Hearth and Flame

"Of course, Colonel." Alexander smiled, took a document he had prepared long ago from his coat, and placed it on the table. "This is my preliminary concept for the operation. There is only one core idea: turn our greatest 'disadvantage' into our greatest 'advantage.'"

Colonel Valeus picked up the document with a puzzled expression.

"Our greatest disadvantage is that we have few men, poor equipment, and are a bunch of 'dregs' everyone looks down on. So we were never counting on fighting a proper positional battle," Alexander explained. "But that also means the Orks will look down on us. In their eyes, we are nothing more than an insignificant appetizer. They will be arrogant. They will underestimate us. And that is our opportunity."

"We will abandon the open plains on the outskirts and concentrate all our forces at one point. A strategic stronghold that is easy to defend, difficult to attack, and capable of provoking the greenskins to the greatest extent—the Steel Temple in Agricultural Zone 7."

"The Steel Temple?" Colonel Valeus frowned. "That is the largest grain processing and storage center in all of Viridia. A steel fortress made up of countless enormous silos and processing plants. That place... is practically a meat grinder."

"Exactly." Excitement gleamed in Alexander's eyes. "It is the 'hearth' we have prepared for the greenskins. We will be the flames within it, and the millions of tons of grain dust stored in those giant silos... will be the final 'surprise' we have prepared for those stupid Big Guys."

Twelve hours later, as the 99th Regiment's few dozen rust-covered transports belching black smoke lurched out of the asteroid's gravity well like a swarm of wasps kicked from their nest, Alexander stood on the flagship's bridge and delivered his second formal speech since taking office over the wide-area comms.

His image appeared on the screens of every transport and every troop compartment.

"Soldiers! My brothers!"

His voice traveled through the current and reached every corner. In the cramped troop compartments, the previously noisy surroundings fell silent at once. Every soldier, whether cleaning a weapon or praying under their breath, raised their head and looked at the young figure on the screen.

"Just now, I heard a joke. Someone said we were being sent to die. Someone said we were the garbage the Imperium had thrown away, sent to buy time so those truly 'noble' regiments could deploy at their leisure."

His words made many veterans breathe heavily. This was the humiliation and resentment buried deepest in their hearts, the thing they had never dared touch.

"Yes! They were right!" Alexander abruptly shifted his tone, his voice suddenly rising. "In their eyes, we are garbage! We are the lost souls of Cadia, the scum of the Hive City, the rusted parts of the war machine! They abandoned us, forgot us, despised us!"

"But!" He paused, each word striking the soldiers' hearts like a heavy hammer. "They forgot one thing!"

"What does garbage become after it is set alight?!"

"—Flame!"

"What does rusted steel become after it is reforged in the hearth?!"

"—A blade!"

"Today! We forgotten 'garbage' will become a wildfire that burns everything to ash! We rusted 'parts' will become a sharp blade plunged into the greenskins' hearts!"

"We are not going to die! We are going to take revenge! Revenge for our dead families! Revenge for our lost homes! And to prove to all those who look down on us that the flame has never gone out! It has merely been waiting for a larger hearth!"

"Viridia is our hearth! The greenskins are our firewood! We will use their blood to ignite ourselves! We will make their wails the accompaniment to our war song!"

"Remember! Who do we fight for?"

"—For our families!" Sergeant Orik was the first to raise his arm and roar from inside the troop compartment.

"—For our families!!!" A tidal response erupted from tens of thousands of throats at once. The frenzied roar even made the transport hulls hum faintly in resonance.

"What is our home called?"

"—The 99th Regiment!!!"

"Who is the head of our family?"

"—The Emperor!!!"

Alexander looked in satisfaction at the flushed faces on the screens, red with excitement and fervor. He knew that the first fire in his hearth had been fully lit.

"Move out!" he gave the final order. "Let us... add fuel to the Emperor's fire!"

Meanwhile, in the orbit of Viridia Prime, a green carnival was underway.

The Ork warlord, Grak Bonecrusher, known as Iron Jaw, sat on the bridge of his flagship, the Big Smashy, a vessel cobbled together from countless warship wrecks and space junk. Bored, he used a huge metal wrench to pick scraps of meat from between his tusks.

Grak was a typical clan Ork. Enormous, heavily muscled, and simple-minded, he worshipped pure strength and the most direct violence. He had become the leader of this Waaagh! not because he possessed any brilliant strategic mind, but because he was the biggest, loudest, and best fighter among all the Orks.

This raid had gone exceptionally smoothly. So smoothly that he found it... boring.

The "little shrimps" on this planet were too weak. Those planetary defense troops in their gaudy uniforms were like paper before his Boyz, collapsing the moment they were charged. He had not even gotten the chance to personally smash in a few "tin cans'" heads.

"Boss," a Gretchin with one huge eye, responsible for communications, rolled and crawled beneath his iron throne, shrieking, "we... we intercepted a little shrimp signal! Looks like... looks like new little shrimps are coming to this planet!"

"Hm?" Grak pulled the wrench from his mouth, two blasts of hot air shooting from his huge nostrils. "How many? Tin cans?"

"N-no... not tin cans..." The Gretchin trembled all over with fear. "The signal's a mess. Looks like... like a bunch of... junk?"

"Junk?" Grak furrowed brows thicker than a city wall.

"Yes, Boss! Their ships look like we just picked them out of a scrapyard! They fly slow and crooked, and they're smoking! I reckon we won't even need to shoot them—they'll fall apart on their own!" another Gretchin responsible for observation chimed in.

"Ha!" Grak split his mouth wide and laughed like rolling thunder. "A bunch of poor little shrimps riding junk ships? They dare come fight Iron Jaw Grak? Are they here to deliver teeth to me?"

The surrounding bosses joined in with earthshaking laughter.

"The Boss is right!" shouted one boss waving an enormous cleaver. "Let me take a mob of Boyz and smash those junk ships right out of the sky!"

"No!" Grak waved an arm thicker than a Gretchin's waist. "Let them land."

A cruel, expectant expression appeared on his face.