"Oh?"
Twirling his dimensional spear into a fluid flourish, the razor-sharp energy blade swept across the stone paving, leaving not so much as a ripple behind.
"Never heard of them." Bringing his spear to a rest horizontally before his chest, Astelan spoke with cold, disdainful indifference. "Presumably some sapient species spawned in the far corners of the cosmos."
"And the humans here were isolated for so long that you alien races lost all grasp of humanity's true, overwhelming power?"
"You—" The Slaugth was struck momentarily speechless. Its body—a mass of writhing worms—bristled as if agitated, the carapaces clicking and rubbing as it prepared to spit back a counter.
Yet Astelan offered it no such chance.
In a fraction of a millisecond, the stone plaza beneath his boots shattered under immense force. Debris erupted in all directions, radiating razor-sharp acoustic shockwaves through the air.
The superhuman warriors watching the scene clearly caught every frame of his masterclass execution.
Alternating his feet, his boots carved deep trenches through the stone floor; the energy blade whirled upward, executing a horizontal slash at blinding, near-instantaneous speed before the Slaugth could even react.
As if time itself had been stretched infinitely thin, the warriors could distinctly observe the detail: the moment the energy blade closed in, the Slaugth's entire humanoid silhouette resembled a dense, churning swarm of bees, its constituent worms surging violently.
Driven by an extraordinary instinctual will, the individual worms reacted far faster than the entity's collective consciousness, moving subconsciously to dodge death.
As the energy blade sliced through, black worms were sheared apart. Yet before the collective mind could even register the threat, the surrounding worms actively parted like a pulled curtain to clear a path.
Catching this sharp sense of self-preservation, Astelan's brow twitched subtly beneath his helmet.
Had a standard Space Marine launched this attack, the Slaugth could easily have evaded both bolt shells and close-quarters strikes.
These worm-men were entirely too bizarre—guided by a overarching collective consciousness, while their individual fragments possessed raw survival instincts to dodge lethality.
Yet the energy blade met no resistance. Slicing sideways clean through the worm-man's torso, it whipped upward with uncanny precision, splitting both head and hood in a single motion.
In the very next instant, Astelan disengaged from melee range, gliding effortlessly back to his starting position.
Clatter~
It was as though time resumed its normal flow. Over a hundred worms, stripped of life, detached from the Slaugth's main body, tumbling to the ground and snapping in two upon impact.
"You—"
The Slaugth's raspy hiss cut short. The worms comprising its shifting form grew restless, the insult it intended to spew choking in its throat.
It finally registered the anomaly: over a hundred worms had been severed from its neural link. Glancing down at the violently gouged stone beneath its feet, it instinctively took half a step back in sheer shock.
"A primitive, yet stubbornly persistent form of life."
Astelan gave his wrist a light flick. The light of the dimensional spear faded, and he stowed the adamantium shaft behind his back while his shoulder cannon locked firmly onto the writhing mass of worms: "You ought to be reduced to ash within the flames."
Several Slaugth recoiled in haste. While they possessed little fear of physical trauma or cutting rays, they held a profound dread of destructive, wide-area incineration.
Horrifying and grotesque as these worms appeared, they were innately terrified of fire.
Pressing back-to-back, they raised their twisted staves, preparing to unleash an attack.
"Barrier!"
A Word of Creation was spoken, weaving an ancient resonance through the air. Taking advantage of the worm-men's distraction by the shoulder cannons, the Doom Marine invoked ancient power through the incantation.
A barrier generated by the spell manifested as an ethereal bubble, trapping the worm-men just as they were about to strike.
Enclosed within the transparent sphere, the Slaugth dared not act rashly, halting the destructive, corrosive power brewing at the tips of their staves.
The interior space of the bubble was far too confined; the Slaugth did not dare recklessly unleash force, fearful of turning the destructive magic back upon themselves.
Writhing their frames, the chitinous plates ground together with a rasping hiss as they raised their staves to shatter the barrier through brute force.
Regrettably, the power of a Word invoked by the absolute, unyielding will of a Doom Marine was not something easily shaken.
Though rays of disintegrating energy swirled outward and blows heavy enough to crush a mortal's skull hammered down, the barrier failed to yield even a single tremor.
"Master of Interrogation." Astelan turned his head and gestured toward the containment bubbles, addressing the figure behind him: "Begin your work, if you please. For xenos commanders to occupy a human world and settle down to herd mankind like cattle, there must be a deeper motive behind it."
"Lord Grand Duke." The waiting Master of Interrogation stepped forward briskly. From within the dark, hollow eye sockets of his skull mask, a brilliant gleam erupted as his gaze fell upon the Slaugth. "By your command."
"..."
"They will confess everything..."
The Master of Interrogation could scarcely contain his eagerness, ordering elite guards to transport the bubble barriers and seal them into specialized interrogation vaults.
"Shatter."
Once the spellbound cages were set inside the forcefield vaults, the Doom Marine uttered the counter-word, releasing the terrified Slaugth from their bubbles.
Though the entity lacked facial features or expressions to convey emotion, its worms were shivering in sheer panic—the dry, rustling sound completely betraying its terror.
Across countless civilizations and ages, the archetype of an interrogator always shared unmistakable traits that could be recognized at a single glance.
Having spent ages observing human societies and possessing a deep familiarity with human culture, the Slaugth instantly identified the Master of Interrogation for what he was.
"No!!!"
The Slaugth shrieked in horror. Its body buzzed violently as it abandoned its humanoid shape, breaking apart into a dense, swarming cloud that slammed wildly against the forcefield walls like a churning plume of ink.
It hammered violently against the energy barrier, its shifting, monstrous maws screeching in desperation.
"Do not panic~"
The Master of Interrogation spoke in a slow, drawn-out tone, his skull mask unable to hide the cruel, uninhibited grin curving beneath it. His five fingers—tipped with adamantium-embedded nails—scratched across the exterior of the forcefield, producing an excruciating, nerve-grating screech.
"You will speak soon enough... and tell me everything I wish to know."
His voice sounded as if loaded with jagged barbs. Paired with the ear-splitting scraping from his fingertips, it seemed capable of dragging forth the most primal, deep-seated terror from within one's soul.
"Human!" The worm carapaces retracted sharply, forcing out stiff words despite the inexplicable dread taking hold: "Do not dream of extracting a single shred of intelligence from me."
"The Slaugth race has never feared brutal torture. You may try every agony at your disposal to pry open my mouth."
Levitating via anti-gravity, the entire swarm of worms surged toward the edge of the forcefield vault, taunting the Interrogator through both word and action.
"I do so love a tough nut to crack!"
A long, crimson tongue licked across the yellowed teeth of the skeletal mask, revealing uncontainable excitement. "Where does this courage of your resistance stem from?"
The Interrogator operated his control panel, happily setting to work. "Is it your unique talent—using a million worms as a body, sacrificing a portion of them to sever the sensation of pain?"
Hearing this precise breakdown, the writhing form of the Slaugth suddenly contracted, falling completely silent.
"I love a tough nut to crack," the Master of Interrogation said as he selected his implements, his tone solemn and businesslike. "And rest assured—I am a professional!"
The interrogation commenced!
The first trial was electrocution. Inside the forcefield vault, intense arcs of lightning erupted instantly as countless bolts surged forth, transforming the interior into a blinding sea of pale white plasma.
Fine strands of electricity burrowed beneath the chitinous carapaces. The Slaugth let out agonized screeches as tiny wisps of dark smoke curled from its body.
"The great..." The Slaugth asserted control over its constituent worms, showing not the slightest hint of surrender: "The Slaug...th... will never yield!"
Just as the Interrogator had analyzed, the xenos was transferring the damage it sustained by discarding its dying worms.
Vast masses of worms sloughed off its frame, falling to the bottom of the vault and turning to ash, yet the Slaugth itself refused to break under the pain.
The brunt of the agony and mutilation was utterly redirected through the death of its individual units.
Though the display of terrifying lightning was awe-inspiring—dyeing the entire forcefield vault in a sea of blue—the actual physical agony inflicted upon the core consciousness of the worm-man was, in truth, virtually negligible.
The electrocution sentence was relentlessly applied, causing large masses of black-shelled worms to char and fall away.
The Master of Interrogation observed with meticulous focus, his withered fingers flying across the controls to adjust the machine's parameters, searching for that precise threshold—one that delivered maximum agony without claiming the subject's life.
He neither wished for the prisoner to die mid-interrogation, nor did he want to withhold further pain.
