Following Dominic's command, the Imperial armada immediately shifted its formation.
The Gemstone and three Mars-class battlecruisers formed a mutual flanking wedge, charging at the absolute front of the column. Over twenty cruisers and fifty frigates deployed symmetrically along the flanks and rear of the spearhead, establishing a tight, layered protective perimeter. The entire fleet resembled a honed plasteel blade, piercing straight into the center of the greenskin defensive screen.
"Open fire!"
The moment the directive left Dominic's lips, the Gemstone's three dorsal lances unleashed simultaneously. Three blinding shafts of pure white thermal energy tore through the absolute dark of space, instantly impacting the vanguard Ork warship. The greenskin vessel lacked even the baseline reaction window to cycle its crude thrusters before the lances bored clean through its primary hull. A massive detonation bloomed into the vacuum, tearing the Ork warship into countless drifting shards of scrap.
Immediately following the opening volley, the Nova Cannons of the three battlecruisers discharged in near-unison. The physics-defying main shells slammed into the massing Ork vessels, punching straight through over a dozen light greenskin hulls before igniting into a cascading, violent firestorm.
The greenskin fleet had clearly failed to anticipate such unbridled aggression from the Imperial vanguard, catching them completely off guard as the concentrated military mass spearheaded through their lines. Their command structure dissolved into instantaneous chaos, individual captains frantically rotating their prows to bring their crude batteries to bear against the approaching column.
However, their return fire was entirely too fragmented. Furthermore, the vast majority of the Ork vessels sat at such severe distances from the penetration vector that they possessed zero capacity to inflict effective structural trauma. The sporadic macro-slugs that managed to strike the Gemstone's void shields triggered nothing more than a sequence of localized ripples, failing to even threaten a collapse of the defensive matrix. Left with no alternative, the outlying Ork captains were forced to burn their engines, desperately attempting to close the distance and envelop the human column.
Yet, precisely as Raynor had calculated, greenskin technology suffered from fatal structural limitations during the early to mid-stages of an escalation. The quality of their hulls was wildly inconsistent; some vessels were engineered with exceptional armor plating and raw fire volume but possessed abysmal propulsion parameters, crawling through the void like iron turtles. Others prioritized pure velocity, moving at staggering speeds but remaining so structurally fragile that a handful of macro-cannon rounds could break their hulls in two.
Their naval doctrine had traditionally relied on sheer numerical superiority—swarming out in a dense, overwhelming mass to suffocate their target under a mountain of hulls. But now, because they had stretched their defensive array thin across the entire orbital trajectory, they had inadvertently granted the Imperial vanguard the tactical freedom to orchestrate a sequence of localized, isolated engagements.
The Imperial armada was forced to confront only a handful of Ork warships at any given drop, completely bypassing the threat of a multi-vector encirclement by a numerically superior foe. The Gemstone and its supporting battlecruisers maintained an unyielding momentum, tearing through the defensive lines like a hot blade through synth-flesh, systematically liquidating every Ork hull that drifted into their trajectory. Along the periphery, the supporting cruisers and frigates operated at maximum fire volume, swatting down every light raider and crude fighta-bomma that attempted to close the distance.
The greenskin defensive line proved as fragile as paper, cleanly split open by the raw kinetic mass of the Imperial spearhead. By the time the Ork captains operating across the distant sectors realized the scope of the disaster and executed a full course correction to intercept, the opportunity had slipped past them entirely. The distances separating them from the penetration column were too immense; by the time their thrusters crossed the intercept threshold, the Imperial vanguard had already punched deep into the lower orbital layers. Furthermore, throughout their transit, these reinforcing Ork detachments faced continuous harassment and interception from the Imperial frigate screen, suffering catastrophic operational casualties.
In under two hours of continuous naval engagement, the Imperial fleet shattered the greenskins' orbital grid completely, successfully establishing a dominant presence directly above the planet Dorito.
"Magnificent! The breakthrough is secure!"
Inside the grand bridge of the Gemstone, the morale of the tactical officers surged to a fever pitch. Dominic let out a quiet breath of relief, a triumphant smile surfacing on his face.
The foundational phase of the operation was complete.
"Direct all warships to lock onto their pre-assigned terrestrial coordinates and initiate orbital bombardment!" Dominic commanded loudly. "Prioritize high-value surface infrastructure, orbital docks, Mekboy workshops, and cultivation fields! Do not conserve ammunition reserves!"
"By your command, Lord!"
Following Dominic's directive, every warship outside of the perimeter picket screen unleashed its full destructive volume simultaneously. Countless lance-shafts and macro-shells rained down upon the crust of planet Dorito. A continuous chain of thunderous detonations reverberated through the atmosphere; the tectonic plates shuddered under the kinetic impact, and the upper atmosphere was painted a violent crimson by the blooming firestorms. Greenskin scrap-structures collapsed into rubble under the weight of the bombardment, and entire valleys of squig-mushrooms were reduced to ash in an instant.
