Catalin crouched in the shadow of a shattered wall, eyes fixed on the tank below. Its treads ground the pavement into dust, cannon swiveling lazily but menacingly. Thirty ork boys clustered around it, while two grenadiers danced with crude bombs. The street smelled of oil, ozone, and scorched flesh.
Daniel leveled his heavy bolter and opened fire, controlled bursts echoing off the ruined walls. Shells ripped into ork boys, throwing them into rubble, some skidding across the street. The tank's gunners whirled, following the incoming fire, and the machine began to shift — its attention drawn away from Catalin.
Catalin seized the moment. He surged forward like a predator, chainsword screaming, power fist crackling with blue-white energy. Ork after ork fell beneath his relentless assault — heads severed, torsos crushed, screams drowned in the hum of his weapons.
When he reached the tank, Catalin leapt onto its side, landing with a grunt of effort. Sparks flew where ceramite and rusted steel collided. With a crushing roar, he ripped open the hatch, sending fragments of metal clanging to the street below. Inside, the controls and cramped cockpit were exposed — a nest for the looters and their mechanical monster.
Catalin slotted a grenade into the chamber and slammed it home. With a sharp kick, he rolled clear just as the tank erupted in a towering blast of fire and metal, sending green ichor, splintered treads, and shattered steel flying in every direction.
The explosion threw him off balance, but Catalin rolled, rose, and let the chainsword scream again. Around the burning wreckage, the surviving ork boys surged forward, screaming in fury and fear.
Daniel barked a warning and laid down suppressive fire, bolts ripping into the closest boys. Catalin's power fist smashed one against the ground, cracking ribs like dry wood. Another collided with the chainsword's teeth, slicing him clean in half.
One by one, Catalin carved a path through the surviving horde. Heads snapped, torsos exploded, limbs flew in a blur of ceramite, electricity, and steel. Daniel's heavy bolter roared behind him, pinning the last scattered orks to walls and rubble while Catalin closed in for the kill.
By the time the last ork fell, the street was littered with bodies, blood, and scorched metal. The tank was a molten wreck, black smoke spiraling into the ruined sky. Catalin's chest heaved; the chainsword's hum faded to a steady purr. Daniel lowered the heavy bolter, scanning the ruins for any remaining threats.