"Unnatural?" Grak grabbed the "boss" by his collar and hauled him up before his face. "Is there anything more unnatural than us in my Waaagh!, the Waaagh! of 'Ironjaw' Grak?"
"They... they ain't afraid to die, boss," the mechanical-headed "boss" explained with difficulty. "Us Orks ain't afraid to die either. But we do it for the fun of fightin'. Those humies, they... it's like they're doin' it just to die! They charge while shoutin' things I don't understand, stuff about 'boilin' water' and 'addin' firewood'... They fight with even less care for their lives than our maddest Madboyz! Mog got killed by them pilin' their lives onto him until he went down!"
A flicker of confusion crossed Grak's enormous single eye.
Boilin' water? Addin' firewood?
Were these humies a bunch of cooks?
His simple brain, whose only two core principles were "fighting" and "eating," struggled to process this.
Grak released his grip, letting the mechanical-headed "boss" fall to the floor. His enormous metal jaw ground with a series of clacks.
His first reaction was rage. Being defeated by a bunch of penniless cooks was the greatest insult to him as a warlord.
But then an even stronger emotion replaced his rage.
It was... the excitement of finding a worthy opponent!
"Ha! Haha! Hahahahaha!"
Grak suddenly erupted into earthshaking laughter. He rocked back and forth, his enormous body pounding against his iron throne, which had been pieced together from countless trophies.
"This is fun! This is too much fun!" He slammed a fist into the armrest, leaving a deep dent in a thick armor plate. "I kept sayin' the humies on this planet were too weak! No fun at all to fight! Turns out the real fun's right here!"
"A bunch of cooks who ain't afraid to die! Haha! I like these humies!"
He rose from his throne, his massive body nearly brushing the bridge ceiling.
"Pass on my orders!" He pointed his enormous wrench at the spot marked "Agricultural Zone 7" on the star chart. "Tell all the boyz to get their hides over to that place called the 'Steel Outhouse'!"
"I'm done playin'! No more of those slow stompin' games! I'm gettin' stuck in myself!"
"I'm gonna see which is harder, their 'firewood' or my 'Ironjaw'! I'll drag that cook boss in black out from among his mad followers and smash him into meat paste myself! Then I'll use their 'pot' to boil 'em!"
"Waaagh!!!"
The warlord's roar fired up the Orks throughout the fleet. Their simple minds no longer held confusion or fear toward those "unnatural" humies. In their place was an absolute, pure hunger for a grand war.
Countless Ork warships of every imaginable shape, belching thick smoke, began changing course. Millions of Orks brandishing all manner of crude weapons let out deafening roars.
A war of the most primitive, savage kind was about to begin around the Iron Temple, with both sides staking their "faith" and "logic" on its outcome.
Warlord Grak thought this was the most entertaining fight he had ever come across.
He thought victory was certain.
The road to the Iron Temple was a grueling path paved with blood and steel.
The 99th Regiment, an exhausted force fresh from a bloody battle, raced against time across the vast Viridia Plains. Behind them, Ork reconnaissance units pursued them relentlessly like hunting dogs. Overhead, crude Ork Bommers resembling flying iron coffins periodically dropped whistling bombs.
It was a brutal, unending battle.
The soldiers ate on the march, fired on the run, and changed their wounded comrades' bandages during brief pauses to catch their breath.
But not a single man fell behind. Not a single man complained.
Because their Commissar, Alexander von Lawrence, always marched at the very front.
He rode in no vehicle. Like the most ordinary soldier, he crossed this war-ravaged land on his own two feet. Dirt and dust covered him, but his pale golden eyes remained as bright as stars, as though they held limitless strength.
Whenever a soldier was about to collapse from exhaustion and pain, Alexander would appear beside him. He would personally shoulder 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 they worked better than any stimulant. That elder brother's care reached directly into the depths of the soldiers' souls through [Grandfather's Watch and Love], allowing them to squeeze out their last reserves and keep moving.
Sergeant Orik guarded Alexander's side like an iron tower. His Chainsword never stopped running. Any Ork who tried to approach the Commissar was immediately torn apart by its roaring teeth.
At last, on the far horizon, an immense complex resembling a mountain range of steel came into view.
It was the Iron Temple.
It consisted of hundreds of enormous cylindrical grain silos, each a hundred meters tall, along with countless huge factory buildings and conveyor systems connecting them. The entire complex was clad in thick metal shells, mottled with rust from years of exposure to the elements. Chimneys soared into the clouds like silent sentries overlooking the land.
This was the granary of the entire subsector, the industrial heart of Viridia.
And now, it was about to become the 99th Regiment's... hearth.
"...Emperor above." Colonel Valeus murmured as he gazed at the steel behemoth before him. As a commander, he immediately recognized the site's military value.
It was practically a fortress made for defense. Complex terrain, sturdy structures, countless blind spots for enemy fire, and strategic choke points. Given enough troops, he was confident he could hold off an enemy ten times his strength here.
But... they did not have enough troops.
"Orders! The entire regiment is to enter the Temple! First Company, take the eastern entrance! Second Company, the northern side! Sergeant Orik, lead your Stormtroopers in clearing out any enemies inside and seize the high ground immediately!" Colonel Valeus issued a series of orders as quickly as he could.
The soldiers poured into the steel labyrinth like a tide.
The interior of the Iron Temple was even more awe-inspiring than its exterior. Harvesting machinery and processing equipment resembling prehistoric beasts stood inside the enormous factory buildings. Overhead, maintenance walkways and conveyor belts crisscrossed like spiderwebs. Inside the gigantic silos, which towered like cathedrals, golden grain lay piled in mountains.
A strong, distinctive smell hung in the air, mingling machine oil, metal, and fermenting grain. A thin, ubiquitous layer of dust coated every surface.
Colonel Valeus scooped up a handful of dust and held it beneath his nose.
"...High-energy grain dust. Damn it, even the air here could catch fire." Frowning, he spoke to Alexander beside him.
"That is precisely what we need, Colonel." Alexander smiled, his eyes gleaming with an almost mad anticipation. "A hearth this big needs plenty of... good firewood that catches at a spark."
Colonel Valeus looked at him and felt a chill run down his back. He now knew what Alexander meant by his "surprise."
This madman wanted to turn the entire Iron Temple into an enormous dust bomb on a scale never seen before!
He wanted to drag every Ork into mutual destruction here!
Before you continue