Bearing the absolute brunt of the opening orbital salvo was none other than Ragnar's Cauldron City. As the largest metropolitan greenskin concentration on Dorito and the primary seat of Ragnar's authority, its layout was the most sprawling, its scrap-spires the tallest, and its profile the most unmistakable from high orbit. A massive concentration of macro-ordnance focused directly over Cauldron City, systematically transforming the entire settlement into a raging sea of promethium and fire.
...
Meanwhile, inside the subterranean command bunker situated deep beneath Cauldron City.
Ragnar, Yadodo, and over a dozen Warbosses were clustered around a crude tactical table, hammering out the finer points of the looming ambush strategy.
"The second dem oomies burn through their ammo reserves, we launch from every single tunnel and trapdoor, clamping the pocket tight around 'em!" Ragnar roared with immense excitement, his massive iron ladle carving aggressive lines through the air. "I'm gonna personally seize dat one-armed humie noble, toss 'im into da great pot, and stew 'im into a proper batch of meat-mush!"
"Right! Stew all dem oomies into mush!" the surrounding Warbosses cheered in a chaotic chorus.
Right at that moment, the entire subterranean command bunker sustained a violent, tectonic tremor. Thick clouds of rock-dust and debris cascaded from the reinforced ceiling beams; the massive iron bowls resting on the table flipped over, sending streams of hot stew splashing across the dirt floor.
"What da zog was dat? We havin' an earthquake?" Ragnar growled, his brow furrowing in deep irritation.
Before the last vibration could dissipate, an Ork communications Boy came tumbling through the bunker threshold, literally crawling across the floor as absolute panic blanked his features:
"B-Boss! It's proper bad!"
"Da oomie fleet broke through! Dey've claimed the sky directly above Dorito, and dey're flattening the surface wit' everything dey've got!"
"WHAT?!"
Ragnar surged to his feet with a thunderous roar, staring at the communications boy in pure, unadulterated disbelief.
"Dat ain't possible! Where's my fleet?!"
"Weren't our warships supposed to hold 'em out in da void? How'd they punch down here dis fast?!"
"Our fleet got smashed into scrap!" the boy cried out, his voice cracking with panic. "Dem oomies played it proper dirty! They packed all dere big ships into a single giant wedge and smashed straight through one side of our screen! Our boyz couldn't block 'em!"
Ragnar's complexion shifted into a dark, iron-green hue. He whipped his massive head around, locking his bloodshot eyes onto Yadodo, his gaze vibrating with pure, unbridled fury.
"Yadodo!"
Ragnar let out a deafening roar, his localized Waaagh! field expanding violently in a fraction of a second, filling the entire subterranean command bunker with an oppressive, luminescent green aura.
"You dared to trick me, you miserable runt! You swore dem oomies would get dragged down and stalled by our scattered layout! How'd they spearhead straight into my sky?!"
"I'm gonna rip your head clean off!"
Blinded by sheer bloodlust, Ragnar launched his massive, four-meter-tall frame directly across the bunker at Yadodo. His colossal, clawed hand tore through the air with a vicious howl, snapping downward to crush the Grot. Simultaneously, several of his personal Nob guard leveled their choppas and surged forward to cut off any avenue of escape.
Although Yadodo had managed to develop a physical stature comparable to an ordinary Ork Boy, he remained exceptionally small and fragile when measured against the towering, mountain-like mass of Warlord Ragnar. Yet, his kinetic reflexes were phenomenally sharp.
With a fluid, calculated tilt of his frame, he slid cleanly past the trajectory of Ragnar's descending claw. Before the kinetic backdraft could unbalance him, his feet shifted across the dirt floor like a sleek river-eel, dipping directly through the narrow gap separating two lunging Nob guards.
"Control your fury, Warlord! Control your fury!" Yadodo shouted at the top of his lungs as he kept his frame in motion. "This is merely an operational variable! The opening phase suffered a reverse, but we hold the contingency! We still hold the ultimate countermeasure! Have you forgotten?!"
Having struck nothing but empty air, Ragnar's fury spiked exponentially. He spun on his heel, locking his sights onto the fleeing Grot once more as he initiated a secondary charge:
"Contingency?! What bloody countermeasure?! If you don't map out a logical answer right dis second, I'm gonna mince you into squig-feed!"
Yadodo navigated the interior architecture of the bunker with extreme agility, darting between scrap-iron tables and heavy command chairs. Despite the numerical advantage held by Ragnar and his personal guard, the brutes found it practically impossible to establish a lock on his position.
As he maintained his evasive loops, Yadodo cast a sharp look back at the raging Warlord, shouting over the din of the bombardment:
"Warlord, I calculated the probability of this specific scenario from the very beginning!"
"I hold a genuine countermeasure—a flawless trap that ensures not a single one of those oomies will leave this system alive!"
Ragnar brought his towering frame to a sudden halt, breathing in heavy, ragged gasps as his bloodshot eyes locked onto Yadodo. His massive chest heaved violently, his aura radiating lethal intent.
