The Sky Suddenly Went Dark

All twenty creations bowed their heads at the same time.

Their bodies leaned slightly forward, a posture unique to the Tyranids that signified submission.

A low hum emanated from their throats, echoing through the hatching pools and mingling with the heartbeats of the still-growing Tyranids embryos.

The Swarm Prince turned around and faced the curtain again.

"Set off."

Southern side of the Imperium, a desolate star field, Death World.

This planet has no name. Its designation on the Imperium star map is "0812 - Death".

It has no atmosphere, no ocean, no vegetation, only endless sandstorms and relentless gales.

The dust was grayish-black, with a suffocating sulfurous smell, and could corrode fine holes in the armor of a Leman Russ Battle Tank within an hour.

The wind can reach speeds of 300 kilometers per hour, enough to blow away an adult who isn't wearing Power Armour.

The people here don't call themselves "the people"; they call themselves "the Forgotten Ones."

They were people abandoned by the Imperium.

It wasn't because of rebellion, nor because of heresy, but because this planet was simply too poor.

They were so poor that even the tax collectors didn't want to come.

They were so poor that even the Inquisition didn't think it was worth wasting a bomb there.

They were so poor that even the Chaos Gods couldn't be bothered to corrupt them—their souls were so bitter that even Slaanesh found them hard to swallow.

They lived in shacks built from the armor plates of abandoned warships.

Those armor plates were salvaged from a transport ship that crashed on this planet a thousand years ago. They were rusty and riddled with bullet holes, but at least they could block some of the sand and dust.

Their food is a potato-like fungus dug from the ground, which tastes bitter like bile, but it fills their stomachs.

Their water source comes from deep underground ice layers, requiring digging 300 meters deep to retrieve it; every drop is as precious as blood.

Their weapon was the outdated M36-pattern lasgun.

Those kinds of antique weapons that have been phased out in other parts of the Imperium and can only be seen in museums.

The barrel was so badly burned that there was a chance of it exploding every time it was fired.

The energy packs inside the ammunition pouches have been recharged countless times, their capacity is only half that of brand new ones, and they are prone to leaking at any time.

But they had no other weapons.

They were the Planetary Self-Defense Force, without any designation, without any honors, and without even a complete Imperium flag.

The only Aquila flag was torn in two by the wind and sand, leaving only one head of the Aquila on the top half. But they still hung it at the highest point of the camp and saluted it every morning.

"Salute!" the veteran's voice was hoarse.

A dozen or so ragged soldiers raised their right hands and saluted the tattered flag.

Their movements were uneven; some were fast, some were slow, and some even raised the wrong hand.

But their eyes were the same—the kind of eyes that said, "We have been forgotten, but we still remember who we are."

The captain was an old man named Duval.

He is seventy years old this year and has been guarding this planet for fifty years.

His left leg was severed by flying armor fragments during a sandstorm; he used animal hide to stop the bleeding and heated a red-hot iron rod to cauterize the wound.

There was no anesthetic, no medical kit, only a dagger salvaged from the ruins and a bottle of strong liquor dug from the ground.

He did not apply for retirement because retirement would mean leaving this planet, and leaving this planet would mean that his fifty years of dedication would be meaningless.

"Captain, the detector is responding." A young soldier ran over, his face covered in sand and dust, only his eyes were clear.

Duval turned around, his cloudy eyes fixed on the young soldier.

"What was the reaction?"

"The fleet... is very large... and not the Imperium's."

Duval's heart skipped a beat.

If it's not part of the Imperium, then it's the enemy.

In this forgotten star system, there is only one enemy— the Orks.

When the Orks attack fleet leaped out of the void, the entire sky was dyed dark red.

It wasn't the red of the sunset, it was the red of fresh blood.

Those warships were pieced together from scrap metal and space junk, painted with red paint and various crooked Orks runes.

They fell from outside the atmosphere like burning meteorites, crashing into the sand and creating huge craters.

Orks poured out of the crater.

They are generally over two meters tall, with green skin, bulging muscles, and sharp fangs in their mouths.

Their eyes were blood red, not from fear, but from ecstasy—they had finally found something to fight.

"Waaagh!!!" Their battle cries echoed through the sandstorm, shaking even the rusted armor plates.

"Waaagh!!!" More Orks poured out of the crater, numbering at least a thousand and still increasing.

The soldiers of the Planetary Self-Defense Force raised their old-fashioned Lasgun, the muzzles trembling in the gale.

It wasn't because they were afraid—they had guarded this planet for fifty years and had seen all sorts of storms—but because among these Orks, there was one who was particularly large.

As the Orks crawled out of the largest crater, the surrounding Orks simultaneously parted to make way for him.

It was nearly four meters tall, much larger than an ordinary Orks.

It wore a set of Power Armour welded from warship armor plates, and a crooked Orks emblem made of cut sheet metal was nailed to its left shoulder.

Its right hand held a huge power claw, the claw blade still covered with fresh, not-yet-dried flesh and blood plundered from another world last month.

Its left hand held a modified Bolter, its barrel sawed off and replaced with a cannon barrel salvaged from an Imperium warship.

War leader.

One of these monsters can take down twenty or thirty old-style Space Marines.

A terrifying entity that would require an entire squad of Space Marines to barely deal with in other parts of the Imperium.

Duval gripped the old-fashioned Lasgun tightly.

His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the recoil of the gun that would reopen the still-healing wound on his hand.

"Children," his voice was soft, but every word sounded like a shout, "Today might be the last day."

The young soldiers remained silent.

They simply gripped their guns tighter, their lips pressed into a thin line, and the light in their eyes shifted from fear to resolve.

"Waaagh!!!" The Orks charged.

The soldiers of the Planetary Self-Defense Force opened fire.

Those dozens of thin, dark red laser beams appeared so weak and powerless amidst the overwhelming green waves.

They struck the Orks's armor, leaving red-hot burn marks on the iron; they struck the Orks's body, burning charred holes in the green muscle.