With a thin atmosphere containing very few physical particles, kinetic shockwaves decayed with extreme speed; yet this environment possessed its own unique mechanics.
Within the lower atmospheric strata, air circulation moved at a painfully sluggish pace, lingering almost static in the same place.
On Planet Three, the Orks relied on cellular photosynthesis to sustain their vital functions, requiring no breathing apparatus whatsoever; other air-breathing species, if unprotected, were forced to rely on life-support systems.
A world with a razor-thin atmosphere, however, offered incredible advantages for thermal warfare.
Lacking a fully formed, dynamic atmosphere, there were no natural wind currents to sweep away excess thermal energy.
As the micro-fusion missiles detonated, high-velocity ions generated by nuclear fusion burst outward in all directions!
Without atmospheric drag or compression resistance, they did not expand into standard fireballs as they would within a dense atmosphere; instead, they bloomed outward like a directional jet of rarefied plasma clouds.
The deep mountain trenches served as flawless conduits, guiding the high-radiation thermal particles down their corridors to forge a sprawling, superheated zone.
Viewed from high orbit, the winding canyons across the mountain range lit up in a hazy, orange-yellow glow—a vivid stream of liquid fire creeping down the contours of the landscape like a glowing neural network.
Gorgeous, awe-inspiring. Thermal radiation gas clouds expanded for thousands of kilometers, carving a breathtaking display across the world.
"A pity..."
Inside the fortress command center, Blazkowicz perused the casualties estimated by the AI, feeling that the result fell slightly short of total perfection.
A million greenskins annihilated in the thermal radiation sweep was indeed an impressive feat, yet it remained below his maximum projection—though it was well within expected parameters.
The twisting canyons between the mountain ranges had directed the flow of the thermal plasma cloud, vaporizing millions of greenskins.
The advantage of the canyons: they funneled the thermal gas cloud, multiplying its lethal density. The restriction of the canyons: their excessively sharp bends severely bled off the forward momentum of the roaring gas cloud.
According to Blazkowicz's calculations, under ideal conditions, the gas cloud should have swept forward for over a hundred kilometers.
He had still slightly underestimated the internal friction created by the rugged, fractured canyon geography.
Looked down upon from low orbit, the gorges ran through the mountains like chaotic, tangled fungal threads, their granular vectors difficult to discern with the naked eye.
Though it left something to be desired, a kill radius slightly beneath the ideal target was still well above a passing grade.
It had successfully blunted the brute advance of the greenskin host, buying vital time to complete the citadel's final defensive layout and achieving its primary strategic objective.
Constrained by the planet's gravitational pull, the thermal radiation clouds lingering within the canyons would retain their extreme temperatures for some time, acting as a fiery barrier against the ground forces of the Orks until they cooled.
Blazkowicz pondered for a moment, then shifted his focus back to global coordination.
The proactive sortie from the fortress had caught the Orks flat-footed; he had to capitalize on every second bought by this strike to solidify the base's defensive perimeter.
The Orks' orbital drops continued unabated. As greenskin troop density mounted exponentially, their Waaagh! field grew increasingly volatile, causing the very air to vibrate with visible waves of green light.
As Warbosses landed one after another, the ten-hundred-million-strong Ork horde grew progressively more berserk. Bound together by the shared drive of their collective belief, the Ork boyz were physically swelling in both size and strength.
Furthermore, the Orks had already initiated industrial assembly.
The battle on this world was bound to prove exceptionally arduous.
Ork Mekboyz were salvaging the wreckage of crashed scrap-ships, establishing ground-level industrial complexes under the direction of Big Meks to forge weapons directly from local mineral deposits.
Smoke-belching industrial foundries hummed at a feverish pace. Meanwhile, the dead Orks who had perished during the drop-landings were already generating fresh spores, with a new crop of Grots fast approaching maturity.
It was as if this entire dead planet had burst into chaotic noise overnight.
Every corner of the world echoed with the savage, primitive roars of "Waaagh!"
A scene of bursting vitality, where a million things vied for dominance, unfolded right before his eyes.
Across the barren wastes, majestic mountain ranges, and forests of rock pillars, green figures swarmed everywhere. Small streams coalesced into raging rivers, surging noisily toward the human fortress.
The enraged Waaagh! field provided the Orks with a singular target for vengeance, unifying them to a degree never seen before.
The challenge Blazkowicz faced was to use a single fortress base to withstand an unmeasurable greenskin tide.
Five hundred Doom Marines, three million auxiliary troops, and a contingent of Iron Men were about to throw themselves against a sky-blotting sea of green.
---
Hundreds of kilometers away from the base, beyond the mountain range, anti-grav bikes continued their mad dash.
Having completed their target-designation mission for the missile strike, the Doom Marines regrouped into fifteen-man assault squads, sweeping toward the Ork industrial sectors in the rear.
BOOM—!
Skimming low to the ground, the anti-gravity vehicles bypassed Ork radar arrays entirely. By the time the greenskins realized what was happening, the scrap-barricades surrounding the industrial site had already been breached.
In the first second: Flying fragments of scrap metal rained through the air.
The Doom Marines poured through the gap, leaping clear of their transports with dimensional lances blazing and composite shoulder cannons cycling online.
Like phantoms beneath the dark sky, they left behind trails of brilliant blue weapon light, methodically liquidating the stunned Orks before them.
Radiant blue light flickered into hyper-speed illusions. A skilled warrior could exploit the exact microsecond of a dimensional beam discharge to sweep a hundred-meter arc clean ahead of him.
In the second second: The Orks finally processed the threat, their muscles barely beginning to twitch into action.
Crack-snap! Composite shoulder cannons discharged as the arc-casters built into the new power armor fired beams of high-energy plasma, reducing Orks to molecular ash as the electricity chained instantly to the next target.
Every single arc of lightning brought down dozens of Orks.
The arc-caster was a collaborative creation of the Stone Men artisans, explicitly designed to allow fierce warriors like the Doom Marines to clear chaff units with maximum efficiency.
Before the first felled Ork could even hit the dirt—before its lingering consciousness had even dissipated—the death of thousands of its brethren had already followed in quick succession.
In the third second: The green brains of the Orks finally grasped what was taking place.
Yet an even more savage wave of firepower had already descended, tearing their bodies into red shreds.
The Doom Marines executed tactical dismounts while the automated control systems took over the anti-grav bikes and speeder gunships, hovering dozens of meters overhead to pour a relentless stream of heavy ordnance down upon the industrial complex.
Steel girders snapped and heavy metal plates collapsed; the Ork industrial center devolved into an absolute abattoir.
The Orks were reduced to lambs for the slaughter—aware that they were under attack, yet entirely incapable of mounting a coherent defense.
Relying on nanosecond-level neural reflexes paired with microsecond-level muscle coordination, the combat capability of the Doom Marines defied physical logic.
Their killing was simple, clean, and terrifyingly efficient. Telepathic battle-links bound the warriors together as a single entity—a flawlessly meshed machine of war executing synchronized attacks without a single blind spot.
Not a single vector of attack contained any redundant motion; every warrior's back was guarded by a brother.
Thirty seconds from the start of the assault: Deep within the fledgling Ork industrial complex, the Legionaries reached the ship's fusion reactor core, inputting an immediate overload sequence.
By the time the anti-grav vehicles powered up to leave, the industrial site was littered with shredded Ork limbs, echoing with the final countdown of an overcharged plasma engine.
One minute. From initial contact to the mushroom cloud rising over the shattered facility, the Sons of Blazkowicz needed only a single minute!
Across the barren wastes, such scenes played out repeatedly.
Twenty strike squads fanned out in all directions, relentlessly raiding critical Ork strongpoints, demolishing fallen scrap-ships, and systematically dismantling the greenskins' industrial foundation.
They waged guerrilla warfare—striking hard, disengaging instantly, and operating without a shred of predictable pattern.
Avoiding strength to strike at weakness, they inflicted maximum destruction before the Orks could secure a firm foothold.
At the sixth hour after orbital drop-down, a massive artillery turret mounted on the citadel let out a deafening roar!
A beam of radiant blue light streaked across the blue-violet sky as an oversized projectile, traveling at thirty percent the speed of light, vaporized a descending scrap-ship charging headlong toward the base.
The scrap warship was instantly reduced to space dust, posing no threat whatsoever to the base.
It was a declaration: the Orks' offensive had officially begun!
Outside the fortress, across the adamantium basin, the heavy cutting machinery withdrew, leaving behind a crisscrossing, labyrinthine grid of deep trenches.
The adamantium trenches were extraordinarily intricate, all ultimately converging at the foot of the half-sheared mountain peak beneath the fortress's foundation.
"Khehehe!"
A malicious, guttural laugh echoed across the mountain peaks bordering the basin. Ironfist Saro had finally arrived. Striding back and forth along the prow of his airship, he flashed a maw of jagged, foul-smelling, rotten teeth.
Without using a loud-vox array, he relied purely on his raw, physical strength to send vibrations hummed through the thin atmosphere, projecting an aura of terrifying vitality.
Ironfist had grown even taller.
The ambient Waaagh! field fed him continuous power, stretching his seven-meter frame even higher and making his presence significantly more daunting.