"Fine. I'll grant you one final sequence to explain yourself."
Ragnar ground his massive tusks together, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble: "Speak, runt. What's dis grand countermeasure?"
Yadodo skidded to a sudden halt, throwing his hands high above his head. Yet his features betrayed not a single shred of panic; instead, his lips parted into a smile of absolute, serene confidence.
Taking a quick breath, he shouted back at Ragnar:
"Warlord! Master your rage! How could I possibly play you for a fool?"
"I calculated from the very beginning that the one-armed humie noble would act on such impulsive instincts!"
"Stalling them with a scattered fleet grid would have been ideal, but its failure alters nothing!" Yadodo pointed a sharp finger toward the bunker ceiling, his voice ringing with powerful resonance.
"I recognized from the absolute baseline that given our current void assets, we possessed zero capacity to halt the main Imperial line in a symmetrical engagement."
"Rather than squandering our warships in a meat-grinder, it was vastly superior to deliberately expose a vulnerability—leading them to believe our defenses were fundamentally broken, letting their pride blind their judgment!"
Ragnar narrowed his red eyes, his expression locked in deep, heavy suspicion:
"Deliberately selling a blind spot? Then why didn't you brief me on dis outline beforehand?!"
"Had I disclosed the parameters prematurely, the Warlord's performance would have lacked authentic conviction!" Yadodo spread his hands, his features settling into a mask of pure, helpless logic.
"Those humies are exceptionally devious. If our theater presentation lacked absolute realism, how could they feel secure enough to plunge headfirst into Dorito's lower atmosphere?"
"How could they comfortably commit their entire operational focus to flattening our surface?"
"As it stands this very second, their entire armada is clustered inside Dorito's near-orbit gravity well, every single weapon battery locked onto the terrain."
"Their rear sectors are, layout-wise, completely stripped!" Yadodo's eyes flared with intense brilliance, his tone spiking with manic excitement.
"I completed the covert redeployment of the elite shock-fleets belonging to the Blood Axe and Evil Sunz clans days ago!"
"A combined strike force of eighty of our absolute fastest warships, spearheaded by Red Raven—the Blood Axes' most accomplished ambush specialist—was anchored inside the Cluster 3 asteroid field three days ago!"
"Exactly twenty-four hours ago, I transmitted the execution prompt."
"Right now, they are burning their thrusters at maximum velocity toward the Karl II space station!"
"Karl II?" Ragnar blinked his massive eyes, his primitive cognitive tracks adjusting before the tactical realization hit him.
"You mean... we're guttin' dere back door?"
"Precisely!" Yadodo nodded with immense force.
"Every single round of macro-ordnance, promethium reserve, and ration crate those humies rely on must clear transit through the Karl II space station."
"The moment we claim Karl II and sever their logistical supply lines, they become trapped inside our cage!"
"Deprived of munitions, fuel, and rations, then no matter how massive or advanced their warships are, their operational strength will systematically wither away!"
"Furthermore," Yadodo pressed on smoothly.
"Warlord, calculate the historical variable: Dorito previously operated as an agri-world for the Imperium, rendering it immensely valuable to their high command."
"They will never risk reducing this terrain to an absolute, ash-choked dead zone. Their ultimate strategic mandate requires a planetary landing force to reclaim the domain."
"They operate under the delusion that shattering our surface scrap-spires weakens our military mass."
"But they remain entirely blind to the reality that our main fighting forces completed their relocation into the subterranean hives long ago."
"The second their landing echelons descend to the terrain—deprived of continuous orbital fire support from their fleet—our billions of Boyz will swarm the drop zones, tearing them into crimson shreds across the surface!"
The entire subterranean command bunker fell into an instantaneous, dead silence.
Every single Warboss stood entirely paralyzed, staring blankly at Yadodo as absolute disbelief washed across their scarred features.
To their primitive world-view, warfare had never been conceptualized through such multi-layered parameters. To deliberately throw an opening engagement, bait the adversary into an overextended position, sever their line of retreat, and close the iron door for a total slaughter—this level of cunning was ten times more devious than the most underhanded Blood Axe in greenskin history!
Ragnar stood frozen on the dais, his massive iron ladle slowly lowering to his side.
He weighed Yadodo's strategy across his mind; the more he analyzed the parameters, the more structurally flawless it revealed itself to be.
It was true—those humie warships were dangerous, but they could not maintain high orbit indefinitely. They would eventually have to commit boots to the ground.
The second they dared to initiate landing actions—stripped of their heavy orbital cannons—he commanded a standing horde of billions of Boyz. What threat did a few tens of millions of humies pose against those numbers?
Furthermore, if Red Raven successfully seized Karl II and choked off their logistical tail, those oomies would truly have nowhere left to run!
"Dat... dat ain't half bad!" Ragnar slammed his thunderous thigh with a massive hand, the residual fury evaporating from his features.
