"No pity! No remorse! No Fear!"
The Emperor's Champion roared, his voice rising above the din of battle like a warhorn. His black blade carved a perfect arc through the air—then through flesh and metal alike.
With a single, brutal strike, he cleaved clean through the thick neck of a charging MegaNob, sending the xeno's head flying and its bulky frame crashing to the ground in a heap of metal and gore.
Around him, the Black Templars charge forward with their weapons. The Sword Brethren, serving as the Champion personal retinue, killing the Orks around the Champion to make sure he can focus on killing the biggest threats.
The Sword Brethren fought with disciplined fury, each one a master of war in his own right. Lightning claws flashed, power swords hissed, and thunder hammers fell with bone-crushing force. They formed a tight circle around the Emperor's Champion, cutting down any Ork that dared to close the distance.
"The Nobz have been killed! Charge! Kill the Xenos, push them back!"
The moment he saw the Nobz have all been kill by the Emperor's Champion and the Sword Brethren, Marshall Galren shouted at the rest of the Astartes and the Auxilia currently fighting besides him.
From both flanks, the Dark Knights Terminators advanced like a slow-moving wall of ceramite and fire. Their storm bolters roared in unison, tearing down charging Orks in bloody explosions.
Crackling power fists smashed through armor and bone, while assault cannons spat death into the densest pockets of Orks.
Advancing along the Astarte are the Auxilia. Many of them are arms with Kalibrax V-I Pattern Lasrifle, a higher quality than standard Lasguns or Lascarbines, it is notable for its heavily reinforced energy transfer capacitors, overall durability, and superior heat dissipation qualities.
They fired in controlled bursts, their shots slicing through Ork ranks with sharp red beams. Each volley was aimed and steady, cutting down the Orks before they could get close.
Specialists armed with plasma guns and meltaguns in each squad served as the main punch against the tougher enemies. Whenever a Nob or heavily-armored Ork charged forward, these weapons answered with searing blasts of superheated energy. Orks caught in the open were turned into slag and fire in an instant, their crude armor no match for the intense heat.
The Auxilia moved with purpose, trained to fight alongside Astartes. They advanced behind cover when they could, keeping their formations tight and their fire lines clear. Vox-units barked orders, keeping squads coordinated as they pushed forward step by step, side by side with the towering Astarte.
As they continued to advance, the Killa Klans charged out toward them—massive, lumbering walkers cobbled together from scrap metal, brute force, and crude Ork engineering. Each one was a monstrous machine bristling with spinning saws, jagged claws, and oversized guns, belching smoke and oil as they roared into the fight.
Other than Killa Klans, MegaNobz also appear beside them in large numbers. All Terminators that present turn their attention towards this threat, while the Auxilia specialists also focused their firepower on the incoming wave.
The MegaNobz, encased in thick slabs of armor and swinging massive power klaws, charged alongside the Killa Klans like a living wall of metal and rage. Their bellowing war cries mixed with the grinding roar of the walkers, a thunderous chorus of destruction surging toward the Imperial line.
The Terminators stepped forward without hesitation. Storm bolters roared, filling the air with a hail of explosive shells that tore through normal Ork ranks. Power fists crackled, and chainfists revved to life as the veterans braced for close combat ,hoping to stale them.
As metal collided with metal, multiple MegaNobz and Killa Klans were torn apart mid-charge. The 9th Company had arrived on the frontlines, their armored might unleashed in full. Sicaran battle tanks opened fire with twin-linked autocannons, their rounds punching clean through the crude plating of the Killa Klans, bursting engines and tearing limbs from the walkers in gouts of flame and smoke.
Predator tanks took aim at the MegaNobz, the gunners trained on known weak points in the xenos armor. Each shot was calculated—to either kill outright or cripple the target just enough for a finishing blow from the waiting Terminators or another vehicle.
Sabre swept their frontal arcs with suppressive fire, their Anvilus Snub autocannon shredding any Ork foolish enough to charge headlong into their line of sight. Green bodies were torn apart in sprays of gore and scrap.
With the 9th Company's support, the Ork charge was halted—at least for now. Their vehicles laid down precise and punishing fire, minimizing casualties and holding the line firm. The battlefield was littered with burning wreckage and dismembered greenskins, the air thick with smoke, ash, and the stink of bloods from both humans and xenos.