"Your species possesses a level of patience that somewhat exceeds my expectations," the Interrogator offered in genuine admiration. His sinister gaze extended beyond the primary forcefield, sweeping periodically toward the other two psychic containment cages as if conceptualizing even more creative torments.
The lightning abruptly ceased, granting the worm-man a brief moment to catch its breath.
However, the volume of the black, squirming mass had diminished by a fifth. It twitched uncontrollably, emitting faint, agonizing squeaks.
"Record this," the Master instructed his apprentice in a rasping, emotionless tone, sounding like an unfeeling automaton: "The Slaugth worm-man xenos exhibits an exceptionally high resistance to physical trauma."
Listening to the apprentice diligently record these observations, the Master held back no longer: "Initial physical probe complete. Initiate psychic assault."
With that, the Interrogator rested one hand against the forcefield barrier and began chanting a psychic incantation. Ominous, deep purple runes flared to life across his black robes and adamantium-embedded fingertips.
Every interrogator underwent rigorous psychic training.
The galaxy harbored countless unnatural monstrosities; certain vile entities were completely immune to physical harm, requiring interrogators to master warp-based, psychic interrogation protocols.
As the incantation echoed, linked runes illuminated along the forcefield vault, activating a supernatural mechanism.
"Deploying the Soul-Spike Rite."
The Master's voice rang with an icy chill, deliberately exerting psychological pressure upon the prisoner.
Though the Slaugth possessed no conventional heart, that dead, monotone voice acted like an icy draft, penetrating deep into the collective consciousness forged by its microscopic sub-entities.
Inside the vault, the xenos could not help but shudder. Psychic interrogation methods had indeed struck genuine terror into its core.
Against physical trauma, it could discard dying sub-entities to disperse pain and endure the torment.
However, an attack aimed directly at the soul level forced the constituent worms to rustle uncontrollably in sheer panic, broadcasting their collective dread.
"Oh?"
The Interrogator found his breakthrough, his voice rising slightly: "It appears your body and soul lack the strength to uphold your resolve."
The moment the words fell, the psychic curse detonated!
Dark psychic sorcery flared. Runes stretched out like falling water droplets, coalescing into a dense array of crystal-like spikes that overlapped so tightly they almost formed a solid barrier.
"Pierce!"
At the absolute command, the hair-thin, deep-purple spikes straightened and rained down like arrows loosed from a bow.
"Rustle... rustle..."
The Slaugth shrieked in agony as its composite form collapsed inward, pain surging from the deepest depths of its soul.
The million-worm body could no longer disperse the agony; instead, every single worm became an individual fountain of boundless torment, leaving the entity's central mind utterly incapable of maintaining cohesion.
The body burst apart. Every individual worm emitted a faint hiss as it writhed frantically across the floor of the vault, squeaking in utter disarray.
During the brief respite following the second round of execution, the reassembled, agonized form finally confessed.
Virtually no living being could endure the agony of a million suffering souls; those that could were not the type to be confined inside an interrogation vault.
A century ago, a nomadic Slaugth fleet had passed through this region and discovered this human world.
Leveraging their technological superiority, they swiftly subjugated the local population, establishing a puppet regime to farm humanity as livestock on a massive scale.
Over the course of two centuries, the Slaugth systematically erased human history and purged all cultural heritage. Through a series of ruthless measures, this human world was transformed into a livestock ranch for the worm-men, where mankind was fed and fattened for slaughter.
On the eve of establishing a stable farming infrastructure, the primary fleet departed.
Every twenty years, a Slaugth fleet would return to collect vast shipments processed into frozen fresh meat.
Seeing that the first prisoner had broken, the other Slaugth—desperate to avoid soul-rending torment—confessed as well. Cross-referencing their statements provided a wealth of highly reliable intelligence.
Much of the testimony verified the hypotheses previously drafted by the strike fleet's staff officers.
From a purely economic perspective, humans held no inherent advantage as livestock. They grew slowly, possessed a terrible feed-to-meat conversion ratio, and yielded very little meat—making them a thoroughly unqualified species for standard livestock farming.
However, humans were being harvested for two distinct, specialized purposes.
Deep within the cosmos, an alliance existed between the Slaugth and the Khrave.
The Slaugth utilized human bodies as incubation hosts to breed more offspring, while the Khrave harvested human souls to empower their psychic abilities.
This dark coalition had recently undergone a new development.
A remnant force of Rangdan had quietly skirted the Imperial blockade, fleeing into the Segmentum Tempestus and joining this anti-human alliance.
Furthermore, another critical piece of intelligence emerged: an army of Orks had burst forth from deep space, smashing headlong into the stronghold of the anti-human alliance. The two sides were currently locked in a chaotic, large-scale war.
Listening to the intelligence provided by the Slaugth, Blazkowicz pondered in silence for several seconds. Countless perplexing questions were suddenly resolved.
It was not that the Orks had been dormant; rather, their movements had been entirely too massive.
Their Waaagh! expedition had indeed begun, but its vector had veered off course, crashing straight into the star systems held by the xenos coalition.
As large-scale conflict erupted, the Orks—guided by the subconscious pull of their Waaagh! field—naturally gravitated toward war-torn worlds, gathering around the Ork Warboss to eagerly join the slaughter.
Thus, the Emperor's prophecy had contained a subtle deviation: the Orks had not launched a multi-directional assault against humanity, but had instead consolidated their strength to batter the xenos alliance.
Upon learning this, Blazkowicz let out a cold, inner sneer at the irony of greenskins guarding the realm's gates.
After a brief moment of thought, he issued orders to the Legion Guard: "Lock the Slaugth away for now."
"Dispatch a squad to the slaughter—" Midway through his sentence, Blazkowicz's brow furrowed, adjusting his phrasing to a solemn tone, "—to the place where our kin suffered, and retrieve the Soul Orbs."
According to the Slaugth's detailed confession, the human processing facilities were embedded with Khrave Soul Orbs designed to harvest the souls of those slaughtered.
When the transport fleet arrived, it would load both these Soul Orbs and frozen human meat rations to ship them back to the heartlands occupied by the anti-human coalition.
"Transmit an astropathic message to the nearest core world. Instruct the Planetary Governor to prepare administrators and colonists to assume control of this world."
"Mobilize the elite units. Release all mortals from the livestock enclosures; the threat to this planet has been neutralized."
"And finally," Blazkowicz listened to the gentle splashing of the fountain, a cold, lethal gleam flashing through his eyes, "have the elite auxiliary units conduct a thorough purge. Execute every single traitor who colluded with the Slaugth and sold out their own kin."
"Had it not been for them, this world would never have fallen so easily into a xenos livestock ranch."
Blazkowicz was consumed with rage. The inhuman act of betraying one's own species was something far beyond his threshold of tolerance.
Even if a ruling class bled its populace dry to maintain its reign, it remained a ten-thousand-fold lesser sin than treason against humanity.
In this cold, cruel universe, humans could enslave humans, consume humans, and commit atrocious crimes of dereliction and cruelty.
Yet non-human xenos species could never be permitted to enslave or consume humanity—that was the inherent, original sin of the alien.
Should any xenos dare to do so, or even harbor the thought, the iron fist of the Space Marines would swiftly shatter their ambitions the moment the Imperium caught wind of it.
The glory of mankind would permit no xenos defilement!
The planetary orbit was overwhelmingly busy. Several fleet carriers hovered in synchronous orbit, launching waves of Legion drop-craft.
In just three short hours, Argent's elite forces had utterly eliminated the xenos lackeys, liberating the human prisoners across the entire world.
Yet those stepping out of their pigeon-hole cells possessed eyes filled with nothing but utter bewilderment.
Two centuries of domestication—two whole hundred years—was a vast expanse of time for mortal beings. They had been farmed like caged livestock, breeding across ten unbroken generations.
Over that long epoch, perhaps the earliest generations could still retain a clear grasp of their human identity through oral tradition and passed-down knowledge.
Yet after generations of breeding, compounded by the deliberate mental castration orchestrated by the Slaugth, even if remnants of human heritage survived, their descendants a thousand years later would be entirely incapable of comprehending them.
The native humans of this planet now were merely a horde of stripped, naked beasts in human form.
To speak nothing of culture, they could not even grasp the basic concepts of etiquette, righteousness, integrity, or shame.
These creatures labeled "human" were indistinguishable from cattle driven out from their barns.
They peeked curiosity-driven steps toward the outside world, yearning for the freedom brought by the sun and warm breezes, yet their feet were tripped by the unknown future, leaving them cowering in hesitation.
Leaving might mean freedom, but it also meant losing the guarantee of food and shelter.