Though he attempted to maintain his grim, imposing posture to preserve his authority as top Warlord, the subtle twitch at the corner of his jaw revealed his mood had shifted into immense satisfaction.
"So dat was da play! I read you wrong, Yadodo!"
Ragnar strode heavily across the bunker, planting a massive, clawed hand onto the Grot's shoulder, a kinetic impact that nearly drove Yadodo straight into the dirt floor.
"Good! We execute strictly according to your blueprint!"
"Broadcast the directive to the entire horde! Every single Boy is to anchor deep underground—nobody pokes their green snout out!"
"Preserve our numbers, wait for the humie landing units to drop, then we burst from the tunnels and mince 'em all into meat-paste!"
"By your command, Warlord!" the surrounding Warbosses bellowed in a unified roar.
Yadodo let out a quiet breath of relief, discreetly wiping a bead of cold sweat from his green forehead.
That exchange had been exceptionally perilous; a single fraction of an error would have seen him chopped into squig-feed by Ragnar's hand.
Yet, ultimately, every single variable had fallen precisely within his strategic calculations.
He lifted his gaze, staring up toward the heavy rock ceiling of the bunker, his eyes reflecting a deep, unfathomable focus.
One-seven... this time around, how will you formulate your counter?
...
High above planet Dorito.
The Imperial fleet's orbital suppression campaign maintained its relentless cadence.
Countless lance-shafts and macro-slugs rained down upon the terrain as if ammunition reserves carried zero capital value. Every individual kinetic impact sent immense columns of debris and fire storming into the upper atmosphere.
The once-sprawling, emerald mushroom fields were systematically converted into a continuous, raging sea of promethium.
Dominic had explicitly mandated the deployment of specialized anti-flora "Storm-Flame" torpedoes. Upon detonation, these specific payloads generated localized thermal vortices spanning several kilometers in diameter, outputting temperatures peaking in the thousands of degrees—efficiently vaporizing all organic mass into fine ash.
One after another, the fire-cyclone torpedoes slid from the primary launch tubes of the escort screen, falling silently toward the cultivation zones.
The colossal firestorms rotated and migrated across the planetary crust like living cyclones.
Wherever their trajectories drifted, mushrooms, herds of squigs, and greenskin scouting units that had failed to access deep bunkers were instantaneously reduced to charred carbon blocks.
Billowing columns of black smoke pierced straight into the upper atmosphere, staining the skies of Dorito an absolute, pitch black.
The planetary atmosphere became fully saturated with the sharp, acrid stench of scorched plasteel mixed with the distinct, heavy odor of burning organic matter.
"Report, Lord! Landmark Sector 1 has been completely liquidated!"
"Report! The Mekboy installation across Sector 3 has been neutralized!"
"Report! The cultivation belts across Sectors 3 through 7 are completely engulfed; fire parameters have broken past containment thresholds!"
A continuous stream of operational victories flashed across the main comms array of the Gemstone.
Dominic stood positioned before the primary holographic star-map, observing the target nodes as they systematically flipped to a "Liquidated" designation, his expression entirely composed.
Every single variable was executing precisely to his design; he thoroughly enjoyed a theater of war where absolute control remained in his hands.
"My Lord, our macro-munitions reserves have depleted past the one-third threshold."
Right at that moment, his executive adjutant stepped forward, offering a careful prompt: "According to the baseline timeline, we should initiate preparations to break orbit."
Dominic offered a measured nod, checking the chronometer display.
The planetary bombardment had sustained a continuous cadence for a full thirty minutes.
Every high-value strategic target logged in their initial intelligence sweeps had been effectively leveled.
"Very well," Dominic stated, a trace of lingering anticipation in his voice.
"Prepare to execute our final strike sequence."
"All capital hulls, lock onto the registered landmark sectors and discharge all remaining 'Mole' class penetration missiles!"
"The moment the payloads clear the tubes, execute immediate retrograde transit and return to Karl II!"
"By your command, Lord!"
Following Dominic's directive, over a dozen Imperial capital hulls opened their ventral missile bays in perfect synchronicity.
Salvos of heavy, matte-black Mole missiles erupted from the bays with a heavy howl, resembling a swarm of dark arrows plunging straight toward the crust of planet Dorito.
These specialized ordinances were engineered with dense, reinforced adamantium drill-prow warheads, designed to punch through dozens of meters of solid rock and rockcrete before triggering high-explosive payloads deep within the subterranean layers.
Their operational target was simple: the greenskin forces hiding inside the deep bunkers below.
Inside the subterranean command bunker beneath Cauldron City.
Ragnar sat perched on a heavy stone block, aggressively shoving handfuls of meat-mush into his maw as he attempted to stabilize his erratic emotional state. Though Yadodo's strategic outline had offered a genuine path toward ultimate victory, witnessing the structural liquidation of Cauldron City and his meticulously cultivated mushroom fields—assets he had broken his knuckles to construct—cut into his core like a vibro-blade.
That was his personal empire, accrued piece by piece over more than two solar years of ruthless dominance! And in a span of mere thirty minutes, it had been virtually erased.