But the Orks were far from finished.
More and more poured from the horizon—waves of roaring Boyz, fresh Nobz bellowing for blood, and scrap-born war machines clanking and screeching as they joined the fray. Like a tide, they came—not with tactics, but with numbers and fury.
"Another wave! Hold the line!" Bellowed one of the Auxilia officers over the vox, his voice nearly drowned out by the cacophony of battle.
A new wave surged forward—not just more Killa Klans, but now accompanied by multiple Deff Dreads, their grotesque, lumbering forms stomping across the ruined battlefield. Smoke belched from their exhausts, and their crude saw-arms spun hungrily. Each machine was a walking engine of destruction, built more from madness than engineering.
They moved with terrifying speed for their size, their clawed limbs tearing into wreckage and corpses alike as they barreled toward the front line. Ork Boyz and Nobz followed in their wake, howling and firing wildly, a frenzied mob whipped into a bloodthirsty storm.
"Focus all fire on those walkers!" An order come through the vox to all.
All across the line, tank crews adjusted their targeting scopes, and Auxilia specialists repositioned for better angles. Lascannons fired searing beams, autocannons hammered at joints and plates, and plasma blasts lit the field with bursts of white-hot fury. But unlike the previous wave, these machines were tougher—more heavily armored, more determined, or simply more insane.
Their charge slowed, but it did not break. Several Killa Klans stumbled, their limbs sheared off or engines ruptured. A few Deff Dreads exploded in fireballs, flinging metal and limbs in all directions. But the rest pressed on, smoke pouring from shattered plating, limbs dragging or sparking but still deadly.
The Ork walkers crashed into the front ranks with brutal force.
One Deff Dread smashed aside a Predator's side with a sweep of its claw before a melta blast blew through its engine block, engulfing it in a chain of secondary explosions. Another rammed into a cluster of Auxilia, its saws tearing through men and concrete barricades before multiple plasma bolts destroy it.
As the chaos continued, the drop pods of the Dreadnoughts finally arrived—slamming into the battlefield like thunderbolts from the heavens.
The impact shook the ground, crushing unfortunate Orks beneath them. A heartbeat later, the pod doors blew open with explosive force, and the ancient warriors within strode out into the maelstrom.
Encased in towering sarcophagi of adamantium and ceramite, the Contemptors emerged with roaring engines and crackling weapons. Assault cannons spun to life, scything down Boyz in droves, while heavy flamers bathed the charging Orks in gouts of purifying fire.
Four Contemptors with both close combat weapons charge towards the Deff Dreads, their twin Dreadnought Lightning Claws slice through the crude metals without any problem, blood and oil covered their armored forms as they tore through the enemy machines in a brutal display of strength and precision.
The four Contemptors moved like avatars of death—faster than their size suggested, and utterly relentless. Their twin Dreadnought Lightning Claws ripped through Deff Dreads with terrifying ease. Serrated talons sliced open fuel lines and power cores, causing eruptions of fire and shrapnel as each crude walker was gutted.
One Contemptor caught a Deff Dread mid-swing, intercepting the saw arm and wrenching it free before driving both claws through the xeno engine's chest. Another vaulted over a wrecked Killa Kan, landing amidst two more Deff Dreads and engaging both without pause, his claws carving arcs of destruction through metal and green flesh alike.
Behind them, the other six Contemptors and Rylanor advanced steadily, their Kheres-pattern assault cannons unleashing controlled storms of fire. They scythed down waves of charging Orks, ensuring the forward Contemptors could press the assault without fear of being overrun from behind. Each step they took was measured and unstoppable—giants walking through a battlefield of ash and blood.
Further back, the four Deredeo Dreadnoughts held the rear line, methodically dismantling the enemy with overwhelming firepower. Their Aiolos missile systems howled as they launched volley after volley, guided warheads arching high before raining death on distant MegaNobz and Deff Dreads attempting to regroup behind the main assault. The missiles exploded with pinpoint accuracy, turning crude armor and green flesh alike into burning craters.
At the same time, their Anvilus Autocannon Batteries fired in disciplined bursts. The twin-linked guns pounded enemy lines with punishing force, chewing through anything unfortunate enough to fall within their arc—be it Killa Kans, warbuggies, or mobs of charging Boyz. Their rapid-fire rhythm echoed like war drums, each beat marking the end of another foe.