Freedom was a beautiful dream, but its price was steep. For beasts domesticated over generations who had lost all capacity for independent survival, it was a choice between life and death.
How to manage these millions before the Imperium's official administrative apparatus arrived became a pressing, immediate dilemma.
A single misstep could trigger a catastrophe that would sweep across the entire planet.
The Imperial authorities had yet to arrive to assume control of this human world. In a few short hours, the Iron Warriors fleet would enter this system, rendezvous with the strike fleet, and set sail directly for the front line.
The worst-case scenario was leaving behind a world collapsed into total anarchy.
After all, for the Legions, stemming the tide of the greenskin horde remained their primary mission; they could not halt their forward march for the sake of a minor anomaly.
If they delayed strategic timing at the front and allowed the greenskins to overrun the worm-men's defensive lines, spilling into human colonies on a massive scale, the resulting destruction could not be compensated for by even a hundred recovered lost worlds.
Yet no matter the time or place, the human heart never lacked the spirit of defiance.
Even within the borders of the Imperium, basking beneath the radiance of the Emperor, rebellions flared with frequent regularity—to say nothing of when faced with alien invaders.
When the Slaugth first made landfall, human resistance forces had risen for the sole purpose of expelling the xenos.
As time wore on and their broad base vanished on a massive scale, their survival grew infinitely harsher, yet they had stubbornly preserved the flickering ember of humanity.
While the elite Legion purged the traitors, the resistance fighters emerged from their hidden redoubts, launching counter-offensives against the xenos' thralls.
Now, the leader of the resistance sat stiffly before Blazkowicz.
Facing this giant, the resistance leader felt restless and ill at ease, yet simultaneously humbled and awed by his glorious presence.
He recounted the agonies they had endured and carefully laid out their tentative plans for the future.
Blazkowicz spoke very little, interjecting only at key moments to correct flaws with his superhuman intellect.
At the conclusion of their audience, Blazkowicz retrieved a parchment scroll and signed a formal Decree of Planetary Governance, entrusting the stewardship of this world to a local who deeply cherished his native soil.
In a matter of mere hours, the world was undergoing a drastic transformation.
Before returning to his warship, Blazkowicz provided the resistance with a complete suite of relevant technology to assist them in rebuilding their homeland.
A few hours later, the edge of the star system tore open as a massive fleet ripped through realspace to enter the void.
The Iron Warriors fleet currently lacked a Gloriana-class battleship.
Perturabo wished to construct his flagship with his own hands, a ambition the Emperor had affirmed and granted, even bestowing the necessary technical schematics and construction materials.
Yet with the Imperium's military campaigns growing dire and the Primarch taking the field to lead his forces, the construction of his flagship had been indefinitely postponed.
"Brother."
Upon the bridge of the fleet's largest battleship, Perturabo stood clad in a modified suit of Terminator armor, backed by the Primarch's Honor Guard of the Iron Warriors.
He was extraordinarily tall, and encased in his bespoke power armor, he projected an overwhelming pressure—standing before the holographic projection like a small Titan, his expression as stern as ever.
Upon seeing Blazkowicz, a rare flicker of a smile surfaced deep in Perturabo's eyes, his greeting laced with a touch of ease.
"Brother." Blazkowicz nodded toward the holographic projection, sweeping his hand across the command console to transmit a file. "Take a look at this."
On an expedition, all matters of war took precedence; catching up between brothers was relegated to the very end.
Perturabo gave a slight nod, his expression hardening further as he carefully read through the message sent by his brother.
With a single glance, the Lord of Iron's brows knitted tightly together: it contained intelligence gathered by his brother prior to his own fleet's arrival.
The Slaugth worm-men, the Khrave, and the remnants of the Rangdan—three distinct xenos species had forged an anti-human alliance and were currently engaged in a colossal war against the Ork greenskins.
He was unfamiliar with the Slaugth, and his brother's data on them was sparse.
However, detailed intelligence on both the Khrave and the Rangdan remnants—two formidable races—was fully preserved within the Imperial archives.
The former possessed terrifying psychic powers, dispersed across the galaxy, and had once dealt a heavy blow to Guilliman's Ultramarines; the latter's reputation was even more deafening, having just been defeated by humanity at a cost that had nearly wiped out half of the Imperium's military might.
For the Slaugth worm-men to stand aligned with such entities, their own strength was self-evident.
The laws of the universe were cold and unforgiving. If a species lacked sufficient strength to take a seat at the table, it inevitably became food in the jaws of the dominant powers.
With these three races entangled together and clashing against the invading greenskins, the entire sector had devolved into a state of chaotic turmoil.
Perturabo's rigorous logical mind was thrown into disarray. A crease formed between his brows as he stared fixedly at the intelligence, his brain calculating furiously.
The interception of the Orks had now mutated into a multi-species free-for-all, and the situation was exceedingly delicate.
If humanity joined the fray, it would turn into five distinct species tearing at one another.
"The fleet will continue its advance, conducting continuous reconnaissance prior to arriving at the war zone to evaluate the specific shifts in the situation."
Having reviewed the preliminary intelligence gathered by his brother, Perturabo swiftly arrived at a conclusion: "We must engage in this war, stir the pot, and ensure we emerge as the ultimate victors."
His heavy voice rang cold as iron, his words filled with calculations derived from uncompromising logic—a cautious choice made after deliberate contemplation.
Blazkowicz nodded in agreement, a faint smile touching his noble face: "My thoughts exactly."
The decision reached by his brother aligned with the laws of engagement and logic, completely unclouded by personal emotion—a promising sign.
Had this been the Perturabo who had just returned to the Imperium, he would have recklessly ordered the Iron Warriors to launch a frontal assault merely to court the Emperor's favor, carving a path of blood through the chaos.
Now, he recognized reality for what it was, no longer deliberately seeking the Emperor's gaze, but growing far more rational and acting in accordance with the most optimal choices.
"Shall the fleet set sail?"
Perturabo turned his head, casting a glance toward the pale blue world recently liberated from alien rule.
"Set sail," Blazkowicz replied with a nod.
As planned, the two fleets converged, plunging back out of realspace to head toward the chaotic war zone.
The Chaos Nebula—in Gothic, a name denoting both turmoil and boundless bounty.
When the fleet returned to realspace and the viewport shutters receded once more, the view outside transformed into a sprawling canvas of vivid, swirling hues.
The Segmentum Tempestus was composed mostly of interconnected nebulae that pressed against and coalesced into one another. They reflected dense, crackling particulate charges, inducing relentless void-storms across the realm.
Yet beneath these storm-wracked skies, the pressure within the nebulae squeezed forth rare and precious mineral deposits, making the sector extraordinarily rich in resources.
The Chaos Nebula sat at the very heart of the Segmentum Tempestus, encircled within a bizarre, quiet eye of the storm.
It was fertile, yet utterly deserted.
Though its vast mineral belts located at the core of the sector boasted absurdly high ore reserves, neither rogue traders nor mining guilds had ever ventured here to establish extraction colonies.
The distance to other sectors was simply too vast, driving logistics costs to unsustainable heights.
Beneath the magnificent curtain drawn by the luminous nebula, several neighboring star systems shone with particular brilliance, flashing with varied luminescence that lent a fleeting beauty to the void.
Yet that passing beauty harbored lethal peril.
The war zone had devolved into utter chaos. Relying on their Waaagh! field, the Orks had welded together scraps of discarded metal salvaged from the battlefields to handcraft starships with their bare hands, breaking free of planetary confines to unleash a wild expedition into the endless void.
They moved like a green plague across the galaxy, leaving nothing in their wake but sheer, unadulterated war.
It had to be said that the human colonies along the outer rim of the nebula were exceedingly fortunate.
The emptiness deep within the Chaos Nebula had drawn numerous xenos species to seek refuge here; through a twist of fate, they had effectively shielded humanity from the green tide.
Now, deep within the inner ring of the Chaos Nebula, fires of war raged furiously as the opposing factions clashed in a desperate struggle.
The multi-pattern warships of the anti-human alliance clashed against the grotesque, highly unstandardized kitbashed vessels of the greenskins.
Slathered in red paint born of superstitious belief, their engines spewing thick plumes of dark smoke, the greenskin warships looked perpetually on the verge of falling apart—yet they pushed the formal alien fleets into a steady retreat.
Upon entering the void, the greenskins gave full reign to their crude ingenuity, latching starship wrecks to asteroids to drastically bolster the defensive armor of their junk-vessels.
These asteroid junk-ships, paired with the Orks' fearless, war-crazed nature, proved brutally aggressive, shattering the xenos defensive lines into scattered remnants.
