Slaughter Them All

A seemingly endless tide of steel filled the entire field of vision, nearly drowning Rowan and the others beneath it.

Even Astartes could very well be beaten to death if they were surrounded by numbers like these.

But this time, the Orks had met their natural enemies.

Three Killa Kans charged toward Rowan. Their Gretchin pilots howled like madmen as the roaring chainsaw choppas in their hands swung wildly.

But their undisciplined attacks were riddled with openings. The Living Saint and the Adeptus Custodes tore them apart without the slightest resistance.

Unlike the Gretchin, who were chaotic and weak, the Ork Boyz piloting the Dreadnoughts performed much better. The result, however, was no different.

Rowan showed no sign of slowing down. With a single swing of his sword, he turned several Dreadnoughts charging at him into molten iron.

Even the tank-class vehicles proved helpless. In front of an Alpha-level Psyker, they were no better than toys, hurled into the air by invisible Psychic Power and crashing back down to crush a host of Ork Boyz.

"Blast 'im to bits! Now!"

On the battle fortress, Warboss Galia spotted the scene through an observation slit and immediately bellowed an order.

He could already tell that these Shrimp would break through the line and reach him before long.

As a heavily armored boss of the Blood Axe Clan, Galia had some brains. He wasn't stupid enough to think he could take on these damn Shrimp.

"Righto!"

A Mekboy roared in reply.

With a teeth-grinding clank, the battle fortress's heavy main gun slowly turned, preparing to aim at the invading Shrimp and give them a good blast—to blow those lousy Shrimp straight to their god of Gork and Mork.

As for what kind of shell it was, or what was inside it, even the Mekboy probably didn't know.

But who cared?

It would surely blow those lousy Shrimp to smithereens. As for the Orks surrounding them... well, good luck to them.

"Lord Rowan, look out! Those Xenos are getting ready to fire on us!"

Through her Psychic Power, Sibyl saw what was happening and immediately shouted a warning.

"I see it."

Rowan replied calmly. "But they won't get the chance."

He quickly estimated the distance. That should be far enough.

By now, the squad had broken through nearly half of the Ork line. The many heavy vehicles that had blocked their way had already been destroyed, and they were close to the battle fortress.

Rowan focused his mind. That familiar sensation of resistance returned, and the air cracked and boomed in his ears once more. The next moment, he vanished from where he stood and appeared atop the battle fortress's armored hull.

He smashed through every obstacle in his path, carving a bloody trail through the ranks. Limbs flew, and metal fragments scattered across the ground.

While the Orks around him were still stunned, Rowan calmly swung Solomon's Ceremonial Sword.

A blazing golden light shone like a star, and its extreme heat flashed past in an instant.

The enormous gun turret instantly became free-floating molecules in the air. The Mekboy inside it vanished along with it, leaving no trace.

Only then did Rowan turn his gaze toward the Warboss in the driver's compartment and slowly reach out.

Warboss Galia had just been about to resist when his body suddenly stiffened. The air around him seemed to harden into an unyielding solid. His whole body felt as if it had been cast in steel, every joint firmly locked. Like a mosquito trapped in amber, he couldn't move at all.

Then his body floated lightly into the air and drifted toward Rowan.

Rowan calmly stepped forward and seized the beast by the throat.

Knowing what awaited him, Galia was no longer as panicked as before. Gritting his teeth, he roared in Low Gothic at Rowan, who was only inches away. "Don't get too big for your boots, Shrimp! Our Blood Axe Warboss is waiting for you in Dark Iron City! You'll taste defeat at the city walls!"

"Our Warboss will tear off your head and hang it up as a new trophy!"

As his roar faded, Galia's eyes suddenly widened.

He'd imagined all sorts of reactions from the Shrimp—scorn, contempt, anger, indifference—but he hadn't expected this.

Rowan's eyes lit up. An excitement so clear even an Ork could understand flashed across his face.

Galia knew that expression all too well.

As a true Ork, he'd seen it on his own leader's face: the bloodthirsty excitement that came only when they found a worthy opponent or an exceptional prey.

"So that's it. You're not the real leader of these Orks. There's a bigger fish after all?"

Rowan laughed. "Well, that's... even better."

With that, he lifted the captive in his hand and displayed him to the Orks around them, who stood frozen at the sight of their boss being captured.

Then Rowan raised Solomon's Ceremonial Sword, its blade wreathed in golden flames. It flashed once, plunging deep into Galia's chest.

A blinding light flared and vanished. The Warboss's body, from the neck down, turned to ash in an instant.

Rowan hooked the head at his waist, looked around at the terrified Orks, and shouted:

"Kill them! Slaughter them all! Leave no one alive!"

Amplified by his Reality Warping power, the rolling waves of his voice swept across the entire battlefield.

At his shout, the Orks' morale collapsed. They scattered in every direction, fleeing for their lives.

The one-sided slaughter began.

Elsewhere, Burke raised his Hellgun and pulled the trigger.

A searing laser beam pierced the twenty-eighth Ork fleeing with his back to him. Burke couldn't help but fall into thought.

Earlier, when he'd seen the support ships arrive from the trench, Burke had been thrilled.

After all, with air superiority and orbital bombardment, even a foolish commander couldn't possibly lose.

But when he saw the ships in the sky begin dropping Drop Pods, he was stunned.

Even if those Drop Pods are carrying the Emperor's Angels of Death, surely they shouldn't jump straight into a tide of enemy steel?

As a veteran of the Armageddon Steel Legion, Burke's combat experience told him this was nothing short of suicide.

We have to go help them!

The thought had come to him naturally.

Then the Armageddon Steel Legion's commander, the "Old Warhound," demonstrated his command skills to his subordinates as usual.

After a brief pause, the contingency plan they'd prepared in advance went into action. Leman Russ Tanks and Chimera armored vehicles rolled in from the rear, following their designated routes as they charged toward the Ork positions.

Burke leapt out of the trench and joined his comrades. Together with the tanks assigned to their group, they engaged the Ork horde.

He'd expected a grueling rescue operation, but things went far more smoothly than he'd imagined.

The Steel Legion encountered almost no enemy vehicles on the way. Any they did find were quickly wiped out in a single volley by the tank force, which had gained numerical superiority for the first time since arriving on this planet.

The Ork Boyz they ran into had lost all their previous ferocity. They showed almost no will to fight and were cut down in droves with ease.

"Tch!"

Burke clicked his tongue.

This counterattack, which should have been a bloodbath, had been less intense than the suppression battles he'd taken part in before.

After a brief exchange of fire that hardly deserved to be called a battle, they finally reached the Astartes' forces.

But the sight before him took Burke completely by surprise.

The towering Astartes radiated a sacred yet eerie air of indifference. They didn't seem to have suffered so much as a scratch, let alone suffered the heavy casualties he'd expected.

At a glance, he couldn't see a single gravely wounded or dead soldier on the ground.

"How is that possible?"

All around the battlefield lay the scattered, mangled remains of Ork vehicles. A fierce battle had clearly taken place here, yet the ground was littered only with Ork corpses. Not a single one belonged to the Astartes.