The Great Crusade's main fleet had temporarily left Nyx behind. To fulfil his promise, he was now committed to a monumental undertaking: fabricating and implanting Saint Eggs for 25,000 sons. In this process, his sole assistant was Chestnut.
Fortunately, the remediation process proved far smoother than anticipated. By harvesting specific genetic fragments already present within an Astartes' body, the original 'gene‑seed' could be cleanly transfigured into a Saint Egg — far less invasive than compulsory extraction and reimplantation. It was, however, no less mentally taxing than building from scratch.
Thus, Nyx's daily routine shifted from leisurely 'decadence' to grinding Saint Eggs, day in and day out. After nearly six months, he felt he had reached his limit — everything he now laid eyes on seemed to resemble a gene‑seed.
During this period, Nyx also completed the Legion's renaming: the 'Star Wardens'. The name was inspired by the 'Star Wardens' to which his Captain had belonged in his previous existence as a Space King warrior.
Nyx felt it was high time he found something — anything — else to occupy himself, demon or fairy, lest he feared he would, sooner or later, become a mindless gene‑seed himself.
The daily Saint Egg fabrication was not, in itself, unbearable. What truly oppressed him was the Emperor's arrangement: this 'Old Forced Deng' had actually dispatched Custodians to supervise him on‑site.
This had completely deprived Nyx of even the modest pleasure of pursuing 'blasphemous' research in his spare time.
He had even begun to worry that, upon the project's completion, his lustrous golden hair might fall out, compelling him to join the 'Original Bald Family'. As for the one‑egg Aba's celestial braid? Nyx remained equally adamant in his refusal.
Of course, the Emperor had also granted Nyx considerable benefits on this expedition. For instance, the 'Planetary Gift Package' to which every Primarch was entitled. Since Nyx had touched down on the same world as Curze and ceded Nostramo to his brother, he had, until now, possessed neither a homeworld nor a mustering ground.
This time, he was permitted to select a Paradise World as his expeditionary base camp, along with its surrounding star systems. Furthermore, these worlds would enjoy several standard years of tax exemption.
Malcador had also informed him that, in due course, Nyx would be assigned a Mechanicum adept. Nyx's view on this was: as many as you like. He could just pilot the Typhon directly to Mars. The moment he revealed so much as a trace of the Space King's power, the oil‑worshippers would likely prostrate themselves in worship — and even the Omnissiah they venerated might have to be substituted.
Nyx wasn't greedy. He calculated that he could pre‑emptively reject 'Dorkauger', who had not yet become Fabricator General.
Once the benefits were accounted for, however, the rest was up to Nyx himself. The Imperium would provide no assistance whatsoever in constructing any facilities upon his chosen world. Upon learning this, Nyx felt an overwhelming urge to personally welcome Malcador and the Emperor — was this even remotely civilised?
Given the nature of the Warhammer universe, even a Paradise World would take several years to build from scratch. By the time construction was complete, the tax holiday would have long since expired, and the oppressive 'Eleventh Legion Levy' would be sufficient to reduce a Paradise World back to its primordial state overnight.
Suffice it to say, those two old relics never entered an unfavourable transaction.
"Sigh... The cake is perfectly round, but I can't even see the Paradise World the Emperor supposedly reserved for me..."
Nyx lay sprawled across his laboratory table. This was his brief respite. The two Custodians assigned to oversee him had just returned to the Bucephelus to report on his progress.
"Father! We have a situation!"
Arthas burst into the laboratory. As the first warrior to complete Saint Egg transfiguration, he had now fully comprehended Nyx's identity as the Space King.
"What situation?!"
Nyx snapped to full alertness. His entire body felt rusted from the monotony of his repetitive labour.
"Unidentified vessels detected. Preliminary analysis indicates an Ork fleet!"
Orks?
An image of ramshackle scrap‑hulks that nevertheless functioned miraculously flashed through Nyx's mind. There was no time to dwell on it. He immediately hurried to the bridge command centre.
There, on the tactical display, five Ork warships were clearly visible. They were cobbled together from roughly welded fragments of colossal asteroids and ship debris, studded with spikes, crude armour plating, and a horrifying number of gun turrets. Dense red paint was splashed across their hulls, and crude Ork glyphs — symbolising violence and speed — were daubed in an even more jarring yellow.
Most striking of all: a layer of unstable, pulsating Waaagh! energy fields enveloped their hulls — the core of their ability to savage the Warp. At this moment, the fleet was accelerating towards the Typhon at considerable speed.
Heh. That style was unmistakably Ork... Only Orks could make creations comparable to space junk not only function, but function properly.
At this moment, Nyx cared not that he had become separated from the main fleet. He simply wanted to taste what 'Ork skewers' were like.
"First‑round light lance salvo. Prepare for boarding action and intercept this Ork fleet." Nyx issued his order decisively. "Do not let these greenskins damage our ship."
The command was given. The entire Typhonimmediately went to highest battle readiness. Every Star Warden warrior was at their station in an instant. The colossal lance batteries aboard the battle‑barge began charging; the cold hum of energy echoed through the compartments. They awaited only their Primarch's order.
"All warships — engage!"
As flagship, the Typhon was first to loose a dense torrent of energy. It was followed by the light lances of frigates both large and small, lancing through the Warp‑shadow, converging into a destructive web of beams. Had Nyx not intended to board, this fleet's firepower alone would have reduced the Ork vessels to cosmic dust.
After nearly a full minute of saturation bombardment, the once‑frenzied Waaagh! shields on the Ork fleet's outer hulls flickered and weakened. Only sparse green light still crawled across their fractured armour. Seeing this, Nyx did not hesitate — he gave the order to launch boarding craft.
As assault boats shot from their launch bays like arrows from a bowstring, Nyx — who could no longer contain himself — chose the most direct path: teleportation.
Warp teleportation was hazardous, but for Nyx, this distance remained well within his control.
A blinding flash of golden lightning erupted in the command centre. Nyx's form vanished.
The next instant, he materialised precisely within the most elaborately and aggressively painted of the five Ork vessels.
The moment he landed, Nyx's boot came down — reducing an unlucky Ork boy to meat paste. The surrounding greenskins shrieked in terror and scrambled to cower behind a formidable‑looking Ork.
This Ork was attired unusually: a mechanical bionic eye glowed red; one arm had been replaced with an enormous metal claw — evidently the warboss of this Ork clan.
"GOLDEN TIN‑CAN! YOU DARE STOMP MY BOY TO DEATH?!" The warboss bellowed deafeningly, brandishing his claw as he charged. "I'LL EAT YA AND HANG YER HEAD ON ME FLAGPOLE! WAAAGH!!"
Facing the frenzied, onrushing foe, Nyx merely glanced at him calmly.
Before the assembled Orks could even register what had happened, the warboss's roar abruptly ceased. His colossal body crumpled to the deck, returned to the embrace of Gork and Mork.
Nyx nudged the still‑sparking metallic debris beneath his boot, shaking his head with faint distaste.
"Heavy metals are seriously above acceptable limits... This one's not fit for barbecue."