The orbits of several key worlds in the main theater had already fallen. Fearing no death, the Orks rammed their asteroid junk-ships straight into planetary surfaces!
Millions of greenskins surged out from the wreckage; the planets were infected by the green virus, stepping with one foot over the precipice of total destruction.
"The behavior of the greenskins aligns precisely with the archive data," Perturabo observed from the bridge of his supercarrier, staring at the battlefield projection and nodding periodically in evaluation.
Several days prior, the joint fleet had reached the periphery of the war zone, concealing itself within the starlight to observe the shifting dynamics of the conflict from the shadows.
Perturabo lacked a flagship, and standard battleships were somewhat lacking in functional versatility. Thus, Blazkowicz had presented his brother with a supercarrier.
Crafted with Denurian precision engineering, the supercarrier stretched twenty-five kilometers in length to accommodate its specialized roles. Its interior was streamlined and spacious, equipped with a fully automated AI system whose functional suite easily fulfilled all the requirements of a command flagship.
Perturabo held a deep appreciation for the supercarrier—clean, functional, and devoid of the cramped, chaotic aesthetic typical of Imperial warships, fitting his precise tastes.
He preferred plugging straight into the artificial intelligence via data-cables, leveraging the vessel's processing power to gain computational enhancements as he calculated every detail of the xenos war within his mind.
"A race driven entirely by aggression, savagery, and violence—releasing its destructive nature without restraint."
The massive holographic display shifted rapidly. Guided by Perturabo's thoughts, the system retrieved all compiled data regarding the Orks.
There were summary overviews penned by the Emperor, behavioral logs uploaded by Blazkowicz, and comprehensive field data gathered by Leman Russ during his campaigns against the greenskins in the Wheel of Fire sector.
Perturabo cross-referenced the records at high speed, passing dazzling streams of data verification in moments and confirming that the reality matched the archives in every respect.
"How do we engage?" His voice sounded like lead striking iron—deep, steady, yet exceptionally grave. "The greenskin fleets are responding to the call of war, with fresh forces pouring in from all directions."
"They drag asteroids from the belts, utilizing scrap from enemy hulls to continuously assemble more ships."
"Their ground landings have succeeded. Orks are sprouting from the soil, joining the ranks under the command of their Warbosses."
"And then there's this," Perturabo raised a hand, pointing toward the holographic array.
The projection assembled into the forms of several terrifying behemoths: standing roughly seven meters tall, encased in rusted red-and-black armor, wielding massive power klaws. Their contorted visors were utterly hideous, and their razor-sharp fangs glowed with an eerie white sheen.
Ork Warbosses—and several of them at that!
"The greenskin BOSSES have halted their internal infighting, throwing themselves entirely into the foreign war. They have clearly been consumed by bloodlust."
"They have begun penetrating the planet's interior." Following Perturabo's voice, the holographic display shifted once more.
Upon a Rangdan colony world, an Ork Warboss held a power klaw high, tearing apart a suit of Rangdan bio-armor before roaring triumphantly into the sky.
On the other side of the holographic display, Blazkowicz's figure flickered subtly within the light and shadow. Arms crossed, his brows were knit tight, his face set in deep contemplation.
"We need to call for reinforcements," he stated gravely, establishing the first priority in a low, resonant tone.
"I agree." Perturabo refrained from letting pride dictate his actions, zooming out the holographic projection to encompass the entire war zone. "The sheer number of greenskins far exceeds the War Council's original estimates."
Countless green indicators dotted the projection. The greenskins currently fielded a fleet of over a thousand vessels, with more constantly being constructed as the warrior species grew steadily stronger.
Across the surface battlefields of several planets, the greenskins had gathered into a vast green ocean, their numbers reaching into the billions.
And this was merely the first wave of landing forces.
Furthermore, as time progressed, the greenskins' crude weaponry was rapidly evolving—upgrading from basic automatic firearms to heavy-caliber shootas.
It would likely not be long before Ork-adapted variants of the Slaugth worm-men's bio-weapons, the Rangdan's plasma weaponry, and the Khrave's psychic enhancements made their appearance on the battlefield.
Having confirmed the vast scale of the greenskins through days of observation, Perturabo set aside his stubborn pride, compromising to meet the strategic demands of the war.
His brother had spoken to him before: If you need something, say it aloud. Nobody knows what a silent mute requires.
Tracing out the combat theater on the holographic projection, his voice rang firm and decisive: "Beyond requesting reinforcements, we must find a way to contain the greenskins within a designated sector."
"The xenos alliance will not hold much longer. Once the greenskins radiate outward in all directions, our forces will lack the numbers to maintain a blockade."
"Agreed," Blazkowicz offered a faint smile, tapping the holographic projection to highlight the Slaugth world at the center of the main battlefield. "Containing the greenskins is actually simple—far less troublesome than dealing with other xenos."
"Oh?" Perturabo looked toward the roaring Ork Warboss. "Do you have something in mind?"
Blazkowicz gave a low chuckle, pointing at the Ork Warboss as a confident grin spread across his features. "Orks love war, and they can even accept defeat—but they will never accept being told they aren't Waaagh! enough."
"..."
"Waaagh! is everything to them. For the sake of a Waaagh!, they will abandon any strategic objective, and no one can stop them—not even an Ork Warboss."
"Brother," Blazkowicz's expression turned playful, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he met Perturabo's gaze through the spherical holographic light. "Tell me... if someone were to openly proclaim that these greenskins aren't Waaagh! enough... what do you think they would do?"
"What is a Waaagh!?" Perturabo let out a low, strange grunt, asking with utter solemnity.
Scanning the records at high speed, he found that the term "Waaagh!" was ubiquitous throughout the brutal, barbaric culture of the greenskins.
Since his brother had highlighted the vital significance of that simple roar within Ork society, he wanted to understand it deeper.
What was a Waaagh!?
Hearing his brother's query, Blazkowicz lowered his eyes, his features setting into deep thought.
From the Ork campaigns in Nur to the current greenskin expedition, he maintained a solid grasp of what an Ork Waaagh! entailed.
"A Waaagh! is a sort of—" Blazkowicz began to explain, yet paused mid-sentence to carefully weigh his phrasing, his voice gradually trailing off.
Even he was somewhat at a loss for how to articulate an Ork's Waaagh! precisely.
Based on existing intelligence, within the crude culture of the greenskins, "Waaagh!" appeared to represent every positive emotion imaginable.
War, slaughter, conflict—all those violent acts that drove Orks into frantic ecstasy ultimately condensed into a single, deafening roar of "Waaaagh!".
It functioned like a battle cry—a tempestuous vent fueled by raw excitement, a roar that brought the greenskins boundless, unadulterated joy.
Yet there was another side to the coin.
Sorrows, setbacks, and helpless frustrations—the negative emotions—were similarly vented through an agonizing howl of "Waaagh!", clearing the knot from an Ork's chest.
In essence, a Waaagh! served as the tangible manifestation of every emotion a greenskin experienced; whether jubilation, despair, wild excitement, or shock, it articulated them all.
A Waaagh! was also the foundation of Ork faith—legend holding that it was the lingering echo of the very first roar unleashed by Gork and Mork upon their birth.
Blazkowicz pondered for a long while before finally delivering a less-than-standard definition: "A Waaagh! holds a singular presence within Ork society. It is a war cry, a religion, and the ultimate badge of honor every Ork craves as it roams the galaxy."
"Regardless of where they stand, it takes but a single, piercing roar of 'Waaagh!' for Orks to swarm toward the origin of the sound—and for the sake of that very Waaagh!, they will unleash a far grander, infinitely more ferocious crusade."
Finishing his explanation, Blazkowicz turned a earnest look toward Perturabo.
He recognized that his words sounded convoluted, perhaps even somewhat absurd, yet they represented the absolute truth. He wondered if his brother could truly process such an abstract concept.
It would be entirely natural if he could not; the Old Ones had engineered the Orks precisely as such—war weapons driven entirely by raw, fundamental psychic conviction.
The ancient Krork had devolved into their present state, leaving behind a green blight upon the cosmos.
Yet the most ironic twist remained: the greenskins were quite possibly the happiest, most unburdened species in this dark galaxy of perpetual war.
Orks held no need for civilian infrastructure or technological research. The Old Ones had etched the fundamental schematics of warfare deep into their base genome, knowledge that naturally unlocked as the intensity of conflict escalated.
The restrained, strategic wars waged by other races served as an unadulterated wellspring of joy for them.
Compared to the vanished Old Ones, the slumbering Necrontyr, the fallen Aeldari, and humanity today, the Orks stood as the purest, most contented species inhabiting the galaxy.