"HUMIE!" The Ork Boss raised his massive iron fist high. "I brought da boyz to find ya!"
Beneath the airship, the entire mountain mass vibrated, shaking loose cascades of weathered gravel.
Two gigantic scrap-idols—the physical avatars of Gork and Mork—grinded forward on massive tracks to take their place at the mountain summit amid the roaring cheers of a million-strong host.
"Stompas"—or rather, full-scale Gargants—the Orks' supreme Titan-class warmachines.
They were the biggest, baddest, meanest, and most brutal manifestations of Gork and Mork, who were "brutal but kunnin', and kunnin' but brutal."
Gork was kunnin' yet brutal; Mork was brutal yet kunnin'.
Cobbled together from mismatched steel plates, they appeared crude and ramshackle, their thick, rough welds oozing cheap construction—yet they held a terrifying, alien majesty all their own.
A Gargant's torso was broad at the base and narrow at the top, resembling an inverted bucket riding atop heavy-duty crawler tracks.
The bucket-like hulls were painted dark red, while stubby, thick arms mounted on either side carried the savage heavy weaponry of the greenskins.
The topmost platform served as the sacred gaze of Gork and Mork themselves.
Gork's head glared with vicious intensity, a cunning smirk twisting his roaring maw; Mork's eyes glittered with sly malice, paired with a sheer, bloodthirsty grin.
The two colossal Gargants loomed over the mountain peak. With the star behind them, they cast long, icy shadows that stretched across the basin, completely blanketing the human fortress in darkness.
Behind them, the rumbling did not cease; instead, it grew progressively heavier.
All manner of Ork combat vehicles surged over the mountain crest under the setting rays of the local star, pouring out from the valleys like a roaring river of iron and scrap.
The Ork vanguard had arrived!
Over this dead world, the low-hanging sunlight illuminated what appeared to be a horizon of burning clouds—the sky-blotting swarm of the Orks' dark-red airborne craft.
On the ground, the greenskin horde spilled out endlessly, painting the mottled, black-gold ground with a thick layer of sickly green moss.
It was a horrific spectacle—one that would have caused any ordinary mortal to faint dead away from sheer terror!
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Aboard his airship, Saro raised his iron fist and let out a savage roar. His eyes burned as he glared down at the humie citadel, his tongue licking his lips with bloodthirsty anticipation.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The green horde erupted in a deafening response to their Boss, their collective bellow proving louder than thunder and more violent than a crashing ocean tide.
They twitched with restless energy, their eyes burning with manic bloodlust as they waited for their Boss to give the word to charge down and tear the humie stronghold apart!
That fortress radiated an ominous, repulsive aura. The Waaagh! energy loathed the place, causing the sacred gaze of Gork and Mork to turn away in disgust.
---
Blazkowicz stood atop the adamantium battlements, resting his hands on the parapet. He scanned the vast Ork horde, raising a thoughtful eyebrow.
There were so many Orks.
Their weapons were crude scrap, but their sheer numbers were staggering.
Titan-class units like Gargants and Stompas—ranging from small to colossal—numbered over a hundred within line of sight alone, while the thick smoke billowing in the distance indicated many more beyond the horizon.
Countless shaky, mismatched ground buggies and air vehicles numbered in the tens of thousands, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Having assessed the battlefield, Blazkowicz remained silent.
Facing a sea of greenskins, he slowly raised his right hand toward the Ork Boss aboard the airship—and flipped him a single middle finger once again.
"ROAR!!!"
Furious roars erupted below, yet a gleam of delight flashed in Saro's eyes as he let out a boom of genuine amusement. "I KNOWED YOU'D DO DAT!"
He promptly raised his own massive iron fist, extending a middle finger right back at the humie as a return gesture.
Though he didn't fully grasp the exact cultural nuance, Saro was determined not to lose face in any exchange. With a heavy thud, he hauled down on a massive lever aboard the deck.
To Blazkowicz's utter astonishment, a hundred-meter-tall mechanical Ork arm slowly raised up behind the airship, its single middle finger standing tall against the setting sun.
The massive shadow cast by the giant middle finger seemed to mock his pathetic weakness.
"Pfft~"
Standing beside Blazkowicz, the recently returned Astelan couldn't hold it in. A burst of heat surged into his chest, leaking from the corner of his mouth before he forcibly bit it back.
"My apologies. I've had centuries of professional training; I rarely laugh—unless I can't help it."
He gave his power lance a quick flick, swiftly suppressing his chuckles. Glancing at the smug Ork Boss standing on the airship deck, his tone turned wryly amused: "Almost cute, isn't he?"
"Hmph," Blazkowicz scoffed, slowly lowering his arm. "Cute indeed. Though it won't be long before he learns what true cruelty feels like."
With that, he let out a bellowing roar toward the Ork Boss: "Ironfist Saro! Are you ready to become my latest trophy?!"
The low roar echoed like a war drum across the entire adamantium basin—deafening, resonant, and so crystal-clear that every creature on the field heard it explicitly.
Aboard the scrap airship, Saro—who had just been gloating over defeating the big humie with a superior gesture—instantly froze. His smugness vanished, replaced by a flush of uncontainable rage.
He couldn't talk back, because the big humie held the tooth of an Ancient.
The big humie had slain a greenskin warrior of legendary power—that was an undeniable fact.
Saro's sharp mind knew that he himself was exceptionally strong.
Yet judging by the aura and sheer length of that tooth, the Ork who had owned it possessed power far surpassing his own or any other Boss here—power that even the Overboss, Big Tooth Grom, could not match.
"ATTACK!"
He yanked his middle finger back and, with a cunning glint in his eye, waved his massive hand to order the charge.
The big humie had issued a challenge, but he hadn't specified the rules of engagement!
Gork and Mork were going to love this duel: the human and his warriors against every single Ork on the planet!
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The moment the boyz heard the order, their uncontainable killing intent broke its chains. Blood surged into their crimson eyes as they roared, spilling out of their formations in a desperate scramble to be first into the fray.
Brandishing rusty choppas and shootas, they sprinted on their stubby legs, plunging straight into the adamantium basin.
---
Blazkowicz cast one final glance at the Ork Boss before casually stepping down from the battlements.
A mere appetizer—not worth his continued attention.
The fortress was rock-solid; it was not something a green tide of this scale could shake. True battle was still a long way off.
Only one Ork Boss had arrived so far; many more were still en route. The curtain on this war had only just been raised.
What awaited them in the defensive trenches would give the Orks more than enough headaches.
The fortress held its fire, allowing the Orks to charge unhindered into the vast network of trenches.
The crisscrossing maze of trenches had rendered the basin entirely unsuitable for armored thrusts, turning it into a man-made death trap!
The Ork boyz shrieked in excitement. Unable to comprehend the winding layout of the labyrinth, they chose simply to leap headfirst into the trenches.
Splash! Splash! Splash!
Sound after sound of plunging bodies echoed out. A layer of clear water covered the bottom of the trenches, gleaming with a faint, dark luster—looking entirely crisp, clear, and harmless.
The Orks naturally paid no mind to clear water, leaping into the trenches without a second thought and sending up sprays of shimmering droplets.
"Ugh..."
Down in the trenches, the Ork boyz suddenly felt a burning dryness in their throats. Cupping the clear water in their hands, they gulped it down greedily.
Immediately, their eyes bulged from their sockets. Their muscular green bodies withered at a terrifying speed; clutching their throats, they collapsed into the sweet, crystal-clear water.
Within seconds, their dry, greyish husks crumbled into ash, clouding the clear water into a murky blackish-grey.
[Activate Fluid Pumps]
Inside the citadel command center, a pre-set automated protocol triggered. At the primary drainage junction beneath the fortress foundation, giant fluid pumps began to turn.
Compression forcefields activated, driving the liquid through the adamantium trench network.
That "clear water" was none other than the Thirst Water Blazkowicz had harvested from Baal Secundus—the homeworld of Sanguinius.
Enhanced by mysterious technology, this Thirst Water did not merely dehydrate biological organisms instantly; the suspended nanites within it actively broken down physical matter.
Driven by the forcefield pumps, the circulating Thirst Water carried a continuous stream of organic matter back into the material conversion arrays, extracting raw war materials from the slain.
Blazkowicz had prepared thoroughly for a siege of attrition.
He had literally converted the greenskins into raw supplies to sustain his war machine, ensuring that even without orbital supply drops, the fortress's combat endurance would never decay.
As the Thirst Water circulated, the molecular components of the Ork bodies were swept away, ultimately returning to the base beneath the citadel.
There, the nanobots decoupled, delivering their harvested matter to the filtration sorters before diving back into the Thirst Water to begin the cycle anew.
War is like a lone spark: it ignites the hatred two species hold for one another, eventually burning everything to ash.
The prelude to war is often struck with reckless ease, yet it is destined to end only in the absolute annihilation of one side.
Within this unnamed star system, the third planet orbiting its star trembled beneath the violent fires of conflict.
Within the atmosphere, roars of "Waaagh!" echoed without pause—a perpetual, unchanging melody.
