Commissar

This was truly astonishing.

Burke watched the Astartes fighting tirelessly, his reverence deepening, excitement barely contained.

But soon, his squadmate's voice cut through his thoughts.

Burke's squad's marksman, the one-eyed man, sidled over and elbowed him.

When a puzzled Burke looked his way, he pointed sharply in one direction, signaling him to look.

As Burke turned his gaze, his breath caught.

Amid the green tide, a Living Saint with pure white wings and a soft golden glow soared through the sky, blood spraying from the enemy ranks below as heads of Ork Boyz spun upward with her every rise and fall.

On another side, a young woman radiating immense psychic power—far beyond any Psyker Burke had ever known—unleashed crackling Psy-lightning without restraint into the surrounding greenskins. With each flash, whether Ork Boy or Ork Boss, all turned to ash.

And what made Burke's blood run cold was the Rose Knot emblem of the Inquisition boldly tattooed on her clothing.

Burke fell silent.

But this already absurd scene was far from over.

Another part of the battlefield erupted with noise. A figure in golden armor, clearly of the utmost opulence, darted back and forth at a speed Burke—a veteran Astra Militarum soldier hardened by war—couldn't even track. Wherever he passed, chaos and corpses littered the ground.

Having once traveled to Holy Terra to receive an award from the Departmento Munitorum, Burke barely recognized the armor's style—identical to that of the Adeptus Custodes guarding the Imperial Palace.

"Haha."

Somehow, Burke let out a resigned laugh.

Seeing their captain's strange reaction, the once-excited one-eyed man froze and couldn't help asking:

"Burke, what's wrong?"

Burke still didn't respond. He silently reached into his chest, pulling out the soldier's dog tag hanging around his neck.

Without a word, he opened his mouth and bit down on the dog tag.

One-eyed man: "Huh?"

The battle was over.

No matter how strict a commander, they'd have to admit this was a glorious victory.

The greenskins were utterly routed, their morale shattered, fleeing across the mountains—unable to mount a counterattack for some time.

The Imperium's losses were minimal. From the start, the Armageddon Steel Legion's soldiers had taken cover in safe bunkers, surviving the artillery barrage. By the time reinforcements arrived, the greenskins had already crumbled.

Seeing the Orks scattered, their dense formations gone, the kill efficiency dropped sharply. Rowan left the battlefield for this reason, leaving all the Astartes to continue the hunt.

He sent a comm to rally his squadmates, and the four walked together toward the Astra Militarum's position.

Earlier, Rowan had left the Ork Boss's head behind—not just for intimidation.

He repeated his trick, extracting useful intel from the skull, roughly figuring out this greenskin force's origin.

The planet was named Valos World by the Imperium, and these greenskins had spawned in the underhive of one of its Hive Cities.

Some genius must have brought Ork spores into this natural breeding ground. Once this Ork tribe grew, they quickly seized control of the Hive City and spread outward, trying to take other Hives.

This Armageddon Steel Legion had been fighting the greenskins for days, winning every field battle, repelling all attacks.

But bound by the Astra Militarum's tactical codex, as a pure armored regiment, they lacked the firepower and heavy artillery for siege warfare. Things hit a stalemate.

The greenskins couldn't break out; the Astra Militarum couldn't break in.

"This is a bit troublesome..."

Walking, Rowan pondered slowly.

If it were a Warboss from another clan, things would be much simpler.

He'd just go near the Hive City, use a loudspeaker to hurl insults like, "The Warboss over there is a cowardly purple Gretchin, too scared to come out and fight one-on-one."

From Rowan's knowledge of Orks, the Warboss would likely lose it, charge out with his mob, and try to kill the one who said it.

Once the enemy came out, it'd be easy.

With Rowan's current strength, unless that Warboss was an Ancient Ork Warlord from the Beast War who could trade blows with a Primarch, he'd be dead.

But now, with the Blood Axe Clan—an Ork anomaly—this trick probably wouldn't work.

Instead of dueling outside, that Warboss might prefer to dump two salvos of shells at the sound's source, turning the speaking shrimp to ash—a very un-Ork way to solve things.

After thinking it over and discussing with the others, Rowan ruled out two more plans.

Orbital bombardment via Strike Cruiser was basically impossible. That Hive City had a fortress Void Shield from Vigilant Star and a plasma Orbital Defense Platform.

Since the greenskins had erupted inside the city, these defenses were useless—instead, the enemy had seized and turned them.

As for airdropping into the Hive City to smash through all the greenskins inside, everyone vetoed that.

The danger was obvious, and Rowan's own weakness was glaring. Anything could happen in a fierce battle.

Rowan didn't want to die a pathetic death from a stray rock piercing his abdomen.

That would be too darkly humorous.

In the end, everyone reached a conclusion.

"We still have to communicate with this Astra Militarum unit and cooperate to better eliminate the Xenos."

"My lord, our legion's commander is just ahead."

The Astra Militarum soldier who had voluntarily guided Rowan and his group spoke with some trepidation.

"Thank you."

Rowan nodded politely in gratitude, only to be met with the soldier's stunned gaze.

Fine.

Rowan shook his head and turned his attention to a vehicle before him... a Super-heavy Tank.

It was an Astra Militarum Venomblade tank, its exterior wrapped in black steel that gleamed with a dull, cold light. Spikes on the turret stood like dark obelisks, while the Black Hole main cannon muzzle and numerous secondary cannons were arranged in staggered rows, making it look like a ferocious killing machine crawled from hell.

This thing... why did it look somewhat familiar?

Rowan found it odd and narrowed his eyes for a closer look.

But before he could recall, a man leaped out of the tank from a rear hatch and landed on the ground.

He wore an Imperial Commissar's greatcoat, topped with a black-and-red cap. Gold filigree on the brim coiled around a skull emblem, making his chiseled, cold-hardened face appear extremely stern, his tightly pressed lips like a blade tempered with frost.

The Commissar straightened up and cast his gaze toward Rowan.

"I am Commissar Colonel Sebastian Yarrick of the Armageddon Steel Legion, 252nd Regiment."

"May I ask, who are you?"