They lived in sheer bliss, unbothered by basic survival, needing only to pour their hearts and souls into the grand Waaagh! crusades called by their Warbosses.
"Is that so?" Perturabo murmured thoughtfully, nodding as he appended the entry to his database.
He could discern from his brother's posture that Blazkowicz had deliberated carefully to arrive at this measured answer, refraining from anything overly definitive.
For an answer from a Gene-Primarch to carry such ambiguity underscored the underlying complexity of the subject.
Perturabo logged the notes without pressing further.
The Ork war was at their doorstep; practical application would yield answers soon enough. Fixating on theoretical data would only restrict his tactical flexibility.
"So we provoke them by insulting and questioning the greenskin Waaagh! culture?"
Having grasped the foundational role of the Waaagh! in Ork society, Perturabo instantly perceived the strategic core of the plan.
Profaning the faith of a xenos species to drive them into an unreasoning frenzy of attacks would effectively pin the greenskin forces in place.
The maneuver was conceptually simple, yet fraught with immense danger.
An equivalent scenario would be an alien race suddenly appearing during humanity's Great Crusade to openly mock the Emperor and deride the Imperial Truth.
No species could endure such deep humiliation, and the Orks would descend into utter madness!
"The odds of success are exceptionally high, are they not?" Blazkowicz kept his subtle smile intact. "A minor provocation yields a massive strategic containment."
"When it comes to war, Orks possess no overarching strategic objectives. They simply want a fight—to Waaagh! with wild abandon."
"Treating a Waaagh! crusade as their sole focus is how Orks derive the pure thrill of battle."
"So long as there is a war to be fought and a glorious brawl to be had, they will never leave the battlefield. Instead, they will gleefully throw themselves into the fray."
"Even those Warbosses, even if they see through the ploy as a deliberate provocation and stall tactic, will never be the ones to lead a retreat from the war zone."
"In greenskin culture, an Ork Warboss may suffer defeat or death, but cowardice is an unforgivable taboo."
Blazkowicz's confident voice fell, firm and unyielding as ringing steel.
"The Waaagh! field?" Perturabo closed his iron-grey eyes, extracting key parameters from the databanks. "A unique psychic field generated when Orks consolidate their shared belief."
"The files summarize it thus: when vast hordes of Orks firmly believe a certain outcome, that outcome stands a high probability of manifesting into reality."
"For instance, slathering red paint causes an Ork vehicle to move faster; believing a rusted engine can run allows junk-built hulks to launch into the void."
As he spoke, Perturabo's tone grew increasingly heavy, his relaxed brows knitting together once more.
He was a steadfast materialist who believed implicitly in hard physical technology, possessing an innate revulsion toward psychic phenomena.
Evidently, the greenskins' unique Waaagh! field stemmed from a psychically gifted racial blueprint—the very cornerstone of their reign across the stars.
Perturabo continued: "Should someone issue a challenge of sheer contempt, an Ork Warboss is bound by its nature to accept."
"If a Warboss flees, the mob will deem it no longer strong—lacking the necessary might to lead the crusade."
"Once their conviction fractures and the Orks cease believing in the 'fact' of their Warboss's absolute power, this collective doubt mirrors directly onto the Waaagh! field, physically diminishing the Warboss's strength and force of will."
In a few concise sentences, Perturabo had dissected the fundamental link between the Waaagh! field and the Orks.
"Precisely," Blazkowicz replied with a nod. "The Waaagh! field is the source of the Orks' terrifying power, yet it remains a leash they cannot break free from."
"A double-edged sword, sharp enough to cut both ways," a grim smile tugged at the corner of Perturabo's lips. Clenching his iron fist, his voice rose sharp and clear: "Whether for personal strength or racial pride, the Orks will accept the provocation without fail."
"I approve this strategy!"
The holographic array shifted abruptly. Guided by his thoughts, the reticle scanned across the star chart to isolate an ideal planet.
Perturabo possessed immense executive drive; having verified the strategy's viability, he set out to formulate the operational details and initiate stage two.
The astropathic plea for reinforcements had already been dispatched to Terra. The immediate challenge lay in leveraging their limited forces to secure a firm foothold amid the green tide.
"Locate an ideal world for landfall, then hold our position while the xenos and greenskins continue to bleed each other dry."
With the initial two-step directive locked in, the subsequent tactical deployments fell naturally into place.
Without needing further deliberation with Blazkowicz, Perturabo's precise, logical mind accelerated into high gear, constructing a cascade of detailed operational matrices.
Like a master architect, he fashioned a set of flawless shackles across the holographic map to bind the greenskins' movements.
Blazkowicz stood to one side, watching attentively as his brother translated raw data into a grand operational schematic.
Perturabo executed it brilliantly—surpassing even his high expectations.
Yet as the operational framework grew increasingly complex, Blazkowicz began to spot subtle flaws—the battlefield deployment was far too micromanaged.
Once the landing world was selected, Perturabo's instructions for the fleet and Legion units were detailed to a degree that raised a brow.
Dense, overlapping markers saturated the holographic tactical map—a sheer bombardment of micromanaged information.
Facing that overwhelmingly complex operational plan—one micro-managed down to the precise vector of every gun barrel—Blazkowicz neither made a scene nor raised an objection.
Reality remained the finest teacher.
Rashly criticizing a plan still in its conceptual stage would only extinguish his brother's ambition, serving no corrective purpose while inviting needless friction.
During his time on Terra, he had already intervened to halt the Decimation; now was not the time to offer yet another display of obstruction and denial.
His brother needed to cultivate self-reliance and undergo a baptism on a true battlefield to uncover both his own strengths and his oversights.
Even if mistakes occurred, guided corrections should follow incrementally after the facts unfolded, rather than issuing a total repudiation in the present moment.
"We shall continue monitoring the battlefield's progression."
Failing to notice any change in Blazkowicz's gaze, Perturabo was brimming with enthusiasm, his mind multi-tasking on several fronts at once; even as he simulated and deployed his battle lines, he kept a close watch on the alien factions tearing into one another.
Beneath the luminous starlight, the Orks' asteroid junk-ships swarmed like deep-sea sharks, smothering the joint alliance fleet beneath wild, imprecise, yet thoroughly brutal firepower.
With the survival of their species on the line, the counter-force unleashed by the joint fleet was by no means to be understated.
The Slaugth worm-men fielded unique cocoon-craft—elliptical hulls encased in sleek, glossy black chitin without a single piece of exposed machinery.
Along the hull's longitudinal chitinous seams grew spiracle-like organs, twitching with extreme sensitivity as if functioning as an organic sensor suite.
Across the ship's beam stretched meat-chambers lined with razor-sharp teeth, spewing dark green, viscous fluids outward.
This corrosive bio-artillery slammed into the greenskin junk-vessels, dissolving through outer hulls in an instant to induce localized mutations and melting out hundred-meter craters.
The junk-vessels rocked precariously, pressure differentials tearing open to siphon scores of Ork boyz out into the void.
Even as they froze solid in the void's absolute zero, their contorted visors retained a horrific, violent snarl.
Seizing the initiative, the Slaugth vessels rippled along their broadside meat-chambers once more, discharging a salvo of massive worm-torpedoes.
The armor-piercing mandibles at the tips of these giant worms snapped open and shut in wild agitation as they burrowed screaming into the Ork junk-vessels, triggering violent chemical detonations that atomized entire starships.
It was precisely these sprawling formations of cocoon-vessels that stemmed the greenskins' wild offensive.
Within the allied battle lines stood dozens of strange warships of terrifying potency, serving as immovable defensive anchors.
They varied wildly in geometry, sharing no discernable link between model and aesthetic, making it easy to discern that they originated from distinct species.
Yet these unique starships shared a common feature.
The base plating of their hulls was composed of a dark, jet-black stone, with outer broadsides completely devoid of conventional macro-cannons or lance arrays—instead studded densely with the skulls of countless species.
The engines of these strange craft burned with an eerie, deep-purple glow, driving them forward at a deliberate pace to unleash attacks that defied comprehension.
With every salvo, a sinister purple luminescence flared sequentially from the stern forward, lighting up the eye sockets and jawbones of every embedded skull to channel appalling psychic energy.
The brilliant purple light coalesced into arcs of lightning, lashing across the junk-vessels like a whip.
The sheer destructive force of these psychic attacks was horrifying, bypassing void shields with ease as the purple lightning chain-reacted across clusters of junk-vessels, triggering a cascade of violent explosions.
Though the firing rate of these bone-sheathed warships was slow, their lethality was devastating.