The sky burned as an endless parade of ramshackle Ork warships plummeted in flames, sending seismic waves rippling through every inch of the soil.
This barren planet, inundated by a massive influx of off-world life, grew boisterously loud, giving rise to a strange, twisted sort of prosperity.
The heavy, chaotic tread of Ork boots rolled forward like deep thunder.
It was an extraordinarily terrifying march. Setting aside their frantic squabbling and internal feuds, the Ork boyz drove Grots and Squigs ahead of them, advancing steadily toward the human citadel.
They felt the call of their Ancients. That single tooth and skull bore the deep humiliation of the Ork race—a insult that could only be cleansed in the blood of the one who held them.
At the fortress base, defensive array after defensive array powered online. Radiating blue light, heavy electromagnetic rail cannons fired continuously, systematically shooting down all manner of crude Ork aircraft.
Beyond the overlapping void shields, falling stars rained down across the burning sky, their burning descent alternately illuminating and casting dark shadows across the terrain below.
A light, misty rain began to fall, slicking down the muscled backs of the Orks.
Beneath the hazy, twilight sky where light and shadow intertwined, pairs of blood-red eyes glittered with feverish, bloodthirsty intent along the borders where the adamantium basin met the mountains.
This planet should not have had rain. The emergence of rainfall was the overture to life, the hallmark of a maturing climate system.
Though the drizzle was faint, it was indisputably happening.
Falling warships and rising Ork foundries poured energy and heat into the biosphere, gradually reshaping the planet's climate. Meanwhile, alien fungi and Ork spores seeded the world with new life.
Absorbing the radiance of the local star, the Orks drew energy via photosynthesis to sustain themselves, exhaling gas to drive a planetary bio-cycle.
Much like the cyanobacteria of ancient Terra, they were generating vast quantities of oxygen, pumping it directly into the thin atmosphere.
It was an undeniable truth: the warrior species created by the Old Ones was unconsciously terraforming an entire world.
---
Beneath the curtain of night and rain, the Ork offensive proceeded without a moment's pause.
Inside the trenches, turbulent waters rushed continuously, creating an impassable natural barrier before the greenskin host.
"You boyz and Grots, move it! Stop slacking off!"
Through the rising mist, hoarse, booming roars echoed without end, spurring the Ork boyz and Grot laborers into frantic action.
The light drizzle mixed with their sweat as the Orks mined the mountainsides, piling massive rocks along the edges of the trenches.
Rallying behind their Boss's harsh encouragement, the boyz worked with fanatical vigor. Sweat and rainwater streamed down their hides as they fantasized about tearing human limbs apart.
Saro watched the hive of activity with a cruel smirk creeping across his mouth.
He intended to use soil, rock, and mineral sand to choke those deadly trenches to death.
The earlier charge had cost him over a million loyal boyz. It had forced him to realize one painful truth: relying purely on flesh and blood to pave an attack route was an absolute impossibility.
That bizarre water devoured everything.
And those damned big humies were hiding inside their tortoise shell, showing zero intention of stepping out to face him in proper combat.
"PUSH IT IN!"
A hulking Nob roared, swinging his overseer's whip to lash a Grot's back raw. "Fill da ditch with rocks! Pave a bloody road for da charge!"
At the same time, Gargants ground their crawler tracks forward, using front-mounted shovel scoops to dump massive earthworks into the life-devouring trenches.
Splash! Splash!
The Orks watched eagerly as over a million cubic meters of sand and stone were dumped into the trench. The Thirst Water let out a series of deep, gurgling splashes as it swallowed the debris.
Upon contact with foreign matter, the crystal-clear Thirst Water instantly turned murky, churning up mud and gravel before sweeping it rapidly downstream.
"IT'S—"
Saro roared in excitement: "IT'S WORKIN'!"
Yet in the very next second, his raised iron fist froze mid-air, and his voice cut off abruptly.
The material dumped into the trench was visibly dissolving before their very eyes, reduced to fine black grit that was instantly swept away by the roaring current.
Hours of painstaking labor had gone down the drain once again. The Ork Boss cast a bitter, furious glare at the distant fortress, then landed a heavy boot squarely on the backside of his Big Mek. "Gather da boyz! We're buildin' da biggest, most Waaagh! Grot Cannon ever made!"
"An' I want a metric ton of Squig-pults too!"
"I'm gonna drop right outta da sky an' rip dem humies apart with my bare hands!"
He had compromised. Glancing at the deadly water as it returned to its crystal-clear state, he let out a helpless sigh.
A Boss's mood was infectious; seeing him deflate, the surrounding boyz dropped their ears, lowering their heads in gloomy disappointment as they trudged back to work.
Seeing this, Saro's temper exploded instantly. He kicked a nearby boy flying, bellowing in savage rage: "MOVE YOUR ARSES! Or I'll hand da lot of you over to da Mad Dok to cut out your lazy meat an' stitch on some hard-workin' bits!"
Hearing that they might be handed over to the Mad Dok, the boyz nearly wet themselves in terror, scrambling through the mud to scatter in all directions.
"Ptui!"
The Ork Boss spat out a thick glob of phlegm, wiped his mouth, and strode back into the light rain, his massive silhouette standing tall against the hazy downpour.
The millions of gathered Orks halted their direct assault. Following their Boss's commands, they began quarrying the mountains, erecting industrial complexes, and forging massive siege machinery.
Instantly, the direction of the war shifted.
Aside from patrol units and perimeter guards, the vast majority of the Orks laid down their crude weapons and threw themselves into full-scale construction.
The Waaagh! field exerted its strange influence once more. The moment countless Ork boyz picked up spanners and wrenches, sparks of inspiration flashed within their minds, transforming them instantly into Mekboyz.
This was the nature of the Orks: concentrating absolute force to accomplish a grand endeavor.
When they focused entirely on a single task, endless ideas erupted into being, unsealing layers of technological knowledge encoded directly into their genetic code.
---
While the Orks engaged in massive construction, Blazkowicz held the fortress in resolute silence.
Up in the void, however, the void battle raged without a single second of respite, the violent clash of armadas making the very stars tremble.
Aboard the bridge of his flagship carrier, Perturabo sat enthroned upon his command seat. His expression was stern, his eyes closed, and his lips sealed in utter silence.
His consciousness had long since merged directly with the carrier's vast processing arrays, extending like a web of neural tendrils along the vox-network into every single corner of the theater.
The void war was pressing even Perturabo hard.
The battlefield parameters were overwhelmingly complex.
Orks, Khrave, Rangdan, Slaugth.
The species were vastly different, their warships operated on entirely divergent principles, and the tactical doctrines born from their respective arsenals were endlessly varied.
These chaotic, noisy variables were like threads of a thousand different colors, tangling together inside Perturabo's mind into a mess of chaotic knots.
What he had to do was forge his mind into a needle, weaving those threads into their proper places to spin a net that led toward total victory.
In a system command operation of such staggering magnitude, a single misstep meant absolute, irrevocable disaster.
Even for Perturabo—the Primarch of the IV Legion, Son of the Emperor—the pressure was entirely unprecedented.
The giant sat upon his throne with his spine straight as a die, his brow tightly furrowed as fine beads of sweat gathered across his forehead.
Within the unyielding mind of the Lord of Iron, over a million operational commands flashed every single second.
The Iron Warriors had launched their planetfall upon the alien coalition colony. Eighty thousand Space Marines had initiated a high-intensity planetary assault, determined to seize the alien stronghold at maximum speed to establish a strategic anchor for the Legion within this sector, awaiting the arrival of main reinforcements.
[Faster! Faster! Faster!]
Embedded within the cold electronic directives was the implicit, driving urge of the Primarch, pushing the footsteps of his Legionaries to their absolute limit.
Across the rugged surface of Planet Five, the battle-brothers marched at a breakneck pace. The entire Legion functioned like a high-speed machine, advancing mercilessly toward the alien hive city.
The Primarch's commands were terrifyingly unyielding, pressing down on every soul with suffocating weight.
With a cold, calculating mind, the Lord of Iron processed every conceivable variable, demanding that his Legion execute his singular will to perfection.
His calculations encompassed everything: from high-orbit voidship fire support down to the firing frequencies and barrel angles of tanks and artillery, extending even to the precise micro-positions of individual Space Marine squads.
His consciousness spread like an invisible web, blanketing and dominating the entire Legion. At critical moments, his oversight refined parameters as granular as the exact trajectory of a single bolt-shell discharge!
The Legionaries revered their gene-sire's miraculous computational intellect, yet they lived in quiet dread of failing to meet his exact specifications.
At times, however, those anxieties were entirely redundant.
Perturabo's overwhelming mind had already planned for every contingency.
If he had the processing bandwidth to adjust individual firing angles, he had naturally laid out far more elaborate tactical contingencies.
Upon the field of battle, every single machine served as an extension of the Lord of Iron's consciousness. Aggregating all battlefield data, he surveyed the war from a total god's-eye perspective.
The Iron Warriors surged forward, transformed into an instrument of war refined to its absolute zenith, grinding down every enemy in their path.
To their grim satisfaction, the Legionaries discovered that whenever a squad neared physical exhaustion, fresh brothers arrived to rotate them out seamlessly.
