After the Frost Soldiers were deployed to the battlefield, the situation on the ice plains underwent a fundamental reversal. This shift wasn't a gradual transition; it was an immediate transformation that completely rewrote the dynamic of the war between the wildmen and the Greenskins.
In the past, when wildman cavalry hunted Greenskins, every sortie was a desperate gamble, a life-and-death struggle that often ended in heavy casualties. Before a hunt, elite scouts had to be dispatched to precisely reconnoiter the Greenskins' numbers, equipment, and marching routes. After the scouting, they had to repeatedly probe the Greenskins' combat strength, sending out small harassment squads to bait the enemy and understand their fighting style. Then came the task of luring the enemy deep into traps, using terrain to barely inflict damage.
Even with meticulous planning, the wildman cavalry—lacking heavy firepower and high-damage weapons—still paid a staggering price during their guerrilla harassment. For ten thousand wildman cavalry to dare attack two thousand Greenskins was considered a feat of immense courage.
But now, everything had become incredibly simple.
The wildmen no longer needed to risk scouting missions or set elaborate ambushes. They no longer needed to trade their comrades' blood for a tactical opening. They only needed to find a mob of Greenskins and wait for the Frost Priest to summon the Frost Soldiers.
Throughout the entire process, the wildmen standing on the high ground only had to do one thing: watch.
Yet, no matter how many times they watched, they felt a shock that resonated to their very marrow. The Greenskins, whom they once needed to sacrifice so much just to barely defeat, were now fragile and helpless before the Frost Soldiers. This easily-won victory both freed them from despair and planted a seed of unease in their hearts.
A young wildman warrior, about sixteen or seventeen years old, felt a surge of curiosity after witnessing the Frost Soldiers in combat for the first time. After the battle ended, he couldn't resist climbing down from the heights to intercept a bone-claw type Frost Soldier that was systematically recovering the remains of its fallen kin.
The Frost Soldier's left forelimb bone claw had vanished during the fight. It was mechanically dragging a mangled husk of another Frost Soldier, its movements stiff.
The young warrior crouched down and asked softly, "You... do you have a name?"
The Frost Soldier gave no reaction, not even glancing at him. It simply continued its mechanical dragging, walking straight toward the ice lotuses before disappearing inside to complete its recovery mission.
Later, the young warrior discovered that all Frost Soldiers were exactly the same. They strictly obeyed the Frost Priest's orders, coordinated with the wildman cavalry in battle, and recovered debris afterward. But they would never respond to any form of communication—not words, not gestures, not even eye contact. They had no emotions, no self-awareness, no joy or sorrow. They possessed only two functions: killing and executing commands.
Combat, recovery, expiration, rebirth—that was the entirety of their existence.
This filled the wildmen with both reverence and dread. The Frost Soldiers were more loyal than the finest hunting hounds and more ferocious than the deadliest beasts, but what were they? Tools? Weapons? Or some unknown, soul-less organisms? No one could provide an answer, and this doubt lingered in every wildman's heart.
While the wildmen were gripped by awe and unease, Solene stood on a distant peak, taking it all in. She wore the standard PDF uniform issued to the Vanguard, her silver hair tucked inside a black helmet. Faint bruises from Raynor's grip a few days prior still lingered on her neck.
Clutching a pair of magnoculars, her rose-red eyes observed the Frost Soldiers below through the lenses, her expression solemn.
Tyranids.
She whispered the word in her heart. The Frost Soldiers' physiological structure, the energy flow in their bio-cannons, the texture of their carapaces, even their behavioral patterns—everything aligned perfectly with the Tyranid data she had studied countless times in the Inquisition's archives. There was no deviation.
But to her, this seemed fundamentally impossible. Tyranids were the purest force of destruction in the universe—unconscious biological weapons that devoured everything. They did not coexist with any species, let alone obey orders from a non-Tyranid entity. Wherever they went, they left only ruin and desolation.
Yet, what was unfolding before her eyes violently overturned her understanding. The Frost Soldiers were not attacking the wildmen; instead, they were fighting side-by-side with them to purge the Greenskins.
Solene's thoughts raced, conjuring a series of images: the ripper that always accompanied Raynor, the phantom of the "Frost Dragon" during his confrontation with the wildman leader, and the powerful psionic barrier around the Twin Peaks that had barred her entry.
Piece by piece, a mad and heretical thought took shape in her mind. The Frost Dragon was Tyranid, the Frost Soldiers were Tyranids—all the beings the wildmen worshipped as "divine warriors" were Tyranids. And Raynor, the man certified by the Ecclesiarchy as the "Emperor's Chosen," might have established some kind of link with the Hive Mind.
This thought violated every Imperial creed and desecrated the faith she had upheld her entire life. Her instinct was to deny it. But she didn't; years as an Inquisitor had taught her the habit of calm verification. She put away her magnoculars and turned toward the Vanguard command post, her gaze resolute.
She had to get to the bottom of this. It wasn't for the sake of judgment, nor was it about faith or duty—she simply wanted to know the truth. Who was Raynor, and what was his connection to these Tyranids?
Turning back the clock two weeks, deep in the blizzard-ravaged ice plains thirty kilometers outside the Forbidden Wall.
A scarred and battered Ork Mek staggered through the snow, his body covered in wounds. Green blood had frozen on his skin, and he dragged the mangled limb of a destroyed Killa Kan behind him. His steps were unsteady, and he looked ready to collapse at any moment.
His name was Erko, the most capable Mek at Mountain-Fat Guga's side—the one who had given Guga counsel. He didn't know how long he had been running or where he was; he only knew he had to keep moving. He had to flee from the battlefield that terrified him, flee from the clutches of that purple-eyed human.
He was covered in injuries and his stamina was depleted. Every step was accompanied by agonizing pain, but he did not give up. As long as he lived, there was a chance. He would reassemble the Greenskins, defeat that purple-eyed human, and become the new Warboss!
The Brevis Greenskin headquarters was located at the landing site of a massive Roks in the deepest part of the ice plains. This was where the last organized Greenskin forces on the planet gathered—their final foothold on the world.
But Guga's death had plunged the place into typical Greenskin chaos. Without a unified leader, all the Ork Nobz scrambled for control. None would yield to another, leading to daily brawls and infighting within the camp. Occasionally, someone would organize a small-scale attack on the wildmen or the Vanguard, but the raids would inevitably fall apart halfway through due to internal feuds, ending in bitter dispersals or even fratricide.
When Erko dragged his broken body back to the camp, he wasn't greeted by the concern of his kin, but by the mockery and provocation of several Ork Nobz.
"Oi, Guga's little lackey is still kickin', is 'e?" A Nob nearly three meters tall stood with his hands on his hips, his tone contemptuous. "Meks don't fight, dey just bang iron. Git back to yer hole and stay outta da way!"
The other Orks joined in the laughter, their eyes full of derision. Erko didn't argue, nor did he show anger. He simply lowered his head and walked silently past the laughing Orks to a clearing in the center of the camp. He dropped the remains of the Killa Kan and began to get to work.
He gathered all the usable scrap metal and mechanical parts in the camp. Ignoring the mockery and interruptions of the surrounding Orks, he focused solely on assembling something. For three days, Erko did not rest or eat, staying busy in the center of the camp. The pile of scrap around him grew smaller as the silhouette of a massive mecha gradually took shape.
On the evening of the third day, Erko stood atop a gargantuan machine.