On the battlefield, everything became expendable.
It was an apocalyptic war of destruction.
It erupted above Attila World.
The firepower unleashed in that instant already surpassed that of an ordinary Apocalypse-class battlefield. Massive lance strikes streaked down from the stars like rain, beams fired from the calibers of distant warships toward the enemy's battle moons and the space boyz they had deployed.
In an instant, those Ork forces were all melted away.
The humans caught in the Orks' melee as a third party had been battered bloody by the Orks. Some ordinary soldiers had even been pinned down by stronger Orks wielding cheap, ugly firearms. Vast regions of Attila World had been occupied by the Orks, but when the lance strikes descended—
The Orks pursuing their victory across the battlefield were instantly thrown into panic by the overwhelming bombardment, scattering in all directions. Lance strikes crashed heavily into the heart of the battlefield. Though they were energy weapons, their immense speed generated devastating kinetic force, blasting huge craters into the battlefield's center. The surrounding earth split apart under the unbearable pressure, forming dense webs of cracks.
The lance strikes continued.
Every inch of the battlefield became a target.
From space, the explosions tearing across the planet's terrain were clearly visible, like miniature nuclear bombs falling onto its surface.
After suffering brief damage from the attack, the Ork boss inside the battle moon suddenly seemed to receive some fierce stimulus. It was the delight of finding a worthy opponent, of encountering a stronger enemy. He kicked aside the Gretchin hiding behind him, then grabbed an Ork boy with one hand to replenish his losses.
Crash.
Debris fell from his body as he rose from the wreckage once more.
He felt no hatred, none of the anger humans would have felt. Instead,