As the realization settled, Ragnar's eyes bloodied further. Huge, heavy teardrops began cascading down his scarred green cheeks, impacting the subterranean dirt floor with dull, rhythmic spatters.
Along the perimeter, the surviving Warbosses kept their heads bowed, maintaining an absolute, grim silence. Their internal mood mirrored the Warlord's heavy desperation. The losses sustained from the orbital salvo were not merely scrap-spires and vegetation belts; they were the absolute foundations of their domain.
"Devious, miserable oomies," Ragnar ground his tusks together, spitting a low, guttural curse. "I'm gonna squeeze every single ounce of blood capital out of your hides! I'm gonna herd you into the great vat and boil you into paste! I'm gonna—"
Before his verbal threat could finish, the entire subterranean complex sustained another violent kinetic shock. This particular tremor eclipsed every preceding impact in raw magnitude.
Massive slabs of bedrock broke free from the ceiling matrix, hammering into the floor with deafening structural cracks. Severe fissures spiderwebbed across the reinforced rockcrete retaining walls, unleashing torrents of turbid, pressurized subterranean water into the command bay.
"What da zog is happenin' now?!" Ragnar bolted to his feet, casting a wild, defensive glare across the shaking chamber.
"Penetration missiles!" shouted a Mekboy who managed to recognize the distinct vibration frequency above the din. "The oomies launched subterranean burrowers! Claim cover, now!"
Before the warning could even clear the bay, a catastrophic blast erupted within their immediate proximity. A terrifying kinetic shockwave swept through the subterranean command room like a localized tsunami, completely turning the structural layout upside-down.
Ragnar's massive four-meter frame was hurled through the air like a dry leaf, impacting the rear bedrock bulkhead with immense force before being completely buried under a heavy cascade of jagged stone and earth.
Yadodo, operating with instantaneous cognitive reflexes, dived headfirst into a massive, heavy iron vat previously utilized for boiling meat-mush the exact moment the localized shockwave initialized.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A rapid-fire chain of deep-crust detonations reverberated through the planet's interior. One Mole missile after another discharged at varying depth thresholds, throwing the entire tectonic grid of planet Dorito into a violent spasm. Countless deep-layer fortifications folded under the kinetic stress, burying tens of thousands of sheltering greenskins alive beneath mountains of compressed rubble.
The subterranean penetration barrage sustained its devastating cadence for three agonizing minutes.
When the atmospheric vibrations finally settled into a static state, the command bunker had been reduced to a pulverized graveyard of rock. Overturned stone slabs and snapped, twisted structural rebar choked the grid; the air was completely saturated with a dense veil of pulverized dust and the thick aroma of fresh blood.
A long silence passed before a localized mound of debris shifted violently.
Ragnar dragged his form out from beneath the rubble. At this moment, his physical condition was disastrous to the extreme. His green hide was scorched black by flash-burns, riddled with severe punctures that continually leaked thick, emerald blood.
One of his massive arms had been cleanly severed at the elbow by a shearing piece of scrap; the auxiliary maw split across his abdomen had been slashed wide open by a jagged rock edge, spilling half-digested contents onto the dirt floor. His towering four-meter physique appeared visibly shrunken, his internal Waaagh! energy depleted by the structural trauma.
"Cough... hack..." Ragnar hacked violently, spitting out several mouthfuls of dark blood mixed with rock grit.
He surveyed the absolute ruin of his inner sanctum, his eyes drifting over the crushed forms of his personal Nob guard and sub-commanders buried under the rockcrete. A profound, almost childlike wave of sheer grievance rushed into his primitive mind. He had dominated this sector for solar cycles, and he had never sustained such an unbridled, humiliating beating. Never!
He was always the entity executing the slaughter. When had he ever been ground into the dirt like an insignificant runt? His fortress was gone, his cultivation belts lay in ash, his command structure was crippled, and he himself had escaped absolute termination by the barest of margins.
Unable to contain the psychological weight any longer, the colossal Warlord slumped onto the dirt floor and began to wail with unrestrained, roaring grief.
"My Cauldron City... my beautiful mushroom fields... my stew..."
"Devious humies! I'm gonna tear your world apart for dis!"
Right at that moment, a massive iron vat shifted with a heavy metallic CLANG before rolling across the floor. Yadodo crawled out from the interior of the vessel.
His frame was thoroughly coated in congealed meat juices, with several shredded chunks of squig-mushroom dangling from his head-scars, yet through sheer luck, he had emerged from the tectonic collapse entirely free of physical injury. He casually brushed the heavy rock dust from his shoulders and strode over to the weeping Warlord, observing the massive Ork's breakdown with a momentary, highly complex flicker in his eyes.
Yet, that nuance vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced instantly by his characteristic, absolute composure.
"Warlord, cease this display," Yadodo stated quietly. "The theater of war has not concluded."
