Deep within the passage, an Ork Mek cunningly attempted to detonate a haphazard pile of rusty fuel barrels to create greater chaos, hindering or even crippling the assault team.
"Blast! Blast these tin cans to death!" an Ork Mek, clad in a dirty leather apron and covered in grease, shrieked, lighting a thick fuse with trembling hands, a cruel anticipation on his ugly face.
But Vasily's reaction was as swift as a leopard's.
"Grenade! Cover the fuel barrel pile! Clear the threat!" he ordered sharply, simultaneously throwing a frag grenade himself.
Several lethal metal canisters arced in precise parabolas, carrying the will of the Ash Knights, and landed in the dangerous area of fuel barrels.
A violent explosion occurred instantly, an orange-red fireball shot into the sky, and a scorching blast wave, laden with metal fragments and burning Ork remains, surged outwards.
The Mek who lit the fuse and the surrounding Ork Boyz attempting to cover him, along with some obstacles, were blown away and ignited by the immense force, turning into charred remains.
The fire and shockwave generated by this explosion, instead, briefly illuminated the even more chaotic and dangerous path ahead for the assault team and cleared a large area of obstacles.
They pushed through the scorching blast wave that hit them head-on and the hot metal fragments that flew like bullets, stepping over the still-burning, foul-smelling Ork remains and twisted, deformed scrap metal piles.
Veteran Vasily remained at the very front, like the sharp edge of a blade.
Every swing of the Power Sword in his hand carried the lethal efficiency of a thousand refinements, the ethereal blue light of the sword flickering in the dim passage, precisely slicing through greenskin throats and cleaving crude armor, carving a path paved with blood and steel for his brothers behind him.
Mikhail followed closely on the Sergeant's flank, his Chainsword roaring at maximum power, each heavy chop or swift thrust claiming a greenskin life.
He could clearly feel the coordinated operation of his superhuman muscles beneath the Power Armor, the power feedback transmitted by the servo systems, and even more, the perfect rhythm of intertwined firepower and mutual cover with his brothers beside him.
In this brutal passage-clearing battle, the veteran's experience and calm command were like a forge, rapidly tempering the recruit's combat instincts into more efficient, lethal killing techniques.
Every successful parry, every effective kill, every cooperation with a brother, further solidified his confidence and will.
Finally, when the roar of the Chainsword and the hiss of the Bolters converged into a destructive torrent, tearing open the last low barrier wall piled high with thick scrap metal plates, huge Ork bones, and still-burning vehicle wrecks, the view suddenly opened up.
An odor a hundred times more intense than that in the canyon outside, almost suffocating, a pungent smell of oil, blood, mixed with a primal, frenzied, unsettling energy pulsation, rushed forward like a viscous, tangible turbid flow, instantly clogging the Power Armor's breathing grilles; even after filtration, the smell was still nauseating.
They had entered the true heart of the Ork lair—the Delta-7 core area.
This was a massive natural cavern, hollowed out of the mountain by Orks using brute force and crude tools, spacious enough to accommodate several main battle tanks.
The cavern walls were covered with crude trophies: rusty, broken human weapons, fragments of xeno carapaces, and skulls of various sizes strung together with chains and thick ropes; vast patches of huge fungi, glowing with an eerie luminescence, grew in abundance, emitting eerie green or dark purple light, subtly writhing like living things, providing a sickly light source for the entire space.
In the center of the cavern, a massive furnace, repurposed from the core of a derelict starship's main engine, roared furiously, spewing thick black smoke and scorching Mars, with thick pipes connecting to it like blood vessels, pumping unknown fuel and energy into it.
The sound emitted by this furnace was like a thousand blacksmiths hammering simultaneously, or like a huge and savage heart beating madly; it was the energy core of the entire Ork stronghold and the embodiment of its brutal soul.
And standing before the furnace, with his back to that hellish light and heat, like a mobile, purely malicious small mountain of a massive green shadow, was the core source of all this chaos, violence, and destruction—the Ork Warboss, the tyrant of the Tooth Fracture tribe.
The Warboss before them was even larger and more ferocious than intelligence estimated.
He stood there, nearly three meters tall, like a monster made of scrap metal and muscle.
His body was covered in armor several inches thick, crudely cut and welded from heavy starship armor plates, with crooked welding seams, covered in rust and impact dents.
Countless rusted spikes, broken saw teeth, and skull trophies—pale, empty human skulls, hideous Ork skulls, and even some unrecognizable xeno skulls, exuding the aura of death—were welded onto the armor plates, suspended by thick iron chains.
The end of one of his arms was equipped with an enormous Power Claw, wrapped in an unstable, crackling crimson energy field, the low hum emitted by that field like an overloaded engine, full of destructive power.
His other arm casually carried an absurdly large Gatling-style "Super Shoota," its barrel as thick as a tree trunk, with six barrels still emitting wisps of smoke, a sight that sent shivers down one's spine.
His tusked maw opened, letting out a deafening roar, full of primal power and fury, each heavy stomp shaking the entire cavern floor.
Pure WAAAGH! energy, condensed from the battle-lust of countless Orks, visibly warped the air around him like a tangible shockwave, forming a blurry force field barrier, demonstrating his unparalleled savage power.
—
At the same time, tiny gravel and dust continuously sifted down from the cavern ceiling, accompanied by a constant, dull, rolling thunder of heavy artillery—this was the artillery cluster of the Astra Militarum Rostov 17th Regiment from the landing zone's safe area, faithfully executing a saturation bombardment mission.
Their heavy high-explosive shells, like dense raindrops, continuously slammed into the mountainside surrounding the core area and near the entrance passage, huge explosions raising towering dirt and debris, effectively deterring and suppressing the Ork reserves attempting to pour out of other tunnels to support the Warboss.
In the distance, the rumbling advance of Chimera Armored Personnel Carriers' engines could be faintly heard, their mounted heavy Bolters emitting a continuous roar, providing solid and reliable fire support for the Astra Militarum infantry who were clearing remaining enemies and consolidating the front lines in the outer perimeter.
The sky also echoed with the shriek of Stormfang and stormclaw engines, which circled at low altitude like deadly dragonflies, sweeping exposed scattered targets with their autocannons and meltaguns, ensuring the safety of the assault team's rear and flanks.
The entire battlefield, from sky to ground, from the periphery to the core, formed a three-dimensional, coordinated web of destruction.
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