“There is no peace to be found, no rest to be had. In the endless void of war, we are but shadows, torn from the light. Whether you live or die, it matters not, for death is a certainty for all who walk this cursed galaxy. The Emperor's light falters, and in its place, only darkness thrives."
-Khazdrach the Eternal
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In the heart of the damp, echoing cave on Throne of Galat, A Warboss stood, towering above the rabble of his minions. His massive bulk cast long, jagged shadows across the walls, and the air around him crackled with a strange, unseen power. The glow of crude torches flickered, revealing his gnarled, green flesh, but it was the runic tattoos on the back of his neck that marked him as different from the usual hulking greenskins.
These dark symbols he acquired as a young greenskin hunting in the swamp bogs of this world, etched deep into his hide, pulsated faintly with sickly crimson light, a gift not from Gork or Mork, but something far more sinister. The WAAAGH! energy that flowed through every Ork was stronger in him, but there was something else, something darker, whispering at the edges of his already savage mind.
His massive choppa, rusted and dripping with the blood of a fresh kill, rested against the cold stone beside him. His squinty eyes narrowed as he stared at nothing, his tusked jaw twitching, and his knuckles clenched tightly around the handle of his weapon.
“Wot’s dat…?” the Warboss muttered under his breath, his voice a rumble like distant thunder.
The whispers had grown louder, more insistent, like the hum of a battle about to begin. But this wasn’t the usual battle-lust that drove the Orks. This was something different—something beyond even the primal rage of the WAAAGH! itself. It was chaos. It was corruption. It was power.
He could feel it slithering into his mind, pushing, urging him toward something greater than a mere WAAAGH! on this forsaken world.
The voices hissed again, clearer now, like venom in the air. “Mork won’t save ya, Gork don’t care. It’s our time… chaos’ time…”
The Warboss growled, shaking his head violently, trying to drive the voices away. But they returned, stronger, clawing at the edges of his thoughts. They spoke of destruction on a galactic scale, of an endless tide of blood and war, of a force greater than any Warboss could ever muster.
“Get outta me ‘ead!” he roared, slamming a fist into the cave wall. The impact sent a shower of stone and dust raining down, but the voices only laughed.
“You’ll do as we command, Ghazgrim Da” Power clutched at ghazgrim and squeezed him tight, The light behind his eyes dulled and his resistances failed.
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Tytus stood still on the rough-hewn wall of the makeshift stronghold, his armored silhouette framed against the blood-red sky. The air was thick with the stench of oil, sweat, and the metallic tang of distant gunfire. Below him, the ground trembled as a massive horde of Orks prepared their assault, roaring in guttural, savage unity. The greenskin tide stretched to the horizon, a rolling, brutal sea of twisted metal, crude banners, and mismatched weapons held high in their filthy hands.
Beside Tytus, Gaven Acastus stood, his expression grim but unwavering. Both commanders exchanged a glance. They had fought side by side in many battles, and this one would be no different.
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Tytus drew in a breath, feeling the weight of his bolter in his hand, the grip worn smooth from years of war. His voice, calm and steady despite the chaos, cut through the din.
“Brothers! Steady your aim. Let them come,” he commanded. “We hold here.”
Around him, the Cardinal Phoenixes readied themselves, each one prepared to sell their lives dearly. The stronghold had been hastily reinforced, its walls nothing more than rubble and wreckage hastily fortified into a defensive line. And now, the Orks wanted it back. The booming, guttural chants of the greenskins echoed louder, vibrating through the rock as the horde drew closer.
Suddenly, with a roar that shook the heavens, the Orks charged.
“WAAAGH!”
The battlefield erupted into noise. Bolters barked in quick succession, the Phoenixes firing in disciplined volleys. Explosions tore through the front ranks of the Orks, reducing greenskins to splinters of flesh and bone. Yet, for every Ork felled, three more took its place, their crude guns firing wildly, sending sparks and molten slugs at the walls.