Whenever ammunition ran low, supply drop-pods slammed down from the heavens, landing the exact moment the localized threat was cleared to execute rapid resupply cycles.
The Legionaries needed only to advance! Advance according to the absolute will of their Primarch!
Every single artillery barrage was calculated to the microsecond, falling directly upon high-value enemy assets to strip away the most lethal threats.
Artillery and Astartes operated in perfect synergy as the sharpest set of teeth, interlocking and alternating to crunch through the alien lines.
Perturabo was the supreme conductor of war, using meticulous battlefield micro-management to direct every single footfall of his Legion.
He did not merely cover every angle; he demanded absolute, flaw-free execution.
Forward! Break the defensive lines! Breach the hive city! Crush every xenos enemy beneath your boot!
Even with victory firmly within reach, Perturabo's mind never slackened for a fraction of a second, enforcing the absolute purge of all alien hosts.
The moment they secured a foothold on the alien world, Mechanicum contingents moved in immediately, erecting defense shields and laying down permanent ground fortifications.
Perturabo operated like a master watchmaker, assembling a lethal beast of war from the most delicate gears and springs, then harvesting fruits of victory using flawless operational directives.
Yet as the war ran like a precision mechanism, those micro-managed commands exerted a continuous, staggering pressure upon Perturabo's own neural framework.
He sat motionless on his command throne with his eyes closed. A small anti-gravity servitor hovered nearby holding a silk cloth, gently wiping fine beads of sweat from the Primarch's brow.
Had he been anyone other than a Primarch, his neural architecture would have collapsed long ago under such unimaginable processing strain and command volume.
Yet there were no "ifs." Without the transcendent physiology of a Primarch, such hyper-precise warfare and grand strategic coordination could not exist.
The capability Perturabo displayed was precisely what a Primarch was built for.
Such staggering innate talent was not meant to be squandered on petty schemes to catch the Emperor's favor; it was meant to serve the battlefield and the Legion, securing absolute victory for humanity.
---
As the ground assault raged violently below, Perturabo calculated casualty ratios against strategic gains: slaying a single Khrave required the sacrifice of over a hundred Space Marines.
The loss exchange ratio between the Rangdan and the Astartes sat roughly at three to one—excluding Rangdan Overlords and Warmasters from the tally.
The Slaugth vermin were a unique headache, requiring Volkite weapons and specialized energy ordnance to be fully eradicated.
Melee weapons proved utterly useless; after a bolt-shell detonation, the surviving maggot-masses would scatter, reintegrating into larger swarms before re-entering the fray.
Hours into the ground engagement, even the Iron Warriors had lost count of how many Slaugth worm-hosts they had obliterated.
Perturabo dedicated the majority of his processing capacity to directing the ground offensive.
The remainder was focused on commanding the void fleet.
Compared to the convoluted variables of ground combat, the grand void battle offered clear-cut parameters, making fleet maneuvers significantly simpler to orchestrate.
After all, coordinating four hundred warships was far less complex than micro-managing eighty thousand individual Astartes.
In the chaotic void, human iron warships, Rangdan bio-ships, Khrave psych-vessels, Slaugth cocoon-craft, and Ork scrap-hulks clashed together in a swirling maelstrom.
The Ork scrap-fleets were by far the most numerous, launching all-out charges against both the Imperial forces and the alien coalition alike.
The Khrave vessels were the most insidious, unleashing an endless array of esoteric psychic abilities that made Ork Bosses roar in frustrated fury.
The Slaugth cocoon-craft possessed the highest survival rate, continuously devouring the wreckage of friendly vessels to regenerate their combat capability and withstand the heavy Ork assaults.
The Rangdan lingered behind both, utilizing plasma broadsides and lance batteries to pick off the Orks' ramshackle ships from long range.
Though the Orks appeared to be under siege from all sides and suffered atrocious casualties, their combat endurance showed no signs of weakening; if anything, their fleet mass continued to grow.
They too were hauling wreckage from the field, welding scrap together on the fly to rebuild their ships and maintain their front-line presence.
Simultaneously, a steady stream of fresh Ork warships continued to jump in from neighboring sectors, eager to throw themselves into the biggest, baddest Waaagh! in the quadrant.
Word had spread across the void: the greenskins knew an Ancient relic was hidden in this system, and someone had dared to insult the Waaagh! itself.
Among these brutal factions, humanity operated with the most disciplined rigidity.
Their fleet was not the largest, their survival capability was not the most absurd, and their psychic assets were strictly limited to defensive wards.
Yet through sheer coordination, the strength of the human fleet rendered them the dominant force in this chaotic warzone, second only to the Orks.
Under the relentless, overlapping strikes of both humanity and the greenskins, the alien coalition fleet had begun to show deep structural fractures, bound for inevitable collapse.
They lacked fresh reserves and could no longer sustain the attrition.
Their desperate last stand was driven purely by bitter reluctance—an unwillingness to abandon a colony they had cultivated for centuries.
In stark contrast, the Orks were drawn together by a gathering Waaagh! crusade, while the humans received steady reinforcements of their own.
Neighboring sub-sectors had received the Primarch's call for aid. Fleets within warp-distance had already reached the destination, seamlessly integrated into the combat order.
Every newly arrived warship became a fresh neural node in Perturabo's consciousness, annexed directly into the Lord of Iron's cold calculations.
---
The void war raged on with brutal, messy intensity. Ork scrap-vessels exploded into brilliant fireballs, littering half the system's orbital envelope with greenskins blown clear out of their hulls.
Their biology was horrifyingly resilient; if a frozen Ork was fortunate enough to drift back into a vessel's pressurized oxygen zone, it would thaw out and jump right back into the fight.
[First Line advance. Second Echelon close up. Execute staggered formation to absorb the Ork ramming thrust.]
[I have but one absolute directive: maintain close-quarters discipline. Do not deviate from the pre-computed vector under any circumstances.]
Exercising absolute authority, Perturabo compelled the fleet into rigid obedience, enforcing unwavering execution as they met another wave of Ork ship-rams head-on.
The greenskins' attack rhythms were wildly erratic and entirely unpredictable, driven by nothing more than a collective bellow of "Waaagh!" as they charged.
Perturabo despised such disorder. Opposing it with absolute control and tight defensive grids, he met their charge head-on without retreating a single kilometer.
[Acknowledged!]
Regardless of the chaotic orders issuing within individual decks, every ship captain responded to the Primarch's tactical directives with unshakable resolve.
[Activate prow ramming-field disruption arrays.]
Along the Imperial battleline, warships powered up their disruption fields, charging fearlessly into a formation of a hundred oncoming Ork skimmers and rams.
At the core of the fleet formation, several super-carriers launched swarms of automated combat drones. A steel beehive swept out with singular purpose, streaking toward the Ork vessels.
Perturabo favored these automated drones immensely. His mind merged into their control loops, riding alongside their cold iron wings as they rocketed toward the Ork scrap-hulks.
Close-quarters engagement!
As the two formations interlocked, Ork scrap-ships rammed straight into the Imperial hulls, their impact triggering violent detonations of disruption lightning.
The armored prow plates of the Imperial battleships held firm; though their forward momentum stalled momentarily, their plasma engines surged with violent force, brutally shoving the scrap-hulks aside.
As the lines intertwined, the broadside lance batteries of the Imperial warships fired point-blank, instantly vaporizing deck plates and detonating Ork assault craft in mid-void.
Simultaneously, every point-defense system on the warships chatter-fired, filling space with a dense grid of flak to intercept oncoming Ork boarding torpedoes.
Countless fireballs blazed across the fleet matrix as the drone swarms used missiles, multi-melta cannons, and even kinetic ram-strikes to intercept the Orks' suicidal boarding attempts.
Perturabo had calculated this exact scenario multiple times.
The Orks' ramshackle craft possessed abysmal firepower and paper-thin shielding, but their crews were hyper-obsessed with boarding actions to seize human vessels.
Thus, he focused heavily on defensive interception, preventing his warships from being boarded and averting the disastrous internal chaos that would follow.
The super-carriers housed onboard manufacturing facilities, capable of fabricating fresh drone frames directly from raw materials without fear of depletion.
He deeply appreciated this gift from his brother. The cold, unyielding execution of these machines fulfilled his operational vision flawlessly—proving far more reliable than mortal crewmen.
It was the presence of these super-carriers that granted his tactical execution supreme flexibility, saving dozens of warships that would have otherwise fallen to boarding actions.
A storm.
Within the Tempestus Segmentum, a wild and volatile storm was gathering.
In the atmosphere of the barren planet, the rain was no longer a gentle drizzle; a heavy downpour mixed with greenish lightning beat down, shaking the mottled grey-gold earth.
At the absolute highest point of the human fortress, upon a conspicuous iron platform, several Psykers clad in gold-embellished black robes spread their hands wide, chanting incantations.
Green lightning struck the void shield overhead and the heavy rain soaked their robes, yet the Psykers remained utterly oblivious. Arcane runes fell from their lips, merging one by one into the Blackstone array.
As the Blackstone absorbed the incantation glyphs, the array slowly flared to life, channeling streams of raw warp energy toward three stone altars.
