Beyond the Manhe River, north of the Twin Peaks, lies a hidden valley isolated by wind and snow. This is a forbidden zone on the Brevis Ice Plains, the fabled resting place of the Frost Dragon. Now, it has become a desecrated hatchery.
Deep within the valley, massive hollows have been completely remodeled by Sarah's consciousness. Chitin covers the rock walls, thick biomass fluid flows across the ground, and the air is thick with the stench of rot. This is Sarah's "Experimental Circle."
"Sample batch thirty-seven, deploy."
The voice of Herald One echoed through the cave. He stood upon a high platform, his pale purple bald head shimmering in the gloom, with the pulsating patterns of his brain visible beneath the skin. Below him, hundreds of Frost-Soldiers lined up to walk toward a massive cultivation pool.
The pool was piled high with Ork corpses recovered from the battlefield—foul-smelling, still-twitching fungal masses. The Frost-Soldiers leaped into the pool and began to feast. The sound of devouring filled the air, yet there was no biological sense of satisfaction, only an endless, driving hunger.
Most Frost-Soldiers showed no change after consuming the Ork spores, but after a while, green fungi began to spread rapidly from their abdomens. Those soldiers gradually drifted from Sarah's control, becoming irritable and aggressive. They even used their strange Tyranid vocal organs to emit a piercing cry:
"Waaaagh!"
The moment the sound broke, they were crushed by the Herald's psychic power, reduced to a heap of fluid. Herald One watched coldly.
"Batch thirty-seven: tolerance rate seven percent. Mark surviving individuals; send to the next round of screening."
Nearby, several other Heralds began to move. Holding biomass probes, they stabbed into the surviving Frost-Soldiers to extract tissue samples, performing an asynchronous consciousness analysis with Sarah II in their minds. This was the most primitive yet effective method of breeding: forcing the Tyranid swarm to consume things that were difficult to "digest," and then screening for adaptable genes through the filter of life and death.
Immediately, batch thirty-eight began. The experiment never ceased.
By the seventh day, the pile of Frost-Soldier corpses beside the pool exceeded thirty thousand. However, the latest batch of produced Frost-Soldiers showed significant changes. Their builds were sturdier; the once-slender skeletons had become thicker, their chitinous shells had hardened, and their color shifted from cyan-blue to a deep purple gradient. The most obvious change was in the mouthparts, which had evolved specialized grinding mandibles for crushing fungi.
"Batch one hundred and forty-two: tolerance rate nineteen percent."
For the first time, a tremor appeared in Herald One's voice—it was the emotion of satisfaction transmitted by Sarah through the hive mind.
"Designation: Frost-Soldier Mk. II." "Efficiency in digesting Ork spores increased by five hundred percent. Capable of rapid wound recovery on the battlefield by devouring Ork biomass." "Deploy to the battlefield. Collect combat data."
Outside the valley, a hundred thousand Frost-Soldier Mk. IIs marched in formation toward the ice plains.
Simultaneously, in another cave, a more secretive evolution was taking place. The cultivation pool here was much smaller, but it didn't house ordinary soldiers; it contained embryos of Lictors.
The Lictor's role had been clear from the start: assassination. A standard Lictor was terrifying enough—a four-meter-long body covered in chameleon scales, capable of perfect optical cloaking, with scythe-like claws that could tear through Terminator armor in a single strike.
Against Orks, decapitation strikes were always vital. Orks were poor at scouting and had weak sentry capabilities; they generally didn't guard against assassins because they simply didn't care. However, war naturally produced "Warbosses"—the bigger, meaner, and tougher "Big 'Uns." As long as a Boss existed, the Waaagh! field would be generated. Thus, the existence of Lictors was crucial: they were responsible for seeking out and killing individuals with the "potential to become a Boss."
"Ice Plains Specialized Lictor, Batch One."
Herald Three, the Elder in charge of specialized breeding, stood by the pool looking at twelve cultivation vats. Floating inside were twelve Lictors yet to wake. Their bodies were slightly smaller than standard Lictors, but their limb proportions were exaggerated, and their claws shimmered with an eerie ice-blue luster.
Herald Three began to dictate their unique traits:
Body temperature regulated to perfectly match the environment; undetectable by thermal imaging.
Evolved shell surface; optical cloaking more adapted to snowy backgrounds.
Foreclaw glands can inject a neurotoxin capable of paralyzing an Ork's nervous system within three seconds.
Brain implanted with a 'Boss Identification Algorithm,' automatically locking onto individuals with the densest Waaagh! field in a mob.
After receiving Sarah's approval, the twelve Lictors awoke, opening their compound eyes. Soon, rumors of hunters specifically preying on Ork Big 'Uns began to fly across the plains. The Brevis savages called them:
The Assassins.
The situation on the ice plains began to tilt rapidly. In the first week of the Mk. II Frost-Soldiers' deployment, the rate of Ork casualties doubled. The swarm no longer just charged; they actively pursued, encircled, and intercepted. Wounded Frost-Soldiers would retreat to the rear, take a few bites of an Ork corpse, and their wounds would heal at a visible rate before they charged back into the fray.
Even more terrifying for the Orks were the invisible killers. A Big 'Un who had just hacked down dozens of Frost-Soldiers stood atop a pile of corpses, roaring to gather more boys for a charge. Suddenly, its roar cut short. The surrounding Orks turned to see an ice-blue bone spur lodged in their Boss's neck. Its body twitched violently, and three seconds later, it crashed to the ground. There were no enemies in sight—only a pattern resembling a purple eye abruptly appearing in the snow.
The Assassins' hits never missed.
Within a month, over a hundred significant Ork settlements on the Brevis Ice Plains were eradicated. The remaining Orks began to retreat deeper, back to the extreme glacial zones where even the savages refused to set foot.
Moreover, as the Mekboyz continued to die, the Orks' technological level began to regress. The war-rigs, killa kans, and artillery that once plagued humanity were gradually abandoned because no one was left to repair or build them. The remaining Orks began to return to their most primitive form, bodies covered in tattoos, wielding only choppas, relying on muscle and brute force.
The Snakebites Clan emerged.
This was the most primitive and savage clan among the Orks. They were deeply distrustful of complex technology, believing that loud, "bangy" guns were tools for the weak, far less reliable than a choppa and a squigoth. They looked upon the technological creations of other Orks with absolute disdain.
Raynor's strategic goal had essentially been achieved.