Every discharge served as an absolute anchor capable of dictating the tide of battle.
On a conventional battlefield, ordinary alien species would have collapsed long ago, fleeing into the void to lick their wounds and regroup.
Yet the Ork greenskins only grew increasingly ecstatic.
Taking advantage of the window before the next psychic salvo, the Ork junk-vessels roared Waaagh! as they charged, closing the distance to the bone-ships to unleash a cloud of boarding craft and assault torpedoes.
A overwhelming tide of greenskins poured into the interiors of the Khrave warships.
Yet to the mighty Khrave, these Ork greenskins were far too weak; the sweeping strikes of their arthropod joints and scythe-like appendages reaped vast swathes of death.
Even the boarding parties led by Ork Warbosses and their elite guards were shredded into gory remnants.
The Khrave were simply too formidable—a mere three to five of them possessed enough power to suppress a Gene-Primarch. The greenskins derived zero tactical advantage from these boarding actions, achieving nothing beyond compounding their own casualties.
The sole utility of these boarding actions lay in disrupting the Khrave's psychic focus, slowing down the attack frequency of the bone-ships.
With the firing rate suppressed, more junk-vessels closed the distance, pouring ever-increasing waves of boarding parties into the fray.
Through sheer, absolute numbers, the greenskins overwhelmed the Khrave's psychic counter-measures, breaching ship defenses to establish a self-sustaining momentum.
Though the joint fleet resisted fiercely, its efforts proved little more than a drop in the ocean.
Ever more junk-vessels slipped through the defensive perimeter, plunging toward the planetary surface below to strike at the ground-based defense grids.
Should the planet's anti-ship orbital weapon networks fall offline, the total collapse of the allied forces would be inevitable.
On the periphery of the war zone, within the deep shadow cast by the planet, a massive fleet quietly slipped out of standby mode.
After half a month of patient concealment—a mantle of silence waiting for the mantis to stalk the cicada—the human fleet unsheathed its sharpest edge.
"Fleet, set sail!"
At the Gene-Primarch's command, the fleet's engines discharged streams of superheated plasma, propelling the warships directly into the battle line.
The xenos alliance was at its limit, showing clear signs of abandoning the colony.
By intervening at this critical junction, the human fleet initiated a two-front war, engaging both the xenos alliance and the Ork greenskins simultaneously.
Perturabo stood within the supercarrier's holographic array, a brilliant glint of excitement flashing in his eyes as his thoughts directed the fleet toward the fray.
He was the master of this fleet, surrounded on all sides by leviathans of iron and steel.
The fleet adopted a shuttle-like spearhead formation: frigates and cruisers held the outer perimeter, battleships anchored the mid-tier, and the supercarrier battle group occupied the central core.
As the human warships fired up their engines to full capacity, their high-energy signatures were picked up instantly, causing the chaotic battlefield to suffer a momentary pause.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Wild roars seemed to echo across the stars as the Orks prepared for a two-front engagement as well, peeling off a massive contingent of their forces to launch a counter-charge against the human fleet that had suddenly arrived to join the fight.
"Humans!"
Spiteful curses echoed through the void as the Rangdan fleet, driven by deep-seated hatred, broke away from the joint alliance to vector toward the human battle line.
All three factions had chosen to fight on two fronts!
There were no exchanges of empty banter, nor formal declarations of war; the moment they met, it was an absolute conflict to the death, where macro-fire and blades replaced all spoken words!
"Brother!" Blazkowicz bade farewell over the comms channel: "I shall take my leave first."
Perturabo turned his head, offering a grave nod in return: "Understood."
With a brief farewell, Blazkowicz's gaze hardened as he issued an order to Captain Alpha: "Disengage from the main fleet and vector toward the third planet."
"Understood," the machine voice replied with its usual tranquility, projecting an arc-shaped vector across the tactical display. "This vessel and the escort squadron are executing turn..."
The Royal Majesty led three strategic warships out of the charge formation, veering off toward Planet Three according to plan.
"Patch the holographic projection into the public communications channel."
Receiving the command, Alpha hesitated for a few microseconds before proceeding to execute it, though offering a polite note of caution: "The public channel is currently in a state of extreme chaos."
"It matters not."
Blazkowicz waved his hand with relaxed indifference; wherever Orks congregated, the public channels were never quiet.
He summoned his Star God gauntlet and retrieved an adornment from his dimensional vault, preparing to issue his provocation to the greenskins.
Crack~
A brief static hiss flickered across the line as the holographic display patched into the public channel, and an overwhelming wall of thunderous roars burst forth:
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Despite being fully prepared, hearing those overlapping roars crash over one another caused the corners of Blazkowicz's mouth to drop instantly.
"WAR! WAR! WAR!"
"KILL DA HUMIEZ AN' DA STINKIN' SQUID-FINS! AN' DEM BUGS TOO!"
"MORE HUMIEZ ARE 'ERE!"
"SPLIT UP! GO SMASH DA NEW HUMIEZ AN' MAKE DIS WAAAAAAGH!!! GET PROPER ROWDY!"
The arrogant greenskins made no attempt at concealment, broadcasting the vast majority of their troop movements directly across the open public channel.
"Ahem!"
Blazkowicz let out two deliberate coughs. His clear voice rang like a cool spring falling into a filthy mire, sounding exceptionally sharp.
"Eh?"
A chorus of startled, confused grunts sounded across the line, followed immediately by wild, contemptuous roars: "IT'S A BIG 'UN! A PROPER SUPER-BIG 'UN!"
The public channel exploded into utter chaos in an instant. Countless Orks turned their gazes toward the projection, staring at the image of the giant within the holographic feed while issuing exaggerated screeches.
In the next moment, a highly unstable holographic signal locked on, consolidating the images of several Ork Warbosses.
"Well, well, humie big 'un~"
The green-skinned BOSS at the fore sat sprawled upon a throne of scrap, blowing a whistle as he tossed his massive skull. His eyes, burning like crimson lanterns, were filled with mockery: "D'ya come 'ere to kneel down an' hand over yer knees?"
"If dat's da case—" The greenskin BOSS flashed a cruel grin, raising a rusted iron boot: "Kiss right 'ere, an' ol' Big-Tusk Grom might just accept yer loyalty."
Boom—
"HA! HA! HA!"
Wild, uninhibited laughter swept through the channel as the Ork Warbosses doubled over, clutching their guts as they mocked the human giant.
They loved nothing more than taunting humans and watching them fly into a helpless rage.
"Is that all?" Blazkowicz, however, showed not a shred of anger, a look of profound contempt curling at the corners of his lips. "Big-Tusk Grom? An Ork warlord who isn't even Waaagh! enough dares to mock me?"
The moment those words fell, every sound across the public frequency died instantly, leaving behind a suffocating, sweltering silence.
Across the projection, the smiles frozen on the faces of six Ork Warbosses stiffened. Their belly-clutching frames looked as if struck by lightning, locking up like stone statues.
"HUMIE—"
Grom let out a furious, indignant roar, only for the sound to choke in his throat in the very next instant.
Glancing at Big-Tusk Grom's far-from-impressive "Big Tusk," Blazkowicz raised his arm and interrupted the roar with a gaze of utter disdain: "You dare call yourself Big-Tusk?"
He unclasped his hand, letting an object dangle from his palm—a sight that plunged the communications channel into a dead, terrified silence once more.
Blazkowicz unclasped his hand, letting the object inside drop naturally to dangle and sway gently in his palm.
As the Ork Warbosses caught a clear view of it, the communications channel plunged into an absolute, dead silence.
It was a foot-long tusk covered in vertical ridges—lacking the sleek sheen of enamel, rough and unpolished.
The holographic projection captured every minute detail, rendering the texture of the tusk with flawless clarity.
Aside from its sheer size, the tooth possessed no mystical or supernatural aura; it appeared thoroughly mundane, even displaying yellowish stains and dark blemishes set deep within its vertical grooves.
The moment the tusk appeared, it commanded the undivided attention of every greenskin warlord, freezing their bodies where they stood.
It was this single tooth that caused the Ork BOSSes' eyes to widen, locking their gazes into a stunned stupor. Their contorted, underbite-heavy jaws fell slowly open, the bloodthirsty savagery in their crimson eyes dissolving into utter disbelief.
In their eyes, that rough tooth held in the human's hand was broadcasting a singular, unmistakable signal.
Sacred, ancient, and laden with a fatal, irresistible magnetism.
Merely glimpsing it through a holographic light-feed held them spellbound, making it impossible to avert their eyes.
Their raw yearning for this tusk had inexplicably eclipsed even the great Waaagh! itself.