Blazkowicz stood before the stone altars, gazing upward. Rain left wet trails down his noble face, his eyes piercing through the thick cloud layer directly into the starry abyss.
Dull red streaks cut through the dark clouds as Ork scrap-ships plummeted in a continuous stream.
In the void beyond, the battle raged in a deadlock.
Outer space was three-dimensional. Warships drifted like rootless duckweed in the void, unanchored and exposed, looking as if a gentle gust of wind could shatter them.
At a glance, naval engagements seemed straightforward: two fleets lining up, trading broadsides, testing weapon power outputs against shield regen rates.
Yet upon closer inspection, void fleet tactics were extraordinarily intricate.
Battle lines were no longer confined to a single plane. Within the vast expanse of three-dimensional space, one had to guard against strikes coming from every conceivable angle.
The vulnerable belly of your formation might be aligned directly with the broadside batteries of an enemy ship; a critical superstructure on an enemy vessel might be lined up right in your firing vector.
Void fleet warfare was not merely a contest of resolve and courage—it was a precise exercise in macro-cannon ranges and firing arcs.
As it happened, Perturabo was a supreme master of this craft, weaving a flawless net of death with rigorous, logical calculations.
The fleet he anchored around was built not around unwieldy battleships or cruisers, but around the super-carriers supplied by Nur.
The automated combat drones launched by these carriers were hyper-agile and swift to adjust vectors, ensuring they always faced the enemy head-on.
Yet now—amid the glittering void, lethal danger bared its teeth!
The Khrave psychic warships suddenly abandoned their localized skirmishes.
Through an incomprehensible maneuver, their bone-hulled craft executed short-range jumps straight into the midst of the human fleet, triggering utter chaos.
The psychic signatures emitted by these ships shone like bright beacons in the dark, drawing the ecstatic Orks into an all-out assault against them.
The Waaagh! field seemed to possess a self-aware instinct, loathing the psychic frequency of the alien vessels and locking onto them relentlessly.
A classic move to shift the threat onto others!
The Khrave used psychic jumps to reappear directly behind the Imperial battleline, using the humans as meatshields to absorb the greenskin onslaught.
[Fleet, dive downward immediately!]
From the command throne, a cold order issued forth. The giant's eyes remained tightly shut, his voice as stiff as grinding gears: [All battle-groups hold current coordinates while diving at maximum velocity. Clear the path for the Ork fleet pursuing the Khrave.]
[As you descend, capital ships roll your hulls! Align your broadside batteries upward to intercept any stray Ork elements.]
In the void, the Imperial fleet plunged downward, causing collisions to echo through several vessels.
The situation was far too sudden, and the command had come with zero warning.
Many warships hurriedly folded into the combat order didn't even have time to secure unanchored crew or equipment before rolling their hulls, aiming their broadside heavy macro-cannons skyward.
"Move! Move! Move!"
Ship captains bellowed through the vox-arrays, their voices echoing into every corner of their vessels.
Driven by absolute urgency, they pushed millions of ship-bound rating slaves to pivot these massive steel behemoths by any means necessary.
[Redeploy automated fighters to patrol the space above the fleet. Ensure the Orks' pursuit does not bleed into our formation.]
Command directives issued faster than voice comms, echoing across the cavernous bridge. The Lord of Iron used his sheer will to bend these unmindful machines to his command.
Instantly, thousands more automated drones were launched from the carriers, positioning themselves along the critical vector to establish an advance defensive line.
Fortunately, the greenskins were locked onto the Khrave. Driving their scrap-ships toward the psychic scent, they bypassed the descending human battleline entirely, charging straight for the bone-vessels glowing with purple warp-light.
In his solitary command node, the Lord of Iron let out a quiet sigh of relief.
That had been a razor-thin escape. Had the Orks suddenly shifted targets, the human fleet's formation would have descended into unavoidable chaos.
Now, the two fleets passed each other like two passing schools of fish, executing a seamless dodge in the sea of stars.
---
Blazkowicz witnessed every detail of the maneuver. Withdrawing his gaze from the sky, he stood in the cold downpour and drew out three strategic items from a dimensional rift.
He was about to throw more fuel onto this wild fire!
Amid a flash of green light, Blazkowicz placed the first artifact on a stone altar: the Ancient Ork tooth—an item the greenskins coveted above all else.
Without pausing, he raised his broad palm, revealing the second item: the Chaos Eight-Pointed Star Keystand—a source of mysterious power that the Khrave had crossed the sea of stars to claim.
The Chaos Keystand had been in Blazkowicz's possession for a long time. Aside from opening portals, he had yet to unlock its other functions.
Symbolizing the Eight-Pointed Star of Chaos and tied directly to the Ruinous Powers, he dared not relax his guard for a second, never letting it leave his side.
He set the Chaos Keystand down upon the second altar. In his hand appeared a black puzzle box forged with arcane machinery, its surface shimmering with the Emperor's divine power: one of the containment caskets holding a fragment of the Formless Distortion, kept under his personal guard.
The physical forms and collective minds of the Rangdan were derived entirely from the Formless Distortion. For an alien species now reduced to "exiles," this was something they would stop at nothing to reclaim!
Three ancestral artifacts of immense, terrifying origin were laid out in sequence by Blazkowicz upon the stone altars.
"Begin."
With a low utterance, he stepped back from the Blackstone altar and ordered the Psykers to initiate the ritual.
As his suppressive aura withdrew, the psychic runes lit up instantly, spreading from the outer ring toward the center of the Blackstone altar.
Through the rain-drenched night, the Psykers' low chants rose to a crescendo, bringing the awakening ritual to its peak. A eerie, purple power crept up the stone altars, activating the floating signatures of the three artifacts!
HUMMM—!
As psychic energy poured into them, three distinct, ancient signatures erupted, sending timeless, mysterious waves rippling across the entire star system.
Distorted transparency, eerie purple, and primordial green—three beams of light shot straight into the heavens, echoing one another as they pierced the deep, pitch-black cloud layer, churning the sky into a massive vortex.
The battlefield fell into a brief hush, as if the thunder of artillery had paused for a fraction of a second.
Deep within the ghastly bone-vessels, a supreme leader of the Khrave—a Primordial—snapped its head around. Its crimson gaze seemed to pierce straight through the deck plates, locking onto Planet Three below.
"The relic of the Chaos Gods has appeared!"
Amid its venomous gurgles, a surge of wild excitement bubbled up, triggering a psychic tempest that pierced the minds of every Khrave in the fleet: "Quickly!"
The Primordial's voice trembled, its grotesque frame shaking violently as the scraping of its chitinous shell betrayed an overwhelming hunger. "Our race has searched for this across countless ages! Today, I finally have the chance to touch it!"
"We must claim it—no matter the cost!"
"The Gate of Truth is right before us! The elusive realm of Chaos shall open to us, granting us audience with the Gods to claim their infinite wisdom and power!"
"Fate smiles upon me..." the Primordial muttered to itself, its hideous face contorting with ecstatic glee.
"Abandon those lowborn allies! All fleets turn around—we go to claim the olive branch fate has extended to the Khrave!"
"The trivial game is over." It issued the order from its dark, shadowy bridge, its cruel will riding psychic ripples to imprint the command deep into the mind of every subordinate subject. "Demonstrate the power of the Khrave! Seize the key to the realm of the Gods!"
"Transmit a message across the stars to summon our scattered Seekers! Inform them that our species' ultimate objective has finally manifested!"
"Now—" The Primordial's withered fingers crushed the psychic projection orb, squeezing out bloodthirsty words through the gaps of its jagged, terrifying teeth. "Descend upon Planet Three, and liberate our ancestral artifact from the hands of ignorant humans and inferior greenskins!"
The Primordial's will was absolute; no response echoed through the silent corridors. The bone-fleet turned in cold unison, abandoning its allies to head straight for the destination.
At the exact same moment, the Rangdan also captured that undeniable signature resonating with their ultimate bloodline source. The collective will of their entire species instantly surged with fanatical purpose.
That ancient, sacred power was something they were physically incapable of resisting.
"Fleet, change course! Leave behind the arrogant Khrave and the lowborn Slaugth! Advance to Planet Three and reclaim the power of the Supreme Sovereign!"
The Rangdan Warmaster made its decision. Even knowing a Primarch was present, it could not turn a blind eye to this singular opportunity to raise its species back from the ashes.
Even if the odds were microscopic, it would seize it without a moment's hesitation.
With that holy relic, the Rangdan race could unite once more, embark on a path of total restoration, and become a mighty galactic force that none could ignore—no longer forced to skulk in the shadows or feign compliance with other xenos factions as they did now.
Opportunities were fleeting, favoring only the strong who dared to strike.
The Rangdan fleet pivoted, engaging their engines at maximum output as they abandoned their allies and rushed toward Planet Three to claim their ancestral holy artifact.
---
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Across the entire system, the Ork host seemed to undergo a massive shock. The Waaagh! field became active on an unprecedented scale, its earth-shattering roars shattering the bonds of physical law to echo directly through the vacuum of space.
RUMBLE—!
