Ork Boss

"All you boyz, look at me!"

A thunderous roar cut across the battlefield, piercing through the deafening noise to reach every Ork ear with crystal clarity.

Amid the chaotic green tide, an Ork Boss leaped onto a tank turret and stood atop it.

It was towering, hideous, with jagged fangs jutting from its maw. Its limbs had been crudely replaced with bulky mechanical augmetics, and a belching jetpack strapped to its back spewed black smoke.

But the most absurd detail was its outfit—the Ork Boss wore a uniform resembling an Astra Militarum commissar's coat, its bright red a glaring beacon on the battlefield.

Extending a massive mechanical claw, the Ork Boss pointed at the distant Astartes fortifications and bellowed, "Look at these little tin cans! They think so little of us, so arrogant, trying to pit their flesh and blood against the iron fists of Gork and Mork—to see who's bigger, who's tougher, who's more Waaaaagh!"

Its voice, amplified through some crude device, echoed across the entire field.

"So, what's our answer?"

The response came as a unified roar from every Ork boy:

"Waaaaagh—!!"

"HAHAHAHA! That's right! That's it!"

The Ork Boss grew even more fired up, its voice swelling, "We are the Blood Axe Clan! For our Warboss! For victory! For the Great Waaaagh!"

Naturally, with such a racket, the Astartes on the far line couldn't miss it.

Dozens of custom bolt rounds, capable of punching through shields and armor, screamed toward it in an instant.

But the Ork Boss sneered, as if expecting it. It tilted its body, exposing its thick shoulder pauldron, while a strange green energy shield flickered across its form.

A hail of fire rained down, barely penetrating the shield before ricocheting harmlessly off the armor—whatever exotic material it was made of.

"See, boyz! I am unbreakable! Gork and Mork watches over me!"

The Ork Boss howled in frenzy.

Inspired by the sight, the Greenskins surged forward with fanatical zeal, kicking their war machines into gear. A barrage of dakka guns and boom cannons roared, blasting the defensive line.

The cacophony of gunfire and explosions wove together, turning this brutal meat-grinder of steel against steel into a full-blown crescendo.

As the fighting intensified, the outnumbered Astartes quickly found themselves on the back foot.

Amid the gleeful laughter of Tankbustas, rocket after rocket streaked out like a curtain of rain.

These rockets stayed true to Ork design—you never knew what was inside. One might be harmless flash and smoke, the next packed with lethal melta.

More and more Astartes were struck down, suffering heavy casualties. Their power armor shattered, revealing the hollow emptiness within.

The Ork boys noticed the anomaly but quickly shrugged it off.

Who cared what they were?

As long as they could fight, that was all that mattered to Greenskins.

Waaaaagh was all that mattered!!!

+Query: How much longer must we hold+

An Astartes' thought suddenly rippled through the psychic link as he swung his Power Sword, cleaving a charging Choppa Boy in two.

They were now engulfed by the surging green tide, grinding against it like a bloody bulwark, locked in a death struggle with the endless Ork horde.

Thanks to Rowan's peerless intellect and reality-warping power, every former Blissful Angels War Band Astartes had awakened Soul Communication.

This ability forged an efficient information network, linking all their minds through the sacred Emperor's Psychic power, binding them closer together.

+Mash, no need to wait any longer+

The Astartes Company Commander's thought came through the Soul Link.

+The mission is complete+

By now, the commander had cleared a wide open space around him.

One by one, Teleport Beacons were driven deep into the ground, crackling Psy-lightning arcing between them, quickly enveloping a vast area.

With a sharp crackle of psychic discharge, the temperature plummeted, frost crystallizing on the ground as a large-scale Warp teleportation completed.

Within the teleport zone, a flood of reinforcements materialized.

Eighteen Dreadnoughts stood like moving fortresses, their overwhelming firepower enough to suppress anything—exactly the heavy support the frontline Astartes needed.

And among them, stepping out in a halo of psychic light, was Rowan himself.

Close behind were Leonardo in Adeptus Custodes Terminator Armor, Lucia with wings unfurled and a halo above her head, and Sibyl gripping a Force Sword.

That's right—Rowan and his group had abandoned their ship in low orbit, choosing to teleport down and unleash full carnage.

"Let's go. Crush them."

Rowan nodded calmly, issuing the order to those around him.

All the Dreadnoughts moved in unison, their machinery thrumming as they took heavy strides, each step shaking the ground.

Guided by their Astartes brothers through the Soul Communication network, they quickly deployed to pre-designated firing positions, unleashing a torrent of suppressive fire that stabilized the crumbling line.

Leonardo and Lucia, hearing Rowan's command, sprang into action as well.

The two of them erupted with a speed that even a Space Marine's reaction time could barely track, crossing from the heart of the position to the front line of battle in an instant, greeted by the roaring flames of war.

In the midst of the charge, Leonardo struck first.

The Guardian Spear in the Adeptus Custodes' hand spat out a stream of specialized bolter rounds. Not a single one of these rounds struck an Ork Boy, yet this was no sign of poor aim—on the contrary, it was precision so uncanny it defied belief.

Each bolter round followed an indescribable pattern, striking every unstable-looking Ork contraption in the Custodes' field of view in a specific sequence—including the Tankbustas' rockets, the smoke-belching engines of Ork Bikes, the explosive-laden Exploding Squigs, and more.

"BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!"

A cascade of overlapping explosions tore through the air, instantly shredding a swath of Ork Boyz charging toward this golden-armored giant who clearly radiated pure Waaagh.

Leonardo did not stop. Instead, he shifted his footing, casually sidestepping three shells fired from a Rage Tracker, then plunged into the rolling tide of armored vehicles.

He reached one Rage Tracker, swung his spear, and in less than 0.1 seconds, carved the entire vehicle into several chunks, dismembering it outright.

The Ork driver inside the cabin stared out in blank confusion, reaching up to touch his neck—where a faint line of blood had already appeared. The next second, he and his beloved ride shattered into fragments together.