I hate urban warfare with the passion of a thousand suns. I dive-roll headfirst into what was once a jewellery store, shattering its window in the process, glass clinging to my robes. Skitarii follows in my wake as we dodge the hail of bolter fire from the Killzone we just walked into, bullets gouging the ground I was standing on a second ago. The deep, rapid beats reveal it as a storm bolter of some model. Dust clouds and snow obscure the thin, winding streets of the wrecked townscape.

A few heartbeats pass before a Leman Russ tank bursts through the rubble, firing its main gun and silencing the Ork emplacement—only to be repaid with a rocket to its side. It took the hit admirably, but one of its tracks was busted, leaving it vulnerable for the next strike. A second rocket scraped off most of its side armour. Wounded, the tank tried to reverse back into the rubble, but a third rocket kills it, detonating the engine in a fiery blast.

That last rocket came from above us—no time to clear the buildings.

“Hue, we got company upstairs! Send them a greeting card,” I commanded the Alpha Skitarii, sending the specific instructions I wanted him to carry out over a tight burst of binary. The rest of the squad stepped back from him.

“By your will, Magos,” came the reply, as the massive vat-grown cyber-soldier hefted his multi-barreled autocannon with ease and pointed it at the ceiling, opening fire on full auto. The slow punch of his gun was music to my ears.

As Hue's autocannon roars to life, I feel the concussive force of each round in my chest. The scream of tearing wood and metal mingles with the wet splatter of Orkish viscera raining down. The temperature in the room spikes as the weapon's heat sinks struggle to cope, adding a shimmering distortion to the air.

The roof groaned and cracked under the relentless punishment of Hue's autocannon. Chunks of plaster and wood rained down, mixed with the crimson spray of dismembered Orks, creating a gruesome fog. A guttural shriek echoed through the ravaged building, followed by a heavy thud as a body crashed through the weakened ceiling.

“Incoming!” I bellowed, stepping aside as a hulking Ork dropped from above, limbs flailing. Its Power Klaw whirred menacingly. The creature swung wildly, its crude weapon narrowly missing me. I responded with a lightning-fast counterattack, my reserve power axe sparking as it deflected the blow. I kicked it in the stomach, sending it hurtling back.

The Skitarii surrounding me opened fire, their weapons spitting a deadly symphony of laser blasts and high-velocity rounds. Though tough and resilient, the Ork brute was no match for the concentrated firepower. Its body was riddled with holes, blood splattering the jewellery displays.

But the battle was far from over. More guttural cries and the pounding of heavy footsteps signalled the arrival of Greenskin rushing to join the fight the sound of battle might as well have been a dinner bell. The Luna Wolves were there to meet them once more.

Well, it seems we're going for the direct approach. Not ideal, but needs must. I focused inward and sent a tight-beam transmission to Gamma and my battle automata, commanding them to switch from standby to follow and engage.

I paused for a moment, breathed deeply, and listened to the sounds of the battlefield. I closed my eyes and took it all in: the roars, the shouts, the cries, the screams. I winced in pain as combat stims began coursing through my veins like liquid lava.

I jumped up and down a little to psych myself up, then exhaled.

I rushed back out onto the street once more.

The frigid air bites at my synthetic skin as I sprint back into the chaos of the street. I dart from cover to cover, dodging the hail of bullets and the occasional explosive blast. The cacophony of warfare surrounds me—screams, gunfire, and the deafening roar of engines. I smile and laugh.

My battle automata, now fully active, move with precision and purpose. Their hulking forms lumber into the fray, weapons blazing. They provide much-needed support, cutting down Orks with ruthless efficiency. I spot one of my Skitarii, badly wounded but still fighting, and send a quick binary command for medical assistance. Every soldier counts.

I reach the edge of the street and find temporary cover behind a crumbling wall. From my vantage point, I can see the Luna Wolves clashing with the Ork reinforcements. The Wolves, fierce and relentless, meet the greenskins with brutal force. Power swords and bolters carve through Ork flesh, but the enemy's numbers are overwhelming.

A shrill alarm in my HUD signals an incoming transmission. I quickly scan the data—multiple Ork warships warping into the system, all cruisers regrouping with the fleet. Oh, come on. I glance up to the sky, seeing the numerous light cruisers across the battlefield slowly launching into orbit, including the Hammer of Cathonia. I vox the Hammer: "Before you leave, can I have a parting gift at grid coordinates 7-5-0 to 7-9-0? Please…preferably a macro-cannon barrage."

A moment passes, punctuated by the sounds of gunfire and the roars of combat. Static crackles in my ear as the ship's captain responds. "Magos Victor, are you 100% sure you want that? You're awfully close. Can't guarantee you won't get hit with this one."