Green lightning flickered across space. At the convergence point of the wild Waaagh! bellow, two monstrous shadows—each the size of a full planet—materialized out of the void.
Beyond the veil of realspace, the vague contours of two colossal heads manifested. Opening eyes as vast as moons, they cast their gaze straight down into the material universe.
Throughout the embroiled star system, every Psyker's heart sank into absolute dread.
The powerful among them immediately reined in their minds, raising mental barriers to isolate the external will, purging the sudden surge of violence to safeguard their sanity.
The weaker Psykers collapsed directly to their knees, bathed in green light. Their minds were brutally ravaged by two forces of absolute, unadulterated savagery; from their twitching, drooling mouths came a continuous, semi-conscious mutter of Ork sleep-talk: "Waaagh..."
Even mortals were deeply affected. Raw violence welled up inside their chests as they clutched their throats, desperately fighting back the urge to scream that wild "Waaagh!"
"Waaagh!!!"
"Waaagh!!!"
The Orks grew more ecstatic than ever before. No living creature was more familiar with those two gazes than they were: it was Gork and Mork themselves, watching down upon this grand Waaagh! made in their honor!
Amid the insidious purple warp-light surrounding the Khrave vessels, green flashes flickered into existence, causing the Ork skulls mounted to their hulls to instantly burst into powder!
The Rangdan suffered dizzying mental disorientation; through their vertigo, they seemed to glimpse two monolithic Ork gods standing tall between heaven and earth, brawling and wrestling in a display of primal force.
The Slaugth were in an even more pathetic state; the millions of worms composing their bodies collapsed to the deck like piles of decaying sludge, squeaking in utter terror, lacking even a shred of will to resist.
"SEIZE DAT WORLD! SEIZE DA ANCIENT'S TOOTH!"
Big Tooth Grom roared back at the divine gaze, swearing a savage oath.
Bathed in green lightning, his entire skeletal frame popped and crackled as his muscle fibers tore and re-knitted themselves, undergoing an impossible, violent mutation.
At this moment, he had attained an unprecedented level of recognition from the Ork race.
Following a Boss like this felt overwhelmingly Waaagh!, because Gork and Mork had personally cast their divine gaze down upon him.
This unmatched level of collective belief birthed a colossal torrent of Waaagh! energy that poured directly into his body, forging him an iron frame under the direct witness of Gork and Mork!
Skeletal joints cracked deafeningly as Big Tooth's height shot upward, shattering his armor as he blew straight past the seven-meter mark. Muscle fibers snapped, instantly replaced by far denser, stronger tissue that gave his body an exponentially more tyrannical, horrific silhouette.
Waaagh! lightning surged into his bloodstream, wild ancestral power flowing through him, turning the skin of this terrifying beast an even deeper, darker shade of green!
"ROAR!!"
His bellow was far more satisfying than anything he had ever felt before. Throwing his arms wide, Big Tooth unleashed a roar at Gork and Mork that rang louder than the full-throated burn of a battleship engine.
Out in the void, the two gigantic shadows seemed to laugh—yet perhaps they did not—before fading back beyond the realm of reality.
"FLEET, TURN AROUND!" Snapping his power-klaw shut, Big Tooth's eyes gleamed with feral malice as he locked onto the storm-shrouded, tragic world below. "I'm gonna rip dat blasphemous humie apart with my own two hands! I'm gonna snap his head off an' carve da Ancients' name right into his skull!"
"Right under da gaze of Gork an' Mork, I'm gonna crown meself da biggest, baddest Overboss da galaxy's ever seen, an' launch a Waaagh! dat'll sweep da entire galaxy!"
"I'm gonna stomp da humie homeworld to dust an' build a empire like never before!"
"WE ARE GONNA—" Big Tooth's booming voice cut off abruptly. Raising his power-klaw, his massive eight-meter frame towered over the deck as his wild gaze swept across the chamber, fixing upon the former Bosses who now knelt before him in awe. "REFORGE DA GLORY OF DA ANCIENTS!"
"WE ARE GONNA BE KINGS!"
"GONNA BE KINGS!" The Bosses stood, their eyes crimson and their expressions ferocious as they raised their weapons to respond to Gork and Mork's chosen one: "Waaaagh!!!"
"Boss," the Big Mek called out, having already scrambled up onto his broad back. Stroking the muscle blessed directly by Gork and Mork, his eyes shone with fanatical devotion. "You're gonna need a set of armor fit for a Boss like you."
"Yeah." Big Tooth flexed his power-klaw, feeling the limitless force surging continuously through his veins—feeling as though he could shatter stars with a single punch.
"A set of armor an' a weapon dat's fit for me," he sneered, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. "To help me smash dat big humie."
Yet Big Tooth had not lost his senses to drunk power, even though his current strength defied comprehension.
He turned his head to glare at the planet below, a cold shudder running through his gut. Deep within that world, a terrifying, absolute void lay in wait.
It was a darkness so deep that even the holy light of Gork and Mork could not pierce its outer edge.
---
"Grumble... grumble..."
Amid the heavy, raspy breathing of the Orks, wild, manic grins spread across every face. The vast majority of the scrap-fleet pivoted decisively, plunging toward the big humie to exact complete Ork vengeance.
In an instant, the void battlefield fell strangely quiet, reduced to isolated, low-intensity skirmishes.
Seeing the tide shift, the Slaugth worm-hosts had no way to withdraw; their fleet was dragged along by their allies, forced to change course as well.
The armadas of every major xenos species were now heading directly for the dramatically shifting expanse of Planet Three.
Perhaps this nameless world, swept up in a free-for-all of such staggering proportions, deserved a far more fitting title: a War World!
---
"Brother," Perturabo called out over quantum comms, worry etched deeply into his brow as his holographic projection stabilized beside Blazkowicz. "The intermediate phase of the plan has been realized."
"Are you... truly going to be all right?"
Perturabo stared at the dense, endless swarms of xenos warships. Logical as he was, even he felt a chill creep up his spine.
"I'm fine," Blazkowicz waved a hand dismissively, shaking the rainwater from his shoulders with an easy posture, his face brimming with calm confidence. "It's merely a chaotic war of attrition—everything remains within our calculations."
"The citadel has completed all structural defenses, leaving it more than capable of surviving a free-for-all. Enticing the xenos here to tear each other apart was the very core strategy we agreed upon."
Perturabo accepted the explanation, nodding with evident difficulty as his lips twitched. "I have received signals from two other Legions: the Luna Wolves and the Imperial Fists."
"Horus and Dorn are a week away. Once gathered, the combined might of four Legions will crush both the Orks and this entrenched xenos coalition."
With the dense fleets blocking out the sky above the War World and communications becoming increasingly degraded, he made a point to deliver whatever good news he could to bolster his brother's confidence.
"Excellent," Blazkowicz's eyes lit up. "The Legion reinforcements led by Li Tang should arrive at roughly the same time."
"The timing is perfect. The Iron Warriors should take this window to destroy... the xenos colonies within this system... laying down the path for the arriving... reinforcements..."
As he spoke, the comms frequency degraded rapidly, the holographic projection flickering violently.
Three layers deep, massive capital ships had gathered in orbit above the War World, their plasma trails heavily interfering with signal transmission.
"I will execute the plan without deviation," Perturabo stood from his command throne, his lead-grey eyes burning with unyielding resolve as he spoke with absolute finality: "Brother! I swear it!"
"I will purge the isolated fleets and colonies, establishing a firm anchor within this system to welcome the Luna Wolves and the Imperial Fists."
Before he could finish his sentence, the holographic projection shattered completely, cutting off the rest of Perturabo's words.
In the quiet bridge of his super-carrier, the Lord of Iron murmured a single, carefully guarded line of concern to the empty air: "Please... stay alive."
---
For two full seconds, Perturabo stood motionless before the shattered light before sitting back down upon his command throne, returning to the cold, stoic posture expected of the Lord of Iron.
"All fleets, hear my command!"
His unyielding voice resonated through the Imperial comms channels. Upon every ship captain's holographic console, fresh operational directives flashed to life!
"The xenos no longer have the luxury to concern themselves with us; bound together by their own greed, they have far more pressing matters to attend to."
"We will concentrate our superior firepower to obliterate every xenos anchor within this system, clearing the assault corridors for incoming reinforcements!"
Very quickly, the ship captains responded in firm, unified unison: "Acknowledged!"
Following the pre-computed strategy, Perturabo's fleet began systematically consuming the abandoned worlds, clearing up the remnants of a battlefield already half-ruined by the Orks.
---
Inside the War World, night fell so pitch-black that one could not see their own hand before their face; even the hemisphere facing the local star was completely shielded from sunlight by the sky-blotting armada hovering above.
Maintaining a thin, superficial truce, the xenos fleets carved out an orbital insertion corridor through the gaps in the Ork scrap-lines.
All manner of bizarre alien lifeforms rained down from the sky, initiating a grim, excruciating push toward that solitary island standing in the dark.
The Ork population upon the War World had long blown past every established safety threshold.
On this rain-drenched night devoid of natural light, a faint, uncanny fluorescent green glow began to seep out from the soil between the mountain ranges and the defensive trenches.
