BANG! BANG! BANG!
Bullets hammered into Nyx. Beside the Warboss stood four or five Orks of comparable size — his bodyguards, ever stationed at the flanks of his throne like living statues. Nyx's attention had been wholly consumed by the Warboss; he had overlooked these guardians lurking in shadow.
Now, he sensed a double blessing incoming.
Nyx flicked his wrist. The warheads, tearing through the air, abruptly froze mid‑flight — as though they had struck an invisible wall. Faint electrical currents coiled between the fusillade, crackling softly.
"Wot da zog?! Da shoota ain't movin'!" One guard's eyes bulged.
"Ow should I know?! Ask da boss!" Another Ork beside him raised his pistol stock and clubbed him over the head.
The greenskins' response was predictably brutish. After a moment of confusion, a different guard bellowed: "Da shoota's zogged! Jus' go in an' krump 'im good! If I chop dis golden tin‑can, I'll be boss too!"
The instant his roar subsided — before he could even charge — the figure upon the throne backhanded him across the compartment. Ork Warboss Fistgurt grinned, yellow tusks bared, and forced a terrible smile at Nyx, deeming him worthy.
"Golden tin‑can! You'z strong!" His voice was like two slabs of rusted iron grinding together. "You'z worth fightin'. I'm Big Fistgurt — when I smash yer brain in, you'z remember dat name!"
Before his words had faded, Gurt had already vaulted from his throne‑platform. A fierce WAAAGH!! energy field coiled about him like a living thing. In one hand, he clutched a machete twice the size of an average Ork's; in the other, a pistol thick as a cannon barrel. He clearly regarded Nyx as an equal — a true king‑to‑king duel.
Nyx cared nothing for this greenskin's intellect. On the contrary, he appreciated the... food's... optimistic outlook.
The colossal blade screamed as it descended, aimed directly at Nyx's skull. Amid the guards' deafening war cries and stomping feet, the machete struck its target with apparent certainty.
"BOSS IZ DA BEST!"
"BOSS KRUMPED 'IM!"
The Boyz' applause fuelled Gurt's momentum. But the next second, he sensed something amiss — the blade was lodged in the enemy's pauldron, unable to advance another inch.
"Dis golden tin‑can... Ow come 'e'z so 'ARD?!"
"Is that all the strength you have?" Nyx's voice was frigidly calm. He had not even moved; he had caught the giant blade one‑handed.
Gurt's green face darkened. Enraged, he discarded his sidearm, seized the knife‑hilt with both massive fists, braced his entire body, and pushed down with his purest, rawest might!
The blade reluctantly advanced half an inch — and stopped. The golden armour remained immaculate; not a single white scratch marred its surface.
The Ork Warboss's face was now thoroughly green‑black. A certain primitive sense of crisis finally overrode his battle‑lust; his cunning instincts reasserted themselves.
"Golden tin‑can... You'z more ornery dan me! I ain't playin'! LEG IT!"
He released the machete, spun around, and attempted to burst through a lateral bulkhead to escape.
He was calm. Nyx was not satisfied.
CRACK—
A crisp, dense snapping sound issued from within Big Fistgurt's colossal frame. Before the dumbfounded gazes of every Ork guard, their invincible Warboss crumpled to the deck like a sack of hollow bones.
Nyx flexed his wrist — as though it had been nothing.
"One." He murmured under his breath, then raised his eyes to the remaining greenskins, frozen in place.
Under Nyx's gaze, the fear lurking in the depths of these beasts' souls at last fully awakened. In this moment, they were as mice exposed before a apex predator — even their sobs and gasps caught in their throats.
"Arthas. Dispatch a salvage team to my coordinates. Ensure all Ork prisoners are transferred."
With Nyx's final command, this operation to board the Ork warship officially concluded. The yield exceeded expectations — the long, tedious Warp voyage had finally gained new vitality through the arrival of these greenskins.
Nyx could already see himself, transformed into a gardener, neatly dividing greenskin hides into portions and planting them in soil. After a few weeks' wait — a fresh harvest of greenskins.
Sons and grandsons, in endless succession. If he could decode the Ork genetic sequence, he might become humanity's hero in solving the food crisis... At the very least, the XI Legion's table was about to become far more bountiful.
Half an hour later, the statistical results were presented. Among the five Ork battle‑barges, over one hundred Orks and fifty Gretchin met Nyx's requirements. Compared to the original tens of thousands of greenskins aboard, this number was modest — but certainly sufficient.
This boarding action had caused the fleet to drift slightly from the Great Crusade's main force. Now, it was time to sample the fruits of his labour.
An Ork feast — surely an unmissable experience in the Warhammer universe. Nyx mused as he approached the terrified Gretchin, who had already read Nyx's intention in his eyes.
Just as he reached out, however — Arthas hurried to his side, his voice tinged with unease:
"Father. A violent Warp storm is raging ahead. We... have completely lost contact with the main expeditionary force."
Lost?
Impossible. Even in the Warp, how could the Emperor permit the XI Legion to lose contact?
"Remain calm." Nyx's tone was steady as ever. "The Emperor would never sit idle while the XI Legion drifts in the Warp. When the storm abates, He will lead us back to the fleet."
Arthas trusted Nyx implicitly. Hearing this, his relief was immediate — and his gaze, as it returned to the captive Orks, gradually converged with Nyx's own.
But in that moment —
"WAAAGH!!"
A war cry, as though torn from the depths of the soul itself, pierced the Gellar field and the battle‑barge's heavy armour, reverberating through every vessel! The captive Orks, who had been thoroughly cowed, suddenly rekindled their battle‑spirit. They thrashed and roared in panic:
"DAT'S GORK! DAT'S MORK! GORK AN' MORK AIN'T ABANDONED US! DEY'Z COMIN' TO SAVE US!"
Gork and Mork — the gods projected by the Ork race's collective will into the Warp. Their aspect is that of two colossal greenskins, eternally locked in combat. They embody the most fundamental truth of the Ork people: Gork is brutal but cunning, and Mork is cunning but brutal.
"Hmph." Nyx's tone was dismissive. "Those two fools... merely sub‑sub‑deities of the Warp."
Before he had even finished speaking, he suddenly recalled the existence of Warp gods — still a proscribed topic within the Imperium.
His sons, it seemed, were unaware of this.
...Well. Never mind.
The storm. The loss of contact. The Ork gods. This cascade of changes is clearly abnormal.
It seems I'll need to 'step outside' and see for myself.