"Okay... maybe not a full broadside. Just a little burst should be enough. We still have friendlies in the area. I need you to make me a path," I reply, taking a couple of potshots at a few enterprising Orks across the street before ducking down as hot slugs chip at my cover.

"If you survive this, I want you to fix my pic-screen. I tried asking the other coggers, but they kept ignoring me." I watch as the Hammer of Cathonia halts its ascent, and then tilts toward my general location. With my enhanced vision, I see three sets of triple-barrel naval guns rotate into position.

"Danger close. Good luck."

With a flash, a volley of superheated, explosive ballistic shells—designed to cripple starships—descends with a distant boom. I quickly transmit a warning to my allies about the bombardment. In hindsight, I probably should have told them earlier.

Most of the Orks have fallen back to the fortress city, but there are still green skin stragglers scattered around, likely Meganobs and other stronger Ork variants with gatherings of lesser Orks around them. The plan is simple: annihilate these pockets before they form into one group and another Warboss rises. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours, right? I won’t need to call down another giant explosive shell that could cripple starships on my position, right? I'm still pissed about my arm. I'm getting a headache. I want to go home.

Then it happens.

The ground shudders violently as the first of the ship-grade shells strikes. The shockwave hits like a physical force, slamming into me and my allies with the power of a tidal wave. The explosion is deafening—a loud sound that transcends hearing. felt as a pressure wave rattling my bones and compressing my chest. The roar of the blast drowns out all other sounds.

The earth heaves as the second, third, and fourth volleys hit, titanic fists punching through reality itself. Buildings disintegrate into a maelstrom of dust and debris. The shockwave slams into me again and again. The air crackles with heat, the stench of ozone mixing with the acrid tang of burnt metal.

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I take the opportunity to score a few free hits on distracted Orks as I advance down the street.

A blinding flash of light turns evening into day as the point of impact erupts into a massive fireball. Surrounding buildings and structures are obliterated, reduced to twisted metal and rubble in an instant. Massive plumes of smoke and dust rise into the air, forming an immense mushroom cloud that casts a dark shadow over the battlefield.

The townscape is transformed into a scene of utter desolation. It’s as if an angry god punched its way through the settlement, leaving behind a valley of destruction—free of Ork artillery and gunnery placements. I mobilize my forces to rush down the gauntlet before anyone is the wiser, executing a giant U-turn to bypass the Ork positions on the other street and allowing us to flank them from behind.

The Luna Wolves and Orks are still engaged, both sides unfazed by the carnage.

I watch impassively as my battle automata and Skitarii gun down the remaining Orks from a vantage point. Sporadic bursts of fire echo through the air. There are still Orks holed up in the upper buildings, but I don’t have the luxury of time to deal with them. Silent nods of acknowledgement are the only thanks I receive as we regroup.

The tanks of the armoured company, their treads grinding over debris and rubble, lead the charge through the path cleared by the Hammer of Cathonia. Pockets of resistance are swiftly silenced by concentrated firepower, each explosion and shot reverberating through the ruined cityscape.

With the largest concentration of Orks vanquished, it's now just a matter of time before we fully clear the area and finally complete the operation. The tension in the airlifts slightly, and for a brief moment, I allow myself a sense of satisfaction. We're almost done

But, as if sensing my fleeting jubilation, an Ork Mega Nob rises from the rubble, caked in blood and dirt, bellowing curses at us in its guttural tongue. I reply not with words, but with an overcharged plasma blast from my pistol. The weapon hums to life, its barrel glowing with an intense blue-white light. Superheated plasma coils at the tip, forming a deadly ball of energy.

With a sharp whoosh, I release the shot, watching as it streaks across the battlefield, trailing light and warping the air with its heat. The recoil hits hard, but I brace for it, long accustomed to the raw power of the weapon. Steam hisses from the cooling vents, the barrel still glowing faintly from the discharge.

The plasma bolt slams into the Mega Nob’s chest plate with a blinding flash, and I hear the satisfying crackle as the superheated energy eats through its thick, cobbled-together armour. The beast roars in agony, its bulky frame convulsing as the plasma melts through metal, flesh, and bone.

For a moment, the creature staggers, its limbs flailing as molten slag drips from the gaping wound in its chest. Then, with a final, guttural groan, it drops to its knees, the weight of its enormous frame crashing down in a heavy thud. Steam rises from the smoking crater in its torso, the stench of burned flesh and charred metal filling the air.

I watch dispassionately as the last vestiges of life flicker out of its massive, smouldering form.

Now we’re done.

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I transmitted orders to my subordinates as I made my way back to the forward operating base. The instructions were simple: pack up, prepare the wounded, and get everyone ready for withdrawal to the rear lines.

My servo-assisted legs carried me swiftly over the rubble-strewn streets, the Skitarii trailing behind like a lethal, silent shadow while Automatons lumbered behind us. The acrid stench of burning metal, smoke, and scorched earth lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the destruction we had left in our wake.