It was Ork spores. Normally invisible to the naked eye, their astronomical, staggering numbers had accumulated into a visible layer of green spore-dust across the terrain.
Rooting into the mineral-rich soil, they grew with explosive vigor under the nourishment of the falling rain.
Before long, the greenskins would experience a massive population boom, their numbers rocketing upward until they threatened to drown every single species landing upon this War World.
Pitter-patter... pitter-patter...
Heavy rain trickled through mountain crevices, carving out fresh channels and embedding living spores deep into the earth.
Across the adamantium basin, the vanguard forces clashed violently, sending shockwaves rumbling through the core of the entire world.
Yet at an unheeded mountain peak along the edge of the battlefield, the soil shifted slightly. A tiny, gleaming mechanical appendage pushed aside the slick mud.
Shaking off the dirt clinging to its form, six mechanical legs pushed its body upright. A palm-sized mechanical construct looked down upon the raging battlefield.
The mechanical entity bore a striking resemblance to a scarab. As the rain washed away the grime, glowing emerald runes flickered across its back, surging with mysterious energy.
A green jewel on the mechanical scarab's forehead lit up softly, looking for all the world like a lone firefly in the dark. It tilted its head, attempting to comprehend the madness taking place.
The scarab's emerald optics zoomed in on the intense battle below. After observing the scene for several seconds, its body gave a sudden, violent shudder.
A flash of green light erupted as the jewel on its forehead projected an optic image, outlining the wild, furious form of an Ork.
Tilting its head once more, an ancient, metallic, and rigid mechanical voice echoed quietly:
"Krork presence detected. Tomb World faces existential threat."
"Executing advance awakening protocols. Purging designated threats."
"Glory to the Triarch. Glory to the Silent King. Your subjects are returning!"
Sixty million years ago, under the command of the final Silent King, Szarekh, the last Triarch issued the directive that forced the Necrontyr into slumber through the command protocols.
Through ages of war, the Necrontyr had interred the Old Ones, only to turn around and shatter the Star Gods themselves into splintered shards.
Yet the final war against the Gods had been far too brutal, severely bleeding the Necrontyr of their vital essence and leaving the sovereign race battered and scarred—temporarily unable to defeat the rising Aeldari and assert domain over a desolated galaxy.
After careful consideration, the Silent King issued a single directive: forcing the entire Necrontyr species into the Great Sleep, to awaken only when the time was right.
They would let the ebb and flow of tens of millions of years wipe out the remnant races of the Old Ones who had stolen the fruits of victory. Once their ultimate enemies were extinct, the Necrons would awaken from their Great Sleep to reclaim a clean, pure galaxy.
The plan was beautiful in its theory. The Necrontyr meticulously selected mineral-rich planets, purged all lifeforms from them, and transformed them into Tomb Worlds.
Buried deep within the planets' crusts and hidden beyond pocket dimensional spaces, the Necrontyr waited silently for the day of their awakening.
Yet even the great Silent King could not have anticipated that time would not only consume their ancient foes, but also test the limits of Necrontyr technology.
Ultimately, even the pinnacle of physical science in the material universe could not withstand the erosion of ages and the wear of canoptek beetle maintenance, failing to halt the relentless march of entropy.
As pocket dimensions collapsed, the isolated spaces overlapped with reality once more. Tomb structures shoved aside rock and soil, returning to the depths of the physical worlds.
Drip... drip...
Deep in an unknown subterranean reach of the planet, crisp metallic clinks echoed, gradually converging into a distinct, rustling rhythm.
Within the tomb chambers constructed from living metal, an eerie emerald light flared to life. Mysterious runes surged with green energy, channeling power into mechanical systems that had lain dormant for sixty million years.
Long fallen into disrepair, the tomb sputtered with sickly green sparks in numerous places. The stone-like living metal lay dull and dark, its surface marred by fractured energy conduits.
Seeking refuge within pocket dimensions had not granted them absolute escape from the mighty weight of time.
Those extraordinary technologies of the Necrontyr—once hailed as "immortal"—were ultimately not truly immune to decay.
As energy circulated and various sub-systems powered up, countless Canoptek Scarabs awoke from their slumber, pouring out of the tomb's secret passages. Using the matter-restructuring arrays mounted on their mandibles, they began repairing the structural integrity of the tomb.
A low, subterranean hum vibrated through the tomb's vast corridors.
The entire tomb complex shuddered softly. Dark emerald light crested and fell along the cold corridors like a rhythmic breath—as if a massive, icy behemoth were slowly stirring from its long sleep.
Although the tomb had slipped out of pocket space back into the material universe, it was meant to remain dormant underground, awaiting the awakening command from the Silent King and the various Dynasties.
Yet reality defied the protocols. The tremors radiating from the surface activated the Canoptek Scarabs.
The Scarabs brought back dire intelligence: a chaotic war was raging on the surface, pitting their ancient, bitter enemies—the Krork—against a variety of unknown threats.
The threat was unprecedented; the tomb had to ensure its own preservation.
Under the authority of automated contingency protocols, the tomb's intelligence system initiated the awakening process to purge all threats from the Phaerakh's resting place.
`[Awakening protocols engaged. Activating sub-atomic power systems to energize the tomb matrix and awaken the Phaerakh's consciousness.]`
Green runes flowed across the living metal as torrents of data converged toward the tomb's central platform.
The Necrontyr's sublime science annihilated sub-atomic particles, drawing infinite energy from the foundational level of matter, pumping it into the tomb matrix to reawaken the ruler of a great Dynasty.
Zzzzt—!
Upon the central platform, the floor slid open smoothly as a iron sarcophagus, etched with massive runes, rose into a vertical position.
Anti-gravity arrays slowly pulled back the sarcophagus lid, revealing the sleeping figure within.
Lying inside was a three-meter-tall mechanical frame with long, slender limbs—imposing, cold, and majestic. Its humanoid arms were crossed over its chest, and its hollow eye sockets held not a single flicker of light.
It possessed a body constructed of leaden steel-flesh, its chest engraved with mysterious, dark-gold hieroglyphs. A dark-gold gorget encased its head, with equally ornate embellishments draping down from its pauldrons and hip-guards.
Merely lying inside the sarcophagus, the steel frame exhaled an aura of boundless nobility, possessing an eerie, haunting beauty.
`[Executing awakening protocols.]`
Beside the tomb's master stood an upright stone stele displaying hieroglyphic script akin to ancient Egyptian hieratic glyphs, assembling the current operational status in sickly green light.
`[Awakening protocols executed.]`
`[Threat detected on the surface. Extraterrestrial entities have not yet penetrated the subterranean levels. Emergency awakening sequence overridden.]`
`[Executing standard wake-sequence: Energizing all Necron Warriors and Lychguard; synchronizing with the awakening of Pyramids and Obelisks.]`
The runes on the central platform brightened abruptly as an invisible will surged through the data-streams. Overriding the emergency wake-sequence, it triggered an even older, more deliberate protocol.
Energy began pulsing at a different frequency, spreading toward the dormant Warrior crypts and the Obelisk arrays.
Deep within the tomb, a timer chimed three times—calibrated precisely to the planet's rotation, down to an imperceptible margin of error.
Far beneath the crust, a sickly green light slowly spread outward as an ancient, terrifying kingdom awoke from its eternal slumber.
The Necrontyr, consumed by an unyielding hatred for all living things, were awakening. They were bound to unleash a storm of blood and fire, using the agonized wails of younger races to declare the return of the galaxy's true masters!
---
Yet the unwitting culprits behind this Necron revival were the very races locked in battle above.
On the Adamantium Flats, under the pitch-black rain curtain, the roar of artillery and thunderous battle-cries intermingled, shaking the entire world with an unending rumble.
Having absorbed a massive volume of physical debris, the Thirsting Waters were no longer clear. Thick as heavy oil, the sludge trickled through the drainage channels with a sticky, sluggish drag.
Under the endless, reckless sacrifices of the Orks, the breakdown efficiency of the nanites had reached its absolute limit.
Inside the base, the matter-restructuring arrays worked non-stop, processing endless loads of debris, yet they could not restore the river to its clear state.
Before long, the fortress's primary outer defense layer would be completely paralyzed.
Furthermore, while filling the Thirsting Waters with raw debris, the Orks had constructed massive mobile land-bridges across the channels, pushing their line ever further into the Adamantium Flats.
By now, the defensive perimeter of the Adamantium Flats had shrunk significantly. Relying on these mobile land-bridges, the Ork host pressed relentlessly toward the human fortress.
The fortress unleashed an overwhelming artillery barrage, tearing green hides into flying shreds of flesh, yet even this failed to break their wild determination.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
With another ferocious bellow, an Ork Boss unleashed a shockwave from his massive maw. Pointing his battle-axe toward the human fortress, he ordered his Boyz forward.
Along the edge of the Adamantium Flats, the Khrave had already clashed with the Orks, carving their way closer to the location of the sacred artifact.
"Runt Orks, do not stand in our way!" the Khrave Primordial shrieked.
"Vile, wretched creatures!" cursing in a bizarre, unnatural tongue, the Primordial raised its hand to strike down a volley of psychic lightning, instantly clearing a hundred-meter path ahead.