"Though our surface infrastructure has sustained severe liquidation, our primary combat mass remains operational. Billions of our Boyz are safely secured within the deep-tier networks; our fundamental military capital remains untouched."
"Furthermore, the oomies' window of arrogance is rapidly closing. Red Raven's vanguard fleet must be crossing the outer intercept perimeter of Karl II this very minute."
"In a matter of standard hours, we will clamp the logistics line shut, anchoring them into an absolute dead-end within this system."
"When that threshold crosses, we will extract payment for every ounce of suffering sustained today—returned to them tenfold!"
Ragnar lifted his massive head, his crimson eyes blurred with fluid as he stared down at the Grot. Observing the absolute, unyielding focus vibrating within Yadodo's gaze, the internal sorrow and humiliation consuming his mind rapidly crystallized into an All-consuming, apocalyptic rage.
It was true. The war had not concluded. He still commanded a functional horde of billions. He still held the cards required to exact absolute vengeance.
Ragnar surged to his feet with a thunderous grunt, using his remaining hand to violently wipe the fluid from his features. His gaze snapped back into a feral, murderous lock, his localized Waaagh! aura beginning to churn and flare with renewed kinetic pressure.
"You speak absolute truth, Yadodo," Ragnar's voice emerged as a guttural rasp, fully saturated with lethal intent. "The war ain't over."
"I'm gonna teach dem oomies what happens when you turn Warlord Ragnar into a mad beast!"
"I'm gonna anchor their bones inside Dorito's soil permanently, turning every last humie into fertilizer for my next batch of crops!"
...
Meanwhile, in high orbit above planet Dorito.
"Report, Lord! The final salvo of Mole penetration missiles has cleared the launch racks. All primary subterranean coordinates report confirmed kinetic impacts!"
"Superb!" Dominic offered a satisfied nod. "Direct all capital hulls to execute a full course correction and initiate immediate transit back to Karl II!"
"By your command, Lord!"
The Imperial armada shifted its thruster vectors with mechanical precision, preparing to break orbit. Every bridge officer let out a palpable breath of relief, their features illuminated by the collective satisfaction of an executed operational victory.
This particular orbital suppression sweep had achieved flawless execution parameters. They had not only leveled the vast majority of the greenskins' surface infrastructure, but through the deployment of subterranean penetration missiles, they had also inflicted devastating casualties on the Orks sheltering within the shallow underground bunkers.
According to preliminary baseline assessments compiled by the onboard Tech-Priests, the orbital bombardment had liquidated a minimum threshold of five hundred million greenskin entities, including a significant concentration of Mekboys and localized Warbosses. For the horde occupying Dorito, this constituted a severe structural trauma. A few more systematic iterations of this doctrine would bleed the Orks' military capital dry, rendering the eventual ground landing an exceptionally low-risk operation.
However, the exact moment the Imperial warships completed their alignment change to exit Dorito's gravity well, the bridge's long-range sensor arrays suddenly unleashed a sequence of piercing, high-frequency audio alerts.
"Warning! Warning! High-mass vessel signatures detected! Numerical count approximates one hundred and fifty hulls, closing rapidly along our primary vector of egress!"
"Hmph, nothing more than a disorganized rabble!" Dominic's expression darkened instantly as he strode back to the primary holographic star-map.
Across the projection field, a dense, swarming mass of ruby-red contact nodes was materializing directly along their projected exit trajectory. These specific signatures were no longer operating in the loose, fragmented layout observed during the fleet's inbound run; instead, they had established a highly organized, dense interception screen, completely sealing off the Imperial armada's avenue of escape.
Furthermore, along both flanking vectors and directly to the rear of the Imperial column, additional clusters of red contact nodes were rapidly emerging from sensor shadows.
The reality was absolute: they had been caught within a multi-vector naval encirclement!
Those outlying, scattered Ork warships from the opening engagement had systematically converged onto a single tactical coordinate. They had clearly anticipated that the Imperial armada would execute a retrograde transit following the bombardment phase, deliberately holding their positions out of weapon range to observe the deployment. The moment the Imperial fleet concluded its fire mission and committed to an egress vector with partially depleted ammunition magazines, the greenskins rushed forward in unison to clamp the pocket shut.
"My Lord, we have sustained a full envelopment," the adjutant stated, though his tone remained entirely devoid of panic. "The enemy scrap-hulls outnumber our standing line by a factor of two to one."
Dominic recalled Raynor's prior strategic warnings, offering a slow, calculated nod of agreement.
The greenskins had deliberately thinned their initial presentation to bait the Imperial line deep into orbit. They waited until the armada committed its primary fire volume and drained its ammunition reserves before executing a rapid consolidation to spring the trap.
This level of operational foresight was absolutely detached from standard Ork behavioral patterns!
Right at that exact tactical juncture, the primary secure comms terminal flared to life as Raynor's prioritized link established connection.
"Lord Dominic, it appears our strategic concerns have materialized," Raynor's voice came through the secure comms terminal, entirely level and unhurried.
