Torrents of bolt rounds from the Stormbird tore through the Ork horde below, blasting apart bodies in bursts of green gore and black smoke. Explosions rippled through the battlefield as the gunship cleared a bloody path.
Then, accompany with loud thump, the Paladins drop down from the lower ramp of the Stormbird. The broken ground shook from the impact and the air fill with a new sound, the crackles of the power weapons.
As the Stormbird finish the deployment of Paladins and empty his guns, it fly away with a loud roar of thrusters, its engines howling as it ascended back into the smoke-choked skies, leaving only contrails and carnage in its wake.
The moment it cleared the battlefield, the clash began.
The Orks, who had been lurking in cover, wary of the flying steel box that had torn through their ranks with relentless fire, now surged forward with renewed fury.
With crude blades raised and bellowing war cries, they charged the Paladins—drawn by bloodlust and the lure of plunder. The sight of gleaming armor and crackling power swords only fueled their frenzy. To them, it wasn't just a battle—it was a chance to claim the shiny things for themselves, and maybe brag about it for years to come.
With their eyes so focused on the shiny things, many of them, especially those at the front didn't see the guns that pointing at them.
Before they even got to striking distance, many of their heads explode, due to the botl rounds fire from the Paladins combi-weapons.
The Paladin, as previously introduced, is a specialist drawn from the Paladin's Chamber. Each is rigorously trained to master all forms of close-combat weaponry, serving as reserve swordmasters who may be elevated to the rank of Champion when needed. However, their training does not end there—every Paladin is also proficient in the use of long-ranged weaponry, allowing them to adapt to any battlefield condition.
When deployed as their own independent squad, Paladins operate in a dual-role formation, separated into two distinct but complementary functions.
The Shieldbearers, true to their name, wield storm shields and act as the vanguard. They are the bulwark of the squad, absorbing enemy fire, drawing aggression, and anchoring the line. Their purpose is not merely to endure—but to stand immovable.
Behind them are the Judicators, armed with combi-weapons—most commonly bolters paired with plasma or melta attachments. These warriors provide lethal supporting fire, eliminating key threats before they can reach the Shieldbearers or disrupting enemy formations. Whether picking off dangerous foes or suppressing advancing mobs, the Judicators ensure the Shieldbearers can focus entirely on the melee at hand.
Slowly, the Paladins began advancing toward the Ork Boss, with Galahad at the forefront.
Wielding his twin power swords, he was a storm of righteous fury—each swing a blur of light and death. No Ork could come close without losing a head, an arm, or being cleaved entirely in half—whether down the middle or diagonally across bone and muscle. Sparks and blood flew in his wake as he carved a direct path through the horde, his armor slick with the Xenos gore, yet untouched.
As the Paladins advance, the Ork horde started to shift. The Orks fighting the Imperial forces within the ruin starting to become lesser and lesser as they begin to move towards three area.
Their numbers, once surging across the ruined city, were now pulling back from the ongoing skirmishes with Imperial forces. The reason became clear—they were converging on three points of resistance.
The first are Galahad and the Paladins, that currently cutting through the Orks with merciless precision.
The second are the Emperor's Champion, leading thirty-eight Black Templars in a relentless spearhead toward the Warboss. Every step they took left bodies broken behind them, their advance a black tide of vengeance.
The third are within a ruined bastion, shattered by shellfire, now serving as a field hospital. There, Chapter Master Cormarion and the Lamenters held firm, fighting in defense of the wounded and the medicae teams within. Their golden armor was dulled by ash and blood, but their resolve burned like fire.
The Orks could smell glory. They wanted a fight worth boasting of.
And now, they had found three.
As the Imperial forces within the ruin beginning to regain control over their previous lost sector, a new wave of reinforcement have arrived, and accompany by larger transport ships too.
The Stormbird, marked with the twin-headed eagle of the Imperium and the sigil of the Dark Knights, touched down at the center of the landing zone. Its ramp hissed open, revealing Atharion and his Honor Guards.
As Atharion descended the ramp, the scream of engines filled the air.
From staging platforms and internal deployment bays, multiple Javelin Attack Speeders and Scimitar Jetbikes surged out of the landing zone in coordinated waves. Their engines howled like hunting beasts loosed upon prey.