Over a thousand Khrave launched an assault alongside the Primordial, drawing upon boundless warp energy from the soul-realm to carve a bloody path through the green sea.
Behind them, brilliant trails of blue and crimson light cut through the air—Rangdan plasma bolts and Slaugth bio-chemical beams slammed into the Orks, blasting gaping craters into their lines and melting flesh into black ooze.
"OOH!!"
An Ork Boss squeezed a roar from deep within his chest. Raising two massive war-axes powered by hydraulic actuators, he charged straight at the screeching, ugly xenos: "FOR GORK AN' MORK!"
Its seven-meter-tall frame shattered the rain curtain as it transformed into a raging behemoth, charging toward the nameless, terrifying monster.
Countless times, it had told itself that it could overcome this chitin-clad, twisted horror—yet its physical instincts trembled, not daring to relax for even a fraction of a second.
"I am Thunder-Roar Death-Throat!"
The Ork Boss roared, driving his brute frame forward as he swung his massive war-axe to meet the Primordial. "Foul creature! Your ugliness is utterly intolerable!"
Even in the eyes of an Ork, the Khrave Primordial's terrifying body—wreathed in psychic lightning—was repulsive beyond measure.
Death-Throat was unwilling to even deem it a "big humie."
"DIE!"
Amid the torrential downpour, his roar echoed alongside the thunder, living up to the epithet of "Thunder-Roar."
Like a humanoid tank, his massive silhouette wielded boundless power through twin war-axes, bursting through the rain to strike directly at the Primordial's face.
"Foolish creature." The Primordial let out a disdainful sneer. Raising two jointed limbs, it wove a psychic incantation with one hand while holding its scepter aloft with the other to resonate with the spell.
The digits of two secondary appendages under its armpits closed tightly, glowing with psychic energy between the joints. High-frequency vibrations that twisted the laws of physics churned the air, giving form to the mottled outline of a high-frequency bio-blade beneath the curtain of rain.
BOOM—!
The massive behemoths collided! Blade met axe, the raw impact generating a visible ripple of rain-mist that expanded outward.
"FOR GORK AN' MORK! KILL DESE TWISTED FINGS!"
Behind Death-Throat, power-armored Boyz surged forward in a wave. They were the strongest warriors of the warband—the Ork Boss's elite bodyguard.
These bodyguard Boyz stood three meters tall, clad in heavy power armor, their ferocious faces washed over by the freezing rain as they pressed the assault with brutal intensity.
"PUNY BEASTS, CLEAR THE WAY!" A shrill, terrifying shriek echoed as Death-Throat's body flew backward, his chest deeply split open by a lethal blade as hot blood arced through the rain.
The Ork Boss's eyes were wide with shock. He had lost; in the trial of raw strength, his war-axe had been overwhelmed, driven down until it carved open his own chest!
Around him, his strong Ork Boyz lay dead in pools of blood, their body heat rapidly drained away by the unforgiving downpour.
Yet the hideous alien enemy had suffered zero losses.
Possessing terrifying individual martial strength, their blades whipped up a tempest of blood and flesh, mercilessly slaughtering the Ork Boyz.
"Lowly greenskins."
Hissing in contempt, the Primordial never slowed its pace. Swinging its twin high-frequency vibration blades, it slaughtered over a hundred elite Ork bodyguards in under a second.
Advancing continuously, its main arms completed the psychic incantation: "Perish!"
The shriek pierced the rain curtain, blasting away a thick mist of white water as a column of psychic thunder—several meters thick—struck down, overtaking the mid-air body of Death-Throat.
RUMBLE-CRASH!!
The wild thunder, carrying the furious weight of atmospheric nature, struck the Ork Boss squarely, dyeing the entire basin in brilliant purple light.
The lightning blasted a crater into the adamantium ground. As a chilling wind blew across the crater, a smoking body lay inside, battered by the pounding rain.
---
The Primordial's strength was beyond doubt. As a supreme ascended entity of the Khrave species—rarer even than human Primarchs—its individual power surpassed standard comprehension.
"Lowly creature." With rapid, overlapping footwork that left a series of trailing phantoms, the Primordial glided before the Ork. Leaning down, it clamped a jointed appendage around his throat, hauling him out of the crater: "To die by my hand is your highest honor."
"SAVE DA BOSS!" The Ork Boyz panicked, throwing themselves forward in an overwhelming wave.
The Primordial's personal retinue met them head-on, their vibration blades executing a bloody harvest.
The Ork Boyz surged like an incoming tide, only to fall back like receding waters, leaving behind a field of shattered corpses.
The Khrave were extraordinarily formidable; even Blazkowicz had taken serious note of them during their initial clash.
Records stating that three Khrave working in unison could briefly suppress a Primarch were by no means exaggerated exaggeration.
Their surge into the green ocean was not driven by reckless foolishness, but by absolute confidence in their own supreme might.
Over a thousand Khrave, led by a Primordial, wielded unpredictable combat capabilities—far more dangerous than three thousand human Custodians.
"I will tear you apart alive!" The interference of these lowly creatures pushed the Primordial's fury to its absolute limit. Plunging two appendages straight into Death-Throat's chest, its shrieking howl drowned out the Orks' roars.
Before the horrified eyes of the Boyz, it raised the Ork Boss high above its head, its arms snapping back with sudden, explosive force!
CRACK—CRACK!
The crunch of snapping bones was crystal clear. Green skin capable of deflecting small-arms fire ripped open, exposing layer upon layer of tearing muscle fiber.
"Ghh—!"
Agonizing pain dragged the unconscious Death-Throat back to reality. His charred body struggled feebly, fragile as withered wood in the violent storm, as muffled cracks of dislocated bones echoed from within his chest.
"Die!" Jointed limbs pierced through flesh to lock tightly onto his spine. With a sudden burst of power, a horrifying sound like tearing canvas shattered the night sky.
"NO!!!"
The Ork Boyz let out sorrowful, wailing howls, their eyes bloodshot as they watched the tragedy unfold, tears mingling silently with the rain.
"Greenskin trash!" The Primordial shrieked with ecstatic fervor, its voice trembling from the sensation of slaying an extraordinary lifeform: "Cower before me!"
RUMBLE—!
A blinding flash of white lightning struck. In that fleeting aura of light, the Primordial drove its arms apart, tearing Death-Throat cleanly in two!
Hot blood mingled with the rain to drench the earth as the Primordial threw its head back and roared, opening its maw wide to drink deeply of the vibrant blood of an extraordinary entity.
Its crimson eyes shone with an even more sinister light as a crimson mist curled around its body. Its terrifying silhouette against the lightning stood like an absolute nightmare, striking dread into all who witnessed it.
Even the Rangdan and Slaugth following closely behind felt an internal shudder, a cold chill creeping up their spines.
"Continue the advance." Ripping out the Ork's tusks, the Primordial tossed the corpse aside like trash, taking a deep, savoring breath.
The scent of fear was its greatest delight—the ultimate prerequisite for absolute submission.
The other races dared not utter another word. An army hundreds of thousands strong followed the Primordial, carving recklessly through the green tide as they rushed toward humanity's fortress island.
Gazing up at the sky-piercing columns of light, the Primordial's heart burned with fanatical ambition, as though all the relics were already within its grasp.
"Kill!"
As the stench of blood spread, every race inhaled the metallic rust of war, unleashing ecstatic howls.
Mighty species that competed for dominance across the sea of stars never feared war!
In an instant, the battlefield grew even more volatile with the entry of this third faction.
The Orks were forced to lay siege to the human fortress while simultaneously keeping a watchful eye on the other alien forces.
Yet it mattered little; the number of Orks gathered within the Adamantium Flats was so vast that it defied counting, easily enough to fight the other species to absolute exhaustion.
The death of a single Ork Boss did not create a single ripple in the tide.
With the Waaagh! field active on an unprecedented scale and the gaze of Gork and Mork fixed upon the world, Ork Bosses emerged in a continuous stream—if one died, several more stood up to take his place.
They had but one singular objective: reclaim the ancestral artifact!
Across the chaotic battlefield, energy beams slashed through the rain curtain, heavy solid ammunition flew wildly, and psychic blasts collided head-on.
The green sea gradually surrounded the central fortress, while purple psychic arks cut through the green waves, dragging wakes of blood and mud behind them as they slowly sailed toward that lonely island.
---
Far from the noise of the main battlefield, in a dark, nameless valley, an Ork band marched at a rapid pace, hurrying toward the conflict to throw themselves into the war.
Frenzied by the thrill of battle, the Orks failed to notice a gentle white light radiating from deep within a cross-section of the valley.
Deep inside the ravine, the outline of a bone-white gate slowly flared to life. Blue-white energy converged, opening a swirling portal within the oval frame.
A Webway Gate had opened. Slender Aeldari figures stepped out with effortless grace, making not a single sound.
"Thanks be to the guidance of Cegorach."
A light, elegant voice echoed softly through the shadowy valley, trembling with just the right cadence to express profound gratitude: "Across the sea of stars, we have finally arrived."
"Upon this world where storms gather, let us extend a signal of friendship to the God-Slayer."