A Warlord's Fun

"Witchy?" Grak grabbed that mechanical-headed "boss" by the collar and hauled him before his face. "Is there anything witchier than us in the Waaagh! of Iron Jaw Grak?"

"They... they ain't afraid of dying, boss," the mechanical-headed "boss" explained with difficulty. "Us Orks ain't afraid of dying either. But we fight for the fun of it. Those little runts... they... they look like they're specially made to die! They charged while yelling stuff I couldn't understand, things like 'boil the water' and 'add firewood'... When they fight, they're even more desperate than the maddest Madboyz! Mog got piled to death by their bodies!"

A flicker of confusion passed through Grak's enormous single eye.

Boil the water? Add firewood?

Could those little runts be cooks?

His simple brain, built around only two core principles—fighting and eating—was having trouble processing this.

Grak released his grip and let the mechanical-headed "boss" fall to the floor. His massive metal jaw clicked and ground together.

His first reaction was rage. Being defeated by a pack of impoverished cooks was the greatest insult possible to a warlord.

But then a stronger emotion replaced that fury.

It was the excitement of finding a worthy opponent!

"Ha! Hahaha! Hahahahaha!"

Grak suddenly burst into earth-shaking laughter. He rocked back and forth as he laughed, his huge body making the iron throne assembled from countless trophies rumble and bang.

"This is fun! This is bloody fun!" He slammed a fist onto the armrest, denting a thick armor plate deeply. "I said the little runts on this planet were too weak—no fun to fight at all! So the real fun was here!"

"A bunch of cooks who ain't afraid of dying! Hahaha! I like these little runts!"

He rose from his throne, his enormous body nearly reaching the bridge ceiling.

"Pass on my orders!" He pointed his huge wrench at the location marked "Agricultural Zone 7" on the star map. "Tell all the boyz to get their arses over to that place called the Steel Outhouse!"

"I ain't playing anymore! I ain't playing those slow stomping games anymore! I'm getting in there myself!"

"I wanna see whether their 'firewood' is tougher, or my Iron Jaw is tougher! I'll drag that black-clothed cook boss out from among his madmen and smash him into a puddle of meat with my own hands! Then I'll use their 'pot' to cook them up!"

"Waaagh!!!"

The warlord's roar ignited the Orks throughout the fleet. Their simple minds no longer held confusion or fear toward those "witchy" little runts. In their place was an absolute, pure desire for a grand war.

Countless Ork warships of every shape, belching thick black smoke, began changing course. Millions of greenskins wielding crude weapons let out thunderous roars.

A primitive, savage war centered around the Steel Temple, with both sides staking their "faith" and "logic," was about to begin.

Warlord Grak thought this was the most fun fight he had ever encountered in his life.

He thought he had already won.

The road to the Steel Temple was a bitter path paved with blood and iron.

The 99th Regiment, an exhausted force fresh from a bloody battle, raced against time across the vast Viridia Plains. Behind them, Ork scouting units pursued them relentlessly like hunting hounds. Above them, crude Ork "bomber planes," like flying iron coffins, occasionally dropped shrieking bombs.

This was a brutal, unceasing battle.

The soldiers ate while marching, fired while running, and changed their wounded comrades' bandages during brief moments to catch their breath.

Yet not a single man fell behind, and not one complained.

Because their commissar, Alexander von Lawrence, was always at the very front of the column.

He rode no vehicle. Just like the most ordinary soldier, he measured this war-ravaged land with his own feet. Mud and dust covered his body, but his pale golden eyes remained bright as stars, as though they contained inexhaustible strength.

Whenever a soldier was about to collapse from exhaustion or injury, Alexander would always appear at his side. He would personally take the man's rifle, or simply pat his shoulder and say, "Hold on, brother. Home is just ahead."

A simple sentence, a simple gesture, yet more effective than any stimulant. That brotherly care, through [The Father's Gaze and Love], reached directly into the depths of the soldiers' souls, allowing them to squeeze out their last trace of potential and keep moving forward.

Sergeant Orik stood guard at Alexander's side like an iron tower. His Chainsword had never stopped running. Any greenskin that tried to approach the commissar was immediately torn to pieces by its roaring teeth.

At last, at the far end of the horizon, an immense complex of buildings resembling an iron mountain range appeared before everyone's eyes.

That was the Steel Temple.

It consisted of hundreds of colossal cylindrical grain silos, each a hundred meters tall, along with countless massive factory buildings and conveyor systems connecting them. The entire complex was covered in thick metal plating, rusted from years of wind and weather. Towering smokestacks stood like silent sentries, looking down over the land.

Here was the granary of the entire sub-sector, the industrial heart of Viridia.

And now, it was about to become the 99th Regiment's... Hearth.

"...By the Emperor." Colonel Valeus stared at the iron Beast before him and muttered under his breath. As a commander, he immediately saw the military value of this place.

It was practically a fortress made for defense. Complex terrain, solid structures, countless firing blind spots, and vital chokepoints. Given enough troops, he was confident he could hold off an enemy ten times their number here.

But... they did not have enough troops.

"Orders! The entire regiment enters the Temple! First Company takes the eastern entrance! Second Company takes the northern side! Sergeant Orik, lead your assault squad to Purge Protocol any enemies that may be inside, then seize the high ground immediately!" Colonel Valeus issued a series of orders at top speed.

The soldiers surged into the steel maze like a tide.

The inside of the Steel Temple was even more staggering than it had appeared from outside. Gigantic workshops housed harvesting machines and processing equipment like prehistoric Beasts. Overhead, maintenance passages and conveyor tracks crisscrossed like spiderwebs. Inside the towering grain silos, high as cathedrals, mountains of golden grain were stored.

The air was thick with a distinctive smell of machine oil, metal, and fermenting grain. A thin, omnipresent layer of dust covered every surface.

Colonel Valeus grabbed a handful of dust and held it beneath his nose.

"...High-energy grain dust. Damn it, even the air here can catch fire." He frowned as he spoke to Alexander beside him.

"That's exactly what we need, Colonel." Alexander smiled, his eyes gleaming with an almost insane anticipation. "A big enough Hearth needs enough... dry firewood that will catch with a single spark."

Colonel Valeus looked at him and felt a chill run down his back. He knew what Alexander's so-called "surprise" was.

This madman wanted to turn the entire Steel Temple into an unprecedentedly massive dust bomb!

He wanted to drag every Ork down with them and perish together here!