The Javelins fans out to the left and right flanks of the main Orks mob. Firing the Lascannons, heavy bolters and Hunter-Killer missile on mobs, they able to carve a bloody and burning path into the mob, giving them opportunity to deal more damage, and gain the attention of the Orks from the three points.
Then came the Scimitars—a blur of motion and fury.
With engines screaming, the jetbikes crashed into the Ork ranks like a thunderbolt. Their plasma cannons and heavy bolters tore through both flesh and scrap armor, detonating bodies in fountains of green gore. Close behind the gunfire came the riders themselves—Astartes wielding power spears, striking like jousting knights in a blur of precision and fury. Orks who had survived the bombardment were impaled mid-roar, flung aside or crushed beneath the momentum of the charge.
The Scimitars didn't linger. They hit hard, veered off, and circled back again—firing as they moved, disrupting any attempt at counterattack. With each pass, the Ork horde was bled and broken, its focus shattered across too many fronts.
As the Javelins and Scimitars sowed confusion and destruction in the Ork ranks, the armored spearhead of the Dark Knights rumbled into view.
Emerging from the smoke-covered staging ground, Deimos Pattern Predator Destructors and Infernus variants with Rhinos advanced in disciplined formation. The ground shook beneath their treads, the deep growl of their engines barely audible over the chaos of war.
The autocannons of the Destructors roared, sending high-velocity shells tearing through the Ork mobs. Each impact burst with brutal efficiency—shredding flesh, igniting fuel, and detonating crude munitions. Orks were hurled through the air, torn apart by the force of the blast or crushed beneath falling wreckage.
The Flamestorm Cannons of the Infernus tanks followed closely behind. They unleashed searing waves of burning promethium, engulfing swathes of greenskins in a wall of flame. Orks screamed and flailed as their bodies and crude armor were reduced to ash and molten slag. Even their ramshackle vehicles were not spared—tires melted, fuel tanks ignited, and turrets were blown skyward in geysers of fire.
The burning scent of promethium and scorched xenos meat filled the air. The Orks' advance slowed—not from fear, but from sheer attrition. They were being bled, burned, and broken.
As the field being clean of Orks, the Rhinos followed behind begin to unload their passengers. Astartes charge out of their transports, bolters raised and swords drawn. Their boots pounded against scorched stone and shattered ferrocrete, spreading out to secure forward positions and sweep through the ruins for stragglers.
Each squad moved with disciplined precision. Tactical Marines took up firing positions behind rubble and shattered walls, establishing overlapping fields of fire to cover every approach.
Devastator squads ascended to elevated vantage points—broken rooftops, shattered balconies, and the upper levels of half-collapsed structures. From these positions, their lascannons, missile launchers, and heavy bolters thundered to life, raining death upon the fleeing Orks and obliterating the last of their ramshackle vehicles.
Some of the Thunderhawks didn't land—instead, they roared overhead, veering toward the embattled bastion where the Lamenters still held fast. As they passed low over the structure, their lower ramps opened with a mechanical hiss.
From the bays, Assault Marines descended like falling meteors—jump packs flaring, chainswords revving, bolters barking even before they touched the ground. They struck the Ork ranks with precision and fury, a storm of ceramite and steel crashing down into green flesh and rusted armor.
Explosions and the scream of turbines filled the air as the assault marines turned the tide, reinforcing the bastion defenders and carving through the Orks with righteous vengeance.
Meanwhile, Atharion stood within a hastily constructed command center, the walls reinforced with prefabricated armor plates and auspex relays humming softly. Around him, officers from various regiments relayed situation reports in rapid succession—some calm and measured, others strained by loss.
The 34th and 77th Infantry Regiments, who had deployed with the Black Templars during the initial wave, had taken the brunt of the Ork onslaught. Reports were grim.
"Sixty-four percent casualties in the 34th, Lord Commander," one vox-officer reported, his voice tight. "Fifty-eight percent in the 77th. Significant losses in heavy weapons teams. Armor support is either destroyed or immobilized."
Atharion's expression did not change, but a cold silence settled around him. A moment passed before the next officer spoke.
"Second wave elements, deployed with the Lamenters, report minor casualties. Less than ten percent for most companies. Defensive lines are holding. Bastion reinforcement complete."
Atharion gave a slow nod. "Ensure the wounded are moved to triage. Send word to the Lamenters, the moment they clear the Orks, escort the wounded back to the triage."
