The Ork tide was unstoppable.
Grog Bonecrusha's "Super Big Choppa," crudely welded together from the core of a Necron Phase Blade and a warship's keel, cleaved a colossal statue symbolizing the Dynasty's ancient history in half, trailing a shrill whistle and savage WAAAGH energy.
Rubble rained down as Bonecrusha stood atop the ruins and roared to shake the heavens. His already massive body had swollen further under the constant fighting and the wash of the WAAAGH field, and the seams of his crude Power Armour groaned under the strain.
Beneath his deep green skin, tinged with brown, his muscles writhed violently like living creatures, his bulging veins resembling twisted cables.
"WAAAAGH! Boring tin cans! I'll smash ya all to bits! Gimme something that can fight! Something big!"
Bonecrusha's roar rolled like thunder through the Tomb Complex.
As though answering his arrogant challenge, the darkness in the deepest reaches of the Crownworld's Core Tomb District suddenly seethed.
A cold, deathly surge of energy, powerful enough to freeze souls, swept across the entire battlefield like a supernova eruption!
The air instantly grew thick and heavy. Light itself seemed to be swallowed and distorted by this pure concept of "death." Every Ork Boy charging, firing, or fighting abruptly stiffened. An instinctive fear of ultimate oblivion, rising from the deepest roots of life, seized their throats. Even the earthshaking WAAAGH briefly faltered.
The enslaved Necron Warriors stood like frozen ice sculptures, the ghostly green lights in their eye sockets flickering violently, as though their internal programs were on the verge of collapsing under the immense pressure.
Space rippled violently like the surface of water, and an enormous spectral skeleton slowly took shape, clad in a tattered black hooded robe that seemed woven from endless ages and despair.
He gripped a Scythe of suffocating enormity.