That Flag Looks Quite Durable, I'll Take It

The ruined cities of Mill World in the Cyclops Cluster reeked, transformed into livestock pens.

Chaplain Jeremy's black armor was covered in filthy blood and stains.

Aside from the shadow-like legion insignia on his chest, which had been deliberately maintained and remained clean, every other part was coated in thick green grime.

As commander, he had not removed his armor for a full cleaning by his armor serfs in three hundred and forty-seven standard days.

Thirteen days ago, the wall sector had fallen completely.

After that, even replacing the battery inside his Power Pack had to be done on the front line.

The stench had already blanketed the industrial city, thick with ammonia, so pungent that the last batch of Oveja canned goods came out smelling strangely rotten the moment they were opened, impossible to tell whether they had only just picked up the fungal odor.

Boom!

Jeremy looked toward the thunderous sound and saw a hulking monstrosity four heads taller than any Ork he had ever seen.

On the Waaagh! Banner behind him were strung ten trophies—the heads of Shadow of Order.

Six still wore helmets, their eyes bulging out through the Eyepieces.

Four heads had caved in, cheekbones jutting out.

He slammed into a breach in the wall wide enough for three Orks to pass through side by side, and got stuck inside.

His two eyes were utterly different, one scarlet, the other dark green.

Huge bronze tusks were welded to his jagged metal jaw.

His body was like a metal barrel, and his metal arms reminded Jeremy of the first battle he had ever joined.

During the Second Rangdan War, the Basmemanik who had invaded the Colonid Sector.

Mighty metal beasts.

The beast swept both arms sideways, the wall shuddering violently as plasteel-concrete poured down in clumps.