Taking in every nuance of the greenskin warlords' expressions, a sharp glint flashed in Blazkowicz's eyes, confirming his inner hypothesis.
The tusk of an ancient Krork indeed possessed an overwhelming pull over modern Orks.
Indeed, the tusk held in Blazkowicz's palm was none other than the final gift of death—wrenched from the mouth of the ancient Krork, "Gu-Ya," as he drew his last breath.
Gulp~
Throats worked as the greenskin warlords swallowed greedily, making no effort to conceal their lust—a sound that echoed with vivid clarity across the pin-drop silent holographic frequency.
They craved it beyond measure!
"Do you see it?"
A commanding voice laced with subtle static echoed through the line, Blazkowicz's tone saturated with supreme disdain: "Now then... do you still consider yourselves Waaagh! enough?"
Hearing that deeply insulting question, the Ork BOSSes snapped their lower jaws shut, their teeth grinding together with deafening crunches as their facial muscles twitched violently.
An inexplicable emotion welled up from the deepest recesses of their hearts, yet the simple emotional wiring of an Ork left them at a total loss for how to articulate their current state.
The massive human giant before them was openly humiliating them, yet they possessed no means to refute his words.
They desperately wanted to roar that they were indeed Waaagh! enough, yet the aura emanating from that ancient tusk was infinitely more Waaagh! than any living Ork could ever hope to be.
In an instant, the terrifying, aggressive spirits of the greenskin leaders across the holographic feed visibly withered away.
Big-Tusk Grom scratched his head in utter bewilderment, completely unsure of how to respond.
The tooth held by the human caused the blood in his veins to boil—a sensation far more intense than any Waaagh! he had ever felt.
"Humie," Grom's gaze never strayed from the ancient Krork tusk for even a fraction of a second, his voice softening slightly as he chewed over his mouthful of jagged tusks: "Give dat tooth to me, an' name yer terms."
He reasoned that if the human had brought out an heirloom of their ancient ancestors, he must want something in return.
Grom pondered for a moment and decided he needed to play it smart, pretending to compromise to seal the deal.
Once he laid his hands on that sacred tusk, he would launch a brutal backstab at the human!
Breaching an oath immediately after achieving his goal—Gork and Mork would thoroughly approve of such cunning brutality.
As soon as he claimed the sacred relic of his race, he would show this human giant the true meaning of a Waaagh!
As his thoughts reached this conclusion, the crimson light in Grom's eyes dimmed slightly, burying his venomous malice deep beneath a guise of genuine sincerity and friendliness.
"I never had any intention of trading," Blazkowicz replied, a contemptuous smile curling his lips, his voice measured and insufferably arrogant. "I merely wanted you to realize that I slew the owner of this tusk, making me far more Waaagh! than every single one of you combined."
"The sacred relic you revere is nothing more than a trophy I display at leisure in my palm—one I could just as easily throw to a squig."
Boom—
The communications channel exploded instantly as countless Orks descended into frantic, incoherent cursing, screaming at the top of their lungs to tear Blazkowicz limb from limb.
His humiliation was far too wanton, stoking the most primal, terrifying fury of the Ork species.
"HUMIE! HOW DARE YA?!"
"HE DEFLED DA RELIC OF DA ANCESTORS! BOYZ, WE'RE GOIN' TO TEAR HIS TRAP OFF RIGHT NOW!"
"I'M GONNA CHEW HIS BONES UP INCH BY INCH AN' FEED 'EM TO DA SQUIGS!"
"CHOP 'IM TO MINCE AN' USE HIS SKULL FOR ME PISS-POT!"
Furious indignations flooded the frequency, a relentless barrage of foul obscenities erupting as the Ork Warbosses vented the raging fire in their hearts.
Small wonder they were so utterly enraged; mapped onto the human Imperium, what Blazkowicz had just spoken was the exact equivalent of threatening to feed the Emperor himself to dogs.
Such absolute, unthinkable profanity was something no soul within the Imperium would ever dare even conceptualize.
"How pitiful," Blazkowicz let out a soft sigh, tossing the ancient Krork tusk into the air and catching it casually. "The owner of this tooth went by the name 'Gu-Ya.' Though he exerted every shred of his strength, he remained entirely incapable of defeating me, falling battered and bloody into the mire."
Ignoring the visibly overheated, blood-red complexions of the Ork Warbosses, he continued at an agonizingly unhurried pace: "Right before he died, he nearly cried like a little grot."
"SHUT YER TRAP!"
A psychic shriek tore across the void as a Waaagh! burst forth in an instant, arcs of green lightning shattering Blazkowicz's arrogant words.
Grom's eyes bulged so fiercely the capillaries burst, blood streaming from his gaping mouth as his rage drove him to shatter his own teeth under the force of his bite.
At this very moment, his force of will and power surged to an absolute zenith!
Under Blazkowicz's relentless provocations and open disdain, the Ork Warbosses stood united as never before, catalyzing the Waaagh! field to unprecedented heights.
Their green blood boiled with absolute fury; they craved nothing short of slaying the insufferably arrogant desecrator before them, avenging the unspeakable humiliation visited upon their ancestors.
"Oh?" Blazkowicz let out a low chuckle. This was precisely the outcome he desired—and it was still not enough!
He needed to drive the Orks past the brink, plunging them into a state of total, unreasoning frenzy so they would abandon all else to swarm and besiege him.
Only by doing so could he pin the greenskin horde permanently within the Chaos Nebula.
The disdain in the depths of Blazkowicz's eyes deepened, a mournful shake of his head accompanying an arrogant voice laden with pity for the weak: "Is this the extent of your fury? Is this what you call a Waaagh!?"
"Flimsy and pathetic. Far more fragile than even that lantern."
Composed amid the raging sea of Ork curses, he accessed his database and casually scrolled his finger as if searching for a specific file.
"Ah, here it is. I almost misplaced it," he remarked with a faint sigh of exasperation, sounding as though he had retrieved a long-forgotten trinket from a pile of meaningless junk.
"HUMIE!!!"
At that exact moment, the greenskin warlords who caught sight of the projected object were consumed entirely by absolute madness, green lightning spewing from their throats as they roared.
The universe seemed to shudder; the entire void battlefield trembled beneath the collective grief, outrage, and deafening bellows of the Ork race: "I WILL DRINK FROM YOUR SKULL!!!"
Upon the public holographic feed, a massive Ork head rotated slowly.
It had been crafted into a lantern, suspended from a trophy display rack, with a human name etched across its brow: Harlan Ogilvy.
A prominent gap marred its lower jaw, missing its strongest tusk, while a ring of campaign honors was engraved around the root of the remaining teeth.
"The head of a weakling, gifted casually to my vassal to be fashioned into a utilitarian specimen."
Blazkowicz lowered his eyes, appearing entirely bored as he casually tossed the Ork tusk between his hands: "Consider it a keepsake—something to remind me of that rather... underwhelming battle."
He raised his head to look upon the teeth-grinding Orks who looked ready to devour his flesh and drink his blood, offering a slow, deliberate shake of his head: "Thus, he was not Waaagh! enough—and you lot are even less Waaagh!."
"If you wish to avenge him and prove your Waaagh!," Blazkowicz pointed a single finger toward the third planet of the star system, his tone dripping with absolute mockery: "Come here. I shall grant you your chance."
"Come here. I shall grant you your chance."
The third planet of the star system spun within the holographic display, looking for all the world like a formal invitation to a party.
"I'M GONNA SLAUGHTER YA!" Big-Tusk Grom's dark green skin flushed a violent crimson as fury boiled through his veins, thick blue veins bulging across his frame as he glared death at the utterly unbothered human giant. "I'M GONNA BEAT YA INTO A PILE OF MINCEMEAT AN' CHEW UP EVERY SINGLE INCH OF YER BONES!"
His features contorted with terrifying brutality, pushed to the absolute brink of rage. "AN' THEN ON YER PUNY SKULL, I'M GONNA ENGRAVE DA NAME 'BIG-TUSK Grom'!"
Bathed within the surging Waaagh! field, the bones across Grom's entire body popped and cracked as his physical frame expanded continuously, his aura rising to an unprecedentedly terrifying height.
At this moment, every trace of their initial dismissiveness had vanished into thin air; the greenskins were burning with total, unadulterated fury!
The Ork Warbosses craved nothing short of reclaiming the relic of their ancient ancestor and chewing the human provocateur into paste to swallow into their guts.
"I shall be waiting for you," Blazkowicz offered a gentle chuckle. "Though you still need to prove whether you possess the right to become my next trophy."