Another vox-officer stepped forward, data-slate in hand. "The 674th, 56th, 984th, and 235th regiments have completed their planetary landings. They are currently fortifying secondary zones, establishing supply routes, and securing landing pads for future deployments. No hostile contact reported in their assigned sectors."
"Good," Atharion nodded. "Tell them to advance to Sector O-87, secure that area and hold of the Orks counterattack, take as much attention from the Warboss as they could."
then turned sharply toward the towering figure encased in the neural rig of his command throne. The Princeps' silhouette flickered in the dim hololith light.
"Princeps Vortan," Atharion said. "you are to lead your Maniple and advance with the regiments toward Sector O-87. Your Warlord and Reavers will anchor the line."
Without hesitation, Vortan inclined his head slightly, vox-grille crackling.
"By your command, Lord Atharion."
Just as Atharion parted his lips to speak, a deafening roar shook the very bones of the makeshift command structure. The walls groaned, lights flickered, and dust rained down from the ceiling.
A moment of stunned silence passed.
Then the vox crackled to life, one of the tech-adepts shouting over the din,
"Sunfury discharge detected—source confirmed: Invictus Ferrum!"
Outside, across the war-torn cityscape and bloodied battlefield, two blinding sudden light cover the whole battlefield. The Sunfury-Pattern Plasma Destructor mounted on the arm of Invictus Ferrum had fired.
The plasma bolts screamed through the air and slammed into the rear of the Ork advance—into the masses still roaring toward the fight, unaware of the doom streaking toward them.
Everything within the blast zone was vaporized—Orks, vehicles, debris. In their place were two colossal craters with the earth turn to glass.
The few Orks unfortunate enough to survive at the outer fringes of the blast stumbled in all directions—blind, burned, howling in agony. Some dropped to the ground, twitching as fire gnawed through their crude armor. Others tried to run, only to be cut down by Valkyrie strafing runs.
The rear of the Ork force—what was meant to be their reinforcements, the crushing tide that would overwhelm the Imperial defenders—was gone, reduced to molten ruin and scorched earth by Invictus Ferrum's wrath.
The explosion had been so massive, so deafening, that it echoed across the entire battlefield. A blinding light had lit up the skies, and even those locked in brutal melee or pinned behind cover could feel the concussive force and see the aftermath glowing on the horizon.
Though they did not yet know the full scale of the devastation, word spread quickly through vox and shouted reports—the Titans had fired, and the Emperor's wrath had come with them.
Across the front, Imperial morale surged.
Commanding officers, seeing the moment of opportunity, relayed the truth, the Ork reinforcements were gone. That fact alone breathed new life into weary souls. Guardsmen who had been low on ammunition and hope now fought with renewed fire.
Bayonets were fixed. Lasguns roared. Vox-officers barked orders and rallied broken squads. Heavy weapons teams redoubled their fire. Chimeras surged forward from cover, laying down supporting fire as platoons advanced.
Astartes squads, weapons still warm, pushed up to reinforce Guardsmen in the front ranks. Their presence, paired with the knowledge of the Titan's strike, made every soldier feel invincible—if only for a moment.
Before long, a vox message sliced through the chatter—a high-priority transmission, overriding lesser communications across the network.
The Boss that leading this attack have been slain by the combined force of Dark Knights' Paladin squad and the Black Templars lead by the Emperor's Champion.
The message rang like a clarion call. And its truth was visible across the battlefield.
The Orks were breaking.
Without their Boss to rally them, the tide of green began to falter. Some still fought—more out of instinct than strategy—but most began to flee, roaring defiance or confusion as they scattered into the ruins and wilds. Vehicles turned away. Gunfire thinned. Roars of aggression gave way to guttural cries of retreat.
The skies above cleared of smoke just enough for banners of the Imperium to be raised atop bastions, towers, and wrecked structures. Thunderhawks and Valkyries circled lower. The battlefield belonged to the Imperium now.
The first and most critical battle on this world had been won.
The Imperial forces had seized a vital foothold—a staging ground stable enough to begin large-scale resupply and reinforcement. Massive cargo haulers and support ships were already inbound, guided by beacon relays planted during the fight. The wounded were being triaged and extracted. Bastions and perimeter defenses were being reinforced.
This world—once a green-stained ruin—now bore the mark of Imperial conquest.