The construction beneath the wall officially began the following morning.
Thirty thousand combat engineers and over one hundred thousand auxiliary laborers commenced operations on both sides of the breach in Sector C8. Their specialized power-tools spewed blue cutting-plasma as they peeled twisted, scorched alloy plates from the fortification. Massive cranes lifted prefabricated ferro-concrete frames into place; the workers had no time for rest.
In order for Raynor's plan to proceed, they had to win the race against time.
Meanwhile, the Orks outside the walls continued their daily assaults. Like clockwork, they appeared on the horizon at dawn, howling as they launched their charge. After being repelled by the wall's superior firepower, they would return in the afternoon and only cease their efforts after sunset. There were no grand tactics or strategies involved; it was a ritual of violence. As the Orks saw it, "I feel uncomfort-abull 'cause I ain't fought nuthin' today."
Now, however, the Orks could barely even reach the foot of the wall. Raynor had deployed every available heavy weapon to the battlements. Five hundred Earthshaker cannons were lined up along the ramparts, their muzzles leveled toward the ice plains. Thousands of heavy bolters were mounted behind the firing slits, the spent brass casings piling up into metallic mountains every day.
There were also a hundred Whirlwind-pattern missile launchers, each capable of saturating a massive area with a single salvo. Even the Leman Russ tanks had been driven onto reinforced firing platforms to serve as stationary artillery.
Each time the Orks charged, a rain of shells shattered them into a landscape of severed limbs. Those who managed to reach the base of the wall were mowed down by the overlapping fields of heavy bolter fire. Occasionally, an Ork trukk would break through the barrage, only to be instantly vaporized by a hunter-killer missile.
The battle seemed to have reverted to a simpler, more manageable state. But Raynor stood in the command post, watching the real-time data feeds with furrowed brows that never relaxed.
"My Lord," Guts said, pushing open the door with a relaxed smile. "We repelled three more waves of Orks today with fewer than a thousand casualties. At this rate, we can hold out until—"
"Until the Orks learn to build railguns, or even Gargants," Raynor interrupted.
Guts's smile froze. Hammond Walker looked up from the tactical map and stared at Raynor. He understood the Governor's anxiety.
Raynor walked to the holographic display and ran his finger over a red zone deep in the ice field marked as the "Main Xenos Gathering Area."
"The Greenskins have terrifying war potential," Raynor said. "They can unleash devastating combat power from whatever scrap metal and junk they haphazardly piece together."
He pulled up a drone feed from the previous day. On a patch of cleared snow, a dozen Mekboys were hammering and tinkering around a pile of rusted metal. A few hours later, the scrap had been transformed into a "Killa Kan." It looked like it shouldn't even be able to stand, but after a Grot was shoved inside, the junk heap actually began to move. Although it lost a part every three steps, it was mobile and possessed considerable destructive power.
"That is the most dangerous aspect of the Greenskins; they possess a collective psychic field," Raynor said, turning off the video. "Give them enough time and enough battles, and they'll be able to knock an 'Attack Moon' out of a scrap heap and launch it into orbit. They will build cannons capable of leveling mountains and war machines that rival Titans."
The command post fell silent. Leo walked up to the map and stared at the red zone. He recalled that when he first arrived at the Forbidden Wall two months ago, the Orks only used crude choppas and rusty sluggas. Now, they had warbikes, heavy tanks, and walkers. What would they have in another two months?
"We cannot remain on the defensive forever," Raynor continued. "We must launch an offensive and inflict a crippling blow before their technology catches up to ours."
"How deep do we strike?" Leo asked.
Raynor did not answer immediately. He walked to the window, looking out at the snowfield that had been plowed repeatedly by artillery fire. A miniature Ripper emerged from his sleeve, crawling up his arm to his palm. He gently teased the creature, his fingertips tracing the patterns on its carapace, before it retracted back into his sleeve.
Raynor turned around, his expression cold and focused. "We only need to do one thing for now. We must kill the current Warboss of the Brevis Greenskin faction."
"Once the Boss dies, their psychic field will fracture. The younger Orks will fall into temporary chaos, the 'inspiration' of their Mekboys will be interrupted, and their level of technology will regress significantly."
The generals nodded. Raynor continued: "Then, we launch a counter-assault on their primary camp to ensure the next batch of Orks arriving on Brevis cannot inherit the 'know-wot' of this horde."
A decapitation strike had always been the most effective tactic against Orks. The generals began to grasp the Governor's strategic vision, their admiration for Raynor growing.
However, Raynor kept his most crucial point secret: the Sarah Swarm. He couldn't stay behind these walls forever. The Imperium was currently bleeding out, dealing with Abaddon's Thirteenth Black Crusade. Without external support, Brevis couldn't endure an indefinite war of attrition. Sooner or later, the Orks would grow beyond the planet's ability to cope. Only by introducing the Swarm to engage the Orks in a primal battle of biological evolution could their development be truly checked.
Meanwhile, deep within the ice plains.
The site where the Ork "Roks" had first landed had transformed into an appallingly large war-camp. From the air, it looked like a chaotic jigsaw puzzle covering a hundred square kilometers. Rusty metal panels formed shacks, and discarded chassis were piled up like twisted skyscrapers. Fences were constructed from the ribs of unknown leviathans.
In the center of the camp stood over a dozen totem poles covered in skulls. At the top of the highest pillar hung the dripping heads of Orks—the fate of those who had failed to challenge the leader.
The air was thick with a pungent stench: the smoke of burning fungus, the sour smell of Squig manure, and the heavy aroma of simmering stew. A normal human would have been physically sickened just by entering the perimeter.
In the heart of the camp, hundreds of vats—each over ten meters in diameter—were boiling. The liquid inside was a yellowish-green sludge, viscous as pitch. Around each pot stood a dozen "Slop-boys," stirring with long-handled ladles and occasionally tossing in pieces of glowing fungus or a whole, plump Squig.
Sitting beside the largest vat was the most massive Greenskin in the camp.
The Mountain Guga.
He was a true behemoth, standing over three and a half meters tall. His waist was equally wide, making him look like a gargantuan green sphere of muscle and lard. He wore "armor" fashioned from the scavenged plates of a Leman Russ tank. A small cannon was welded to his left shoulder, and his right hand was encased in a massive Power Klaw—the symbol of a Warboss.
Scrawled crookedly in white paint on his right pauldron were the words: "MOST WAAAGH!"