"Or perhaps..." He intentionally paused, casting his eyes up and down the Ork Warbosses with a look of mock scrutiny, "you lack the qualifications to be added to my collection altogether."
With that, regardless of how the Orks roared, Blazkowicz severed the holographic communications link.
"ROAAAR!!!!"
A deafening bellow exploded into the vacuum as the Orks were driven to absolute madness.
Deep within the Ork void fortress, Grom bit his teeth so hard they groaned as he crushed the holographic projector into scrap with his power claw, slamming it down so violently that several squigs beneath his feet were instantly pulverized into bloody paste.
"MAIN FORCE, TURN AROUND!" A roar squeezed through the gaps in his teeth, razor-sharp and bloodthirsty, sweeping through like a crimson, icy gale.
He pushed himself up while breathing heavily, his steps thunderous as he descended from his throne of scrap, the blood-tinged tears in his eyes blazing with fire: "WE'RE GOIN' TO SLAUGHTER DAT HUMIE!"
"Waaaaaagh!!!!"
The Orks thrust their crude scrap-weapons high into the air as ear-splitting roars rippled outward from the throne room.
Yet this time, the Waaagh! howl was devoid of wild arrogance or reckless laughter; it carried only unbearable humiliation and absolute, raging fury.
The junk fleet executed a sharp turn on the spot, surging straight toward the provocateur.
The Waaagh! field became active to an unprecedented degree; at the prows of the scrap warships, the iron effigies of Gork and Mork seemed to come alive, releasing silent, terrifying roars into the void.
The greenskins hungered for vengeance!
The human who had desecrated their ancestors and defiled the glory of the Waaagh! would pay a crushing price this day!
Across the wider battlefield, except for the capital ships that remained behind to suppress the xenos alliance, every single remaining scrap-vessel flipped its vectors, surging toward the third planet of the star system.
---
"Will such unbridled provocation lead to unforeseen variables?"
On the bridge of the Royal Majesty, Perturabo's holographic projection bore a grave expression. He had witnessed the entire exchange firsthand, watching his brother ignite the boundless, infernal rage of the greenskins.
"The Orks have changed." He pulled up the sensor readings; the Orks' Waaagh! field index was spiking violently, its energy harmonics showing high synchronization and massive amplification.
A force field reaching such a threshold was fully capable of warping reality itself.
Perturabo stared at the steadily climbing metrics, concerned that excessive stimulation might trigger some unknown genetic mutation within the greenskins.
"It matters not," Blazkowicz shook his head. "Upon hitting a certain threshold, the Waaagh! field will strike an absolute hard cap."
He understood implicitly that while the Orks' Waaagh! field was indeed miraculous, its upper ceiling was firmly locked.
Based on the current scale of this conflict, no matter how enraged the Orks became or how unified their collective will grew, they could never break free of the hardcoded limiters imposed by the Old Ones.
No matter how hyperactive the Waaagh! field became, it would at most catalyze the birth of a few more Warbosses; its absolute ceiling was sealed.
"The main Ork host has reversed its course. As planned, I shall proceed to wipe out the xenos alliance."
Perturabo pulled up the holographic star chart. Across the vast stellar map, over half of the Ork fleet had shifted vectors, swooping straight for Planet Three like a pack of sharks catching the scent of blood.
The plan was proceeding smoothly: his brother would draw and bind the Orks, while he wiped out the remnants of the xenos coalition.
"Watch out for the Khrave," Blazkowicz reminded him with a grim expression.
Among the xenos alliance, the Khrave were by far the most terrifying; they possessed power sufficient to turn the tide of the entire theater.
Furthermore, if driven into a corner, the Khrave would readily sacrifice their own lives and souls to call forth reinforcements from the Sea of Souls.
"I shall exercise due caution," Perturabo replied with solemn gravity. "I have never underestimated the might of the Khrave for a single moment."
From the records of Khrave incursions preserved within Imperial archives, he had glimpsed a mere tip of the iceberg of that horrific species.
That terrifying psionic race was nothing short of a deep, waking nightmare for all sentient life.
"Psikers will apply warp wards to prevent mortal personnel from collapsing; Legion Chief Librarians will monitor all vectors to guard against psionic anomalies."
"That is well," Blazkowicz nodded once more, letting out a long breath before adding: "Before Imperial reinforcements arrive, I am going to be exceptionally busy."
Though his tone sounded relaxed, the gravity between his brows grew increasingly dense.
Five hundred Legion warriors, one thousand Iron Men, plus three Nur elite corps numbering three million soldiers in total.
This represented the entirety of Blazkowicz's Strike Fleet resources—the sole force relying upon which he had to hold the line against an utterly mad greenskin tide.
The Iron Warriors could offer no aid here; Perturabo had to wipe out the xenos alliance, a task no less daunting.
"I shall do everything within my power," Perturabo clenched his iron fist on the bridge of his supercarrier, his voice heavy as if swearing an oath: "To annihilate the xenos alliance as swiftly as possible, then converge with the reinforcements to complete the encirclement of the greenskins."
Facing such a pressing tactical situation, Perturabo felt a rare sensation of powerlessness.
Had it been solely the greenskins, a joint assault alongside his brother would have made for an exhilarating holding action.
Yet the existence of the xenos alliance had caused the situation to deteriorate rapidly.
Unforeseen circumstances dictated that the two Legions had to split up to focus on entirely separate directives; the Orks' terrifying numbers had forced them to appeal to the War Council for emergency reinforcements.
Their very first campaign in command of their Legions was paved entirely with thorny paths.
Noticing the shifting expressions on his brother's face, Blazkowicz offered words of comfort: "This arduous war is the finest whetstone for the Iron Warriors. This pressure tests both you and me, just as it tests our Legions."
"Stay safe," Perturabo nodded, understanding full well in his heart that the Blazkowicz Slayer's task was a thousand times more perilous than that of the Iron Warriors.
"Everything proceeds according to plan," Blazkowicz flashed a bright smile. "Maintain continuous comms at all times."
"Maintain continuous comms." Perturabo severed the transmission and turned his gaze beyond the viewpane.
Against the backdrop of the brilliant nebula, the Argent warships glinted with faint silver reflections, trailing long streams of plasma exhaust behind them.
Behind the Strike Fleet, the Orks' crimson fleet spewed billows of dense black smoke, accelerating frantically like mad dogs slipping their chains.
---
"Planet Three. Whoever pussies out is a squig, a useless little grot-ling!"
Blazkowicz did not enter the public voice channel, opting instead to broadcast this text message directly across the frequency.
This was the battleground he had chosen—to face the Ork greenskins head-on and execute the strategic delay.
Very quickly, a reply echoed back across the public channel: "WHOEVER PUSSIES OUT IS A GROT-BUG!"
It was a primitive, exceedingly simple reply, yet beneath those cold words raged a sky-shattering fury.
Receiving the reply, a smile curled at the corners of Blazkowicz's mouth; this was precisely the effect he had intended.
From the moment he patched into the public frequency until now, his relentless provocations of the Ork Warbosses contained not a single shred of sincerity—only raw, naked calculation.
Orks cared nothing for grand strategic directives; they wanted only a fight. After that round of severe provocation, the Ork Warbosses had been driven into absolute madness.
There was nothing inherently special about Planet Three, save for its abnormally rich mineral reserves, making it an ideal environment to serve as a killing ground.
Because the Orks possessed simply too many scrap warships; though precarious and crude, their sheer numbers could smother anything in space.
Had a fleet engagement broken out in the void, the Strike Fleet would have been at a hopeless disadvantage.
Blazkowicz had produced the tusk of Gu-Ya and unleashed a barrage of insults specifically to goad the Orks into taking the bait for a direct, ground-based decisive battle on Planet Three.
Sure enough, the Orks could not resist the ancient relic of their Krork ancestor. Under the dual drivers of fury and humiliation, Big-Tusk Grom and the other Warbosses had accepted the challenge.
They made no move to attack the fleet in transit; high-speed scrap vessels skimmed past the silver warships, plunging straight toward the third planet.
Watching the Orks race to claim the initiative by ramming their warships directly onto the planetary surface, Blazkowicz could not help but twitch the corner of his mouth slightly.
Yet he held no fear of an ambush.
Deep within the Orks' savage, treacherous souls resided a faint, strange strain of straightforward honor.
Though modest in quantity, it was present in just the right measure.
Having accepted the challenge and invitation, the Ork Warbosses intended to crush this formidable human foe honorably before the eyes of the entire mob, reclaiming the relic of their ancestors.
Therefore—just fight and be done with it!