Tytus aimed and fired, the recoil barely noticeable to his augmented body. His shots tore through Orks with brutal precision, heads bursting under the might of his bolter. Beside him, Gaven unleashed pinpoint volleys with his custom sniper rifle, each shot vaporizing enemies in blue-hot fire.
The first wave crashed against the walls, ladders made from scrap and bone raised. Orks clambered up, hacking at the defenders with rusted cleavers and crude axes. A young battle brother, fresh from his promotion to full status, bellowed a war cry as he engaged the first of the Orks to breach the wall. His chainsword revved to life, biting into green flesh and spilling black blood.
But the tide was unrelenting.
Ork artillery rained down, smashing into the walls with deafening explosions. The stronghold shook, debris and dust clouding the air. A loud crack echoed through the fortress as part of the wall collapsed, opening a breach. Orks poured in, bellowing with savage joy. The battle brothers turned to meet the assault head-on, chainswords clashing with crude cleavers, bolt pistols barking in close quarters.
Tytus saw the breach and yelled into the Vox. “All squads, converge on the eastern wall! Drive them back!”
Amid the chaos, a young Battle Brother named Malek fought valiantly. Bloodied but unbowed, he hacked his way through Orks with a brutal efficiency, his chainsword howling as it tore into green flesh. But then, from the breach, something enormous lumbered through. Malek’s eyes widened as a massive Ork, a Warboss clad in heavy, spiked armor, burst into the stronghold. The beast was three times Malek’s size, with bulging muscles and a sneering maw that dripped with anticipation.
The Warboss bellowed, swinging an enormous power klaw that crackled with crude energy, smashing aside the ruins as if they were paper.
“You’z ’umie! Iz gonna stomp yer good!” the Warboss roared, its voice like grinding iron.
Malek hesitated for only a moment before charging, his chainsword roaring to life. He was still new to the battle, his youth showing in his fierce but unrefined assault. The Warboss grinned, baring its tusks, and with a single, brutal swing of its power klaw, knocked the young Marine off his feet, sending him crashing into the rubble.
Malek groaned, pushing himself up, his armor dented, blood pouring from a crack in his helmet. But before the Warboss could finish him, Malek sprang up, dodging another wide swipe, and lunged forward, thrusting his chainsword into the creature’s arm. The blade dug deep, chewing through muscle and sinew. The Warboss howled, shaking him off with a violent backhand that sent Malek sprawling again.
Tytus saw the struggle from the corner of his eye and bellowed, “Malek! Hold your ground!”
But Malek was undeterred. Summoning all his strength, he charged the Warboss once more, his chainsword raised high. The Ork laughed as if amused by the human’s defiance. The two clashed again, sparks flying as Malek’s blade scraped against the Warboss’s armor. In a sudden, desperate move, Malek ducked under the Warboss’s sweeping strike and drove his chainsword upward, into the beast’s chest.
The Warboss’s laughter turned into a guttural snarl as it staggered backward, clutching at the wound. With a final roar, the massive creature swung its power klaw in a wide arc. Malek, already spent, couldn’t dodge in time. The klaw caught him square in the chest, crushing his armor and throwing him into the wall with a sickening crunch.
But the damage was done. The Warboss, bleeding heavily, stumbled, dropping to one knee. With a final surge of strength, Malek raised his bolt pistol, aimed through his shattered visor, and fired.
The Warboss’s head exploded in a burst of black blood and gore. The body collapsed in a heap, the Orks around it pausing momentarily in shock.
The greenskins faltered.
Seeing the Warboss fall, Tytus yelled over the Vox. “Push them back! For Malek! For the Chapter!”
The Cardinal Phoenixes, emboldened by their fallen brother’s sacrifice, surged forward with renewed fury. Bolters barked, chainswords roared, and the Orks, leaderless and disorganized, began to fall back, tripping over their dead in their retreat.
The stronghold, though bloodied, held.