"Governor Raynor, your assessment was perfectly accurate. We have sustained an operational encirclement by the greenskins, though it should present minimal actual complication."
Dominic remained thoroughly unperturbed. While the enemy fleet possessed a numerical advantage of two to one, the structural quality of their hulls was entirely beneath comparison. The blockading greenskin swarm lacked even a single capital battleship, and their cruiser-weight formations numbered fewer than twenty hulls in total.
Yet, precisely as Dominic initialized command protocols to spearhead the breakthrough, Raynor's terminal received a secondary, high-priority encrypted transmission.
It originated from the reserve commander stationed at the Karl II logistics hub.
"Governor, urgent tactical alert!"
"An immense concentration of greenskin war vessels has materialized along the blind flank of the Karl II space station!"
"Hulls approximate forty in number! Composition is precisely split between the Evil Sunz and Blood Axe clans! They are burning thrusters at maximum vector toward the station!"
Raynor surveyed the incoming telemetry data across his display. The corners of his mouth tilted upward into a subtle, understanding smile.
"Predictable."
The massed fleet enveloping the airspace above planet Dorito was merely a diversionary asset, engineered exclusively to anchor the primary armada in place.
The authentic killing blow was this flanking assault against Karl II.
By severing their line of retreat, the enemy intended to choke them out within the system.
This level of operational misdirection—pinning a superior military force while striking their core logistics—was fundamentally detached from the primitive, linear cognitive capabilities of typical greenskin commanders.
Inevitably, the image of a highly distinct, sharp-eyed Grot surfaced in Raynor's mind.
Yadodo.
Barring him, no other entity could have orchestrated such a parameters-shift.
"It appears your tenure under my command yielded genuine intellectual capital after all," Raynor murmured with a light chuckle, an authentic trace of professional appreciation filtering through his tone.
"To formulate a maneuver of this caliber... highly capable."
"However, it remains insufficient," Raynor's gaze instantly hardened, sharp as a monomolecular blade.
"Since you have seen fit to offer me a lesson in tactics, it is only proper that I return the gesture."
"I shall demonstrate to you the baseline definition of authentic strategy."
Raynor first transmitted a brief data-pulse to Dominic, advising the Navy Commander to execute his orbital breakthrough with absolute focus, rendering any concerns regarding the rear sectors entirely redundant.
Immediately following, he opened an independent, high-encryption comms channel.
The link initialized within fractions of a second, a sharp, youthful voice responding through the receiver:
"Governor, state your directives."
"Garth, we have a cluster of uninvited guests charting a course toward Karl II without proper clearance," Raynor stated evenly.
"Mobilize our personal deployment and neutralize the anomaly."
"Understood!" Garth's response was immediate and unyielding.
"Superb," Raynor nodded. "Maintain an absolute emphasis on a rapid, decisive termination sequence."
"By your command, Governor!"
The link severed.
Raynor stepped up to the secondary viewport of the Apex Obsidian, tracking the distant, fire-ringed silhouette of planet Dorito. His gaze remained unfathomably deep.
Greenskins, Mankind, alongside the hidden, corrupting threads of Tzeentch and Nurgle shifting in the dark.
Every single faction within this sector had been thoroughly drawn into the grinding gears of this theater.
The grand chessboard of the Calixis Sector was fully deployed.
And he would be the entity executing the ultimate checkmate.
...
Meanwhile, along the primary supply line running directly to the rear of the Karl II space station.
Dozens of Imperial warships, proudly flying the crossed grey standards of Brevis, were mobilizing into an tight intercept formation with extreme operational speed.
Indeed—while Raynor himself had boarded the Apex Obsidian to accompany the primary Tithe fleet to Dorito, he had deliberately held the core martial mass of the Brevis Expeditionary Fleet back at Karl II.
He had deduced from the outset that the greenskins would almost certainly avoid a symmetrical void confrontation.
On the high bridge of a Lunar-class cruiser, Garth stood clad in his matte-black power armor, his gauntlet resting firmly upon the hilt of his master-crafted chainsword. His eyes were hard as flint.
"All vessels, lock your attention!" Garth bellowed across the fleet-wide grid.
"Target parameters: the mixed greenskin fleet closing on the flank of Karl II. Engage maximum acceleration vectors!"
"The time has arrived to demonstrate the definitive martial capability of Brevis to these Navy traditionalists!"
Following Garth's directive, dozens of capital thrusters ignited simultaneously, driving the warships straight toward the approaching Evil Sunz and Blood Axe vanguard.
...
The exact moment the distinct grey silhouettes of the Brevis Expeditionary Fleet emerged from the massive structural shadow of Karl II, Red Raven—the Blood Axe chieftain—clenched his massive choppa until his knuckles popped.
Standing upon the primary command deck of the Blood Fang, he monitored the pristine, textbook wedge formations materializing across his holographic array, a low, bitter growl vibrating within his throat.
Those incoming warships were coated in uniform matte-grey ablative plating, their crossed sector standards clearly identifiable against the void.