I would have liked to say goodbye to Han and the others, but they were already engaged in their own operations. Sticking around longer than necessary would risk getting roped into another skirmish—one I had no interest in. A quick message would have to suffice, for now. Hopefully, our paths would cross again, But until then I'll make sure their regiment doesn’t have any technical issues or logistical errors.

By the time I returned to the FOB, the rest of the cohort That had not deployed with us had already assembled. I nodded in satisfaction, climbing aboard my Dune Crawler. Releasing a quiet sigh, I slumped into the command chair, my muscles unwinding from the tension of the mission. With a brief command, I set the formation into motion.

As I scanned my HUD, I noticed several additional vehicles joining the convoy—mainly medevac units and combat engineers. Just as I began to settle in for a quick nap, a message request flashed on my datapad from a sergeant. I paused, about to reply, when I realized they were right outside. Popping open the hatch, I saw the sergeant approaching in a light utility vehicle, navigating the narrow streets as we neared the gate.

The vehicle rolled up beside me, and I noticed the sergeant looking up, aware I had opened the hatch. His expression was unreadable beneath the dark lenses of his full-face helmet.

"Magos, permission to speak freely?"

I gave a short nod.

“Your Skitarii, sir... they should be riding in the APCs. It’s unsettling to see them running alongside functional vehicles.”

I let his words process for a moment, my mechanical eye whirring as I considered. “Thanks for the observation. I’ll have them board. Might be time to call in a favour or two and secure some proper transports for them next time.”

The Skitarii swiftly boarded the waiting APCs, and I settled back into my seat. The hum of the engines filled the cabin as we resumed the journey. The return trip, mercifully, was uneventful—no Ork ambushes, no artillery strikes. Just the rhythmic thrum of machinery and the distant scream of aerial dogfights above. Through the viewports, I caught glimpses of Imperial fighters streaking across the sky, locked in battle with enemy craft, leaving smoke trails like scars in the heavens.

Half an hour later, we reached the rear lines, only to be met by a sight I had hoped to avoid—a massive traffic jam of war machines. Tanks, hover transports, trucks, and crates of artillery shells blocked the road, while soldiers shouted over the cacophony, trying to untangle the mess. Chaos reigned as the frontlines continued to creep forward. Typical.

“The beauty and horror of Imperial logistics,” I muttered to myself. “Alright, disembark. No point in waiting for this mess to clear—I think I see a gap we can squeeze through.”

I led my cohort through the chaos, weaving between tanks and supply crates and Nearly Getting run over by a logi truck twice, heading toward the compound. The familiar scent of incense and machine oil greeted us as we neared. Logis Elm, my semi-loyal aide, stood waiting with a group of adepts. But it wasn’t Elm who caught my attention—it was the black-robed figure standing apart from the others. Tall, silent, face hidden behind a gas mask, and exuding an aura of menace.

Before I could react, the figure drew a volcano pistol, aiming directly at my chest. Instinct took over. My hand shot out, gripping the barrel with the supernatural speed only the augmented could muster. A stream of binary cant flowed from my lips like a hiss, commanding the machine spirit within the weapon to sleep. The deadly hum of the pistol faded instantly.

The figure let out an irritated grunt, lowering the now-dormant weapon. “It seems you are not a Xenos changeling after all,” a rasping, distorted voice came through the mask. "Now tell me—why did you commandeer my Skitarii without authorization? And why did you deviate from your assigned Operational zone?"

I clenched my teeth, holding back my irritation. "Nice to see you too, Marshal. How are you?"

A short, harsh laugh echoed from the masked figure. “Spare me the pleasantries, Magos. I’m fine. Now, answer the question.”

“As Magos Dominos of this sector, I assessed the situation and determined that without my intervention, both the 77th and the Space Marines would have suffered significant casualties—possibly complete annihilation during their operation. My actions prevented a possible Ork Waaagh! counterattack that could have compromised our position entirely. Acting as the commanding officer of my cohort, I took action and helped advance the front lines with minimal losses, securing both accolades, invaluable combat data and experience. If you'd like, I have the analysis ready for your review.”

The Marshal tilted his head slightly, weighing my words. His voice, though still harsh, softened just a fraction. "A bold move. But boldness isn’t always rewarded. The Archmagos may not see it your way."

I could feel his masked gaze scrutinizing me, searching for any sign of weakness or deception

He turned, his black robes billowing behind him. "The Archmagos has summoned you. Tread carefully child—she is not as forgiving as I am. And we will discuss your liberties with my forces another time. Come. The mistress is waiting."

As I followed the Marshal through the crowded compound, a heavy weight settled in my chest. The Archmagos’ judgment could solidify everything I had worked for—or tear it all down. One misstep and the future I had built might crumble entirely.