering beacon of hope, tore through the atmosphere, a sign of the impossible. The Nur Ring, which had trapped them for so long, had been breached.
The Orc Boss, sensing the humans' renewed fervor, let out a roar of excitement and stormed toward the front lines. He couldn't wait to get in on this final, glorious brawl. He crushed his own men underfoot as he charged, his power claw flexing and unflexing in anticipation.
But as he approached the humans, he noticed something. They weren't looking at him. They were pointing behind him, their faces a mix of terror and elation. He turned.
A fireball was hurtling toward the exact spot where his throne stood. He couldn't understand it. How could a fireball fall from the sky?
WHUMP!
The Primarch's pod slammed into the earth. The sound was deafening, the shockwave a physical force that tore through the landscape. A mushroom cloud blossomed over the Orc army. The Orcs screamed, running in every direction. The Sentinels, bracing themselves on their spears, were pushed back. The High Priest gritted his teeth, his hands outstretched, protecting King Nowick with a shimmering magical shield.
When the dust cleared, the humans struggled to their feet, their eyes wide and horrified.