The hull armor of each Lunar-class cruiser vastly eclipsed the crude, welded scrap plating of his own vessels; their weapon emplacements were arranged with flawless geometric discipline, and the luminescent hum of their void shield matrices shimmered aggressively against the dark.
In stark contrast, the forty vessels under his direct command were fundamentally ill-suited for a frontal brawl. Half the detachment consisted of Evil Sunz high-speed raiders, constructed from plating as thin as a ration tin, while the remaining half comprised Blood Axe ambush skirmishers—vessels carrying abysmal fire volume, entirely unequipped to contest a locked battle line.
"Boss, they've established a hard lock on our vector! They're accelerating to intercept!" the lookout boy shouted, his voice cracking with panic.
Red Raven closed his eyes, taking a deep, heavy breath.
He could scent the sharp tang of promethium oil mixed with the heavy, distinct sweat of the horde filling the deck; he could hear the erratic, chaotic breathing of his remaining Boyz.
He recognized with absolute clarity that Yadodo's grand design had reached its terminal boundary right here.
Those cunning humies had anticipated the flanking maneuver from the very beginning, laying an absolute trap and waiting for them to dive straight into the pocket.
"The wind's completely gone," Red Raven opened his eyes, his tone dropping into an eerie, frozen calm.
He unclasped a heavy trophy necklace strung with the skulls of his past adversaries, casually tossing it to his personal Nob bodyguard.
"Tell all the Boyz: rotate the prows and burn the engines straight into 'em."
"Even if we go to da scrap-heap today, we're takin' a few of dem grey oomies down wit' us!"
"WAAAAAGH!"
The bodyguard unleashed a deafening roar, translating the command down the scrap-comms.
The momentary panic rippling through the greenskin fleet vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, manic surge of kinetic velocity. Forty Ork warships altered their headings in unison, their crude engines belching thick, toxic black exhaust into space like a swarm of moths hurling themselves directly into a plasma furnace, charging headlong into the Brevis line.
...
Simultaneously, the breakthrough operation above planet Dorito was executing with mechanical, calculated precision.
Dominic stood positioned at the absolute center of the Gemstone's bridge. Across his primary tactical display, the emerald nodes representing the Imperial fleet functioned like a dense, unyielding iron sphere, rolling forward with unstoppable momentum.
The surrounding wave of red contact nodes slammed into the formation like a chaotic tide, only to be systematically shattered against the perimeter of the iron sphere time and time again.
"Portside Escort Group 3, execute immediate evasive maneuvers; concentrate lance fire exclusively onto the primary propulsion blocks of the enemy cruisers!"
"Battlecruiser elements, prime synchronized macro-salvos. Target parameters: the dense concentration of enemy hulls directly along our forward vector!"
"Maintain absolute formation integrity. Do not break the line to pursue isolated targets. Our strategic mandate is a clean breakthrough, not a total liquidation campaign!"
Dominic's voice remained entirely level and clear, each operational directive tracking to its target node with absolute precision.
He refused to gamble for rapid glory, nor did he allow the reality of a numerical encirclement to degrade his composure. He commanded his fleet with methodical, calculated steps, advancing line by line as though he were navigating a formal Navy review within Segmentum Solar rather than a treacherous orbital grid crawling with greenskins.
Conversely, the greenskins' offensive remained completely fragmented and chaotic.
The Goff clan vessels—the only elements possessing the structural durability to absorb heavy kinetic trauma—had been virtually wiped from the theater during the previous engagement at Karl II. The surviving Bad Moons and Deathskulls ships possessed zero fire volume capable of contesting the raw output of the Tithe fleet.
Their low-grade macro-cannons hammered against the Imperial void shields, yielding nothing more than a series of faint, localized ripples across the energy matrices.
In return, every synchronized salvo unleashed by the Imperial line inflicted catastrophic structural trauma, routinely snapping an Ork warship cleanly in half. Massive spheres of plasma fire blossomed continuously across the void, marking the final detonations of the greenskin vessels. Fragmented hull debris and frozen green forms drifted aimlessly into the dark, rapidly swallowed by the freezing vacuum of space.
"Report, Lord! The enemy's left flank exhibits definitive signs of operational collapse!"
"Report! We have advanced our vanguard vector by three hundred thousand kilometers!"
"Report! Confirmed enemy hull casualties have broken past the seventy-vessel threshold!"
As the sequence of tactical victories updated across the deck, a relaxed, confident atmosphere began to settle among the bridge officers.
Dominic, however, maintained his austere composure.
He monitored the rapidly diminishing red contact nodes on the map, stating calmly:
"Maintain absolute vigilance. Though the greenskins lack baseline structural discipline, their numerical mass remains substantial."
"Preserve the formation grid. Advance steadily."
This brutal engagement of breakthrough and interception sustained its cadence for twelve grueling hours.
By the time the local star broke past the horizon of planet Dorito, shedding light across the war-torn atmosphere, the blockading greenskin fleet finally shattered under the pressure.