The Uncanny Little Runt

A former Hive City criminal, after his Lasgun ran out of charge, actually threw away his weapon, picked up a rock from the ground, howled as he leaped onto an Ork boss's back, and smashed the back of its head with the rock again and again in a frenzy.

The recruit who had once trembled in terror was now grappling with an Ork twice his size. Its fangs had bitten into his arm, nearly tearing it apart. Yet he ignored it completely and drove an entrenching shovel into the Ork's neck with all his strength.

This was Alexander's "Hearth."

Fueled by hatred and despair, it burned with a pure battle frenzy powerful enough to incinerate reason and fear alike.

Alexander stood in the middle of the battlefield.

At his side was his personal guard: the Flame Core, a group of the most fanatical and loyal soldiers.

Every swing of the Power Sword in his hand left a blue arc of electricity in the air—and an Ork separated from its head.

A huge Ork boss wielding a Power Klaw noticed this black-uniformed little runt. It could sense that this runt was the core of these crazed humans.

"Waaagh!!!"

The Ork boss roared, its massive Power Klaw clawing toward Alexander with a shriek that tore through the air.

Alexander did not dodge.

The corner of his mouth even curled into a faint smile.

Just as the Power Klaw was about to touch him, a burly figure slammed into it.

It was Orik.

"Don't touch him!!!"

The Kasrkin veteran let out a roar like a wounded beast. The Chainsword in his hand gave a piercing howl as he swung it viciously upward into the Ork boss's chest.

Splat—!

The Chainsword's teeth effortlessly tore through the Ork's rough hide and crude armor, spraying green blood and entrails everywhere.

The Ork boss lowered its head in disbelief, staring at the massive gash in its chest before collapsing heavily to the ground.

Orik did not even spare it another glance. Turning around, he placed himself in front of Alexander and warily scanned the surroundings, as though he meant to shield Alexander from every harm in the world.

"Elder Brother, it's too dangerous here. Please fall back."

"I am with you, Orik." Alexander flicked the green blood from his Power Sword, his voice calm yet filled with unquestionable authority. "I told you, we are a family. Family does not abandon one another."

Through the communicator Orik carried, those words spread across the entire battlefield.

"Did you hear that?! Elder Brother is with us!"

"Protect Elder Brother!!"

"Kill every greenskin bastard that gets near Elder Brother!!!"

Every soldier who heard those words seemed to have been injected with the most potent stimulant. Their combat power surged once more. They formed moving walls of flesh, tearing apart every Ork that tried to approach Alexander.

On the Orks' side, however, things were completely different.

The Ork boss leading them was called Iron Tooth Mog. He had originally thought this would be an easy slaughter.

But now, he was a little confused.

These little runts weren't right.

They weren't afraid of dying. That was nothing special; some crazy tin cans weren't afraid of death either.

But these little runts looked... like they were enjoying the battle?

They fought while shouting slogans he could not understand, though they sounded fanatical. Things like "Hearth," "family," and "add fuel to the fire."

And they fought with even more disregard for their lives than the craziest boys under his command.

Even stranger, they seemed to be... protecting that black-clothed little runt, the one who looked weakest?

That black-clothed runt was like their boss. As long as he remained standing, these little runts fought like they had gone mad, without end.

Iron Tooth Mog mulled it over. This made no sense.

Shouldn't little runt bosses hide at the very back and be the first to run when things went wrong? Who stood at the front and had his underlings protect him?

"Boss! These little runts are too weird! We... we can't hold on much longer!" An Ork with half the skin burned off its face ran over and shouted in terror.

"Shut up!" Mog slapped it flying. "I ain't had enough fun yet! Charge! Whoever dares fall back, I'll be the first to twist off his head!"

However, at that moment, a sharp whistling sound descended from the sky.

Mog instinctively looked up. Then, one final thought flashed through his brain, which was barely bigger than a walnut.

...What's that thing?

Boom—!!!

A shell fired from one of the 99th Regiment's few Griffon mortars landed with unerring precision among Mog and his elite bodyguard.

The violent explosion instantly tore those Orks into green pieces that rained through the air.

The commander's death became the final straw that broke the camel's back.

Having lost their command, the remaining Orks fell into chaos. What little morale they had was utterly crushed by the 99th Regiment's suicidal madness.

"Run!"

No one knew which Ork had shouted it first.

Then the rout spread like a plague.

The Orks threw down their weapons and fled back the way they had come, crying and howling.

"Do not pursue!" Colonel Valeus promptly gave the order over the command channel. "Clear the battlefield! Treat the wounded! We... we held the line."

His voice carried a trace of exhausted disbelief and... shock.

He looked at the soldiers repeatedly stabbing Ork corpses with their bayonets; at the soldiers supporting one another as they sang at the top of their lungs.

All at once, he understood Alexander's theory.

What Hearth? This was clearly...

a fanatical battle cult centered around a commissar.

And he was this cult's...

military director.

For the first time, Colonel Valeus felt deeply worried about his future.

But he had to admit, this feeling... was fucking exhilarating.

In the murky orbit above Viridia Prime, on the bridge of the flagship Big Smashy, the warlord Iron Jaw Bonecrusher Grak was violently crushing a Gretchin responsible for reporting the battle into a lump of green paste with his massive Power Klaw.

"What did ya say?!" Grak's bell-like voice made the entire bridge hum. "That idiot Mog took so many of my boys, plus a whole squadron of vehicles, to stomp a bunch of poor little runts who came on a busted ship, and then... got driven off?!"

Every smaller Ork on the bridge shrank their heads into their shoulders in terror, afraid of becoming the warlord's next target for venting his rage.

An Ork boss second only to Grak in size, with half its head replaced by crude machinery, gathered its courage and said in a muffled voice, "Boss, I heard from the boys who ran back that those little runts... are kind of weird."