Amidst this coordinated storm of fire and fury, a deafening roar ripped through the battlefield—a guttural, booming challenge that shook the very air. The relentless gunfire seemed to falter for a moment, not in sound, but in focus, as every warrior—Astartes, Auxilia, and Ork alike—turned toward the source.
From behind the smoke and shattered wreckage, he emerged.
The Warboss.
A towering brute clad in crude but reinforced mega armor, painted in a garish patchwork of red and black, his frame bristled with spikes, trophies, and glyphs of Waaagh! energy. His massive power klaw sparked with raw force, large enough to tear a tank in half, and in his other hand, he carried a kustom shoota that roared with each step as if hungry for war.
Flanking him were his MegaNobz bodyguards, lumbering beasts of muscle and metal, each nearly the size of a Dreadnought. Their armor was just as brutal, plastered with skulls, tusks, and the blood of enemies long dead. They moved in a tight formation, their crude servos whirring with every thunderous step, eyes glowing with bloodlust beneath thick iron visors.
The Warboss threw his head back and let out another roar, this time louder—challenging the entire Imperial force before him.
"OI, WHO'S IN CHARGE 'ERE?! COME GET KRUMPED!"
Without hesitation, the Emperor's Champion stepped forward from among the Sword Brethren, sword in hand, helm streaked with gore. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
He simply pointed his blade toward the Warboss and charge towards him.
"All forces, engage the remaining Orks! Make sure the Champion are not disturbed!"
Caden's voice barked through the vox, clear and cold.
At his side, twenty Cataphractii Terminators thundered forward in formation, each a towering wall of ceramite and fury. Armed with storm shields and thunder hammers, they advanced and slammed into the ranks of the MegaNobz. Each hammer blow cracked bone and armor alike, a rhythm of violence that matched the thunder of the guns.
They had arrived aboard the Land Raiders when the Dreadnoughts arrived, crushing through the Orks that foolishly stand infront of them.
Flanking them, the Paladins advanced with regal poise. Each warrior was clad in specially-forged Cataphractii plate, modified to retain its resilience while allowing for the precision and fluidity demanded of a knightly duel. In their hands, massive power swords shimmered with blue-edged fury, paired with storm shields crackling with deflective fields.
Where the Cataphractii broke bones and shattered metal, the Paladins struck with elegance—cleaving through Ork Nobz with super precision. Their movements were fluid despite the heavy armor, their discipline absolute. Each thrust, each sweeping arc of their blades, found weak points in the Orks' crude armor—piercing joints, splitting helms, or dismembering limbs with cold efficiency. Roaring Nobz that had crushed lesser warriors fell silent under the Paladins' unrelenting advance, their brute strength meaningless against the refined lethality of the elite.
As the rest of the forces did their best to make sure the Emperor's Champion would not be interrupted, the battlefield was ablaze with violence and valor. The Auxilia poured las and plasma fire into the advancing Orks, targeting the gaps created by the elite warriors' charge. The remaining tanks of the 9th Company repositioned with brutal precision, forming a steel bulwark behind the advancing Terminators and Paladins, cutting down any Ork mob that tried to flank them.
Meanwhile, the Emperor's Champion stormed through the carnage with singular purpose. Orks lunged at him from all directions, but none could stop his advance. His blade moved in blur-fast arcs, cutting down Nobz and Boyz alike with each stroke.
The Warboss, towering over his kin and encased in a monstrosity of Mega Armor adorned with trophies, saw the Champion coming. He let out a guttural bellow, raised his oversized power klaw, and charged to meet the challenge head-on.
The Warboss's giant power klaw came down hard—but the Emperor's Champion was faster.
He raised the Black Sword just in time, blocking the blow with a loud crack as energy sparked between the two weapons. The ground shook under the force, dust flying everywhere. The Champion slid back a little, but didn't fall.
The Warboss growled. "HUR HUR! YOU'Z FAST, HUMIE! BUT NOT FAST ENOUGH!"
He swung again and again, wild and heavy, trying to crush the Champion. But the Champion was calm and focused. He dodged, blocked, and struck back with sharp cuts. His sword sliced across the Warboss's armor, cutting into green flesh and thick metal.
Each hit pushed the Ork back. The Champion moved in closer, ready to end it. He lifted his sword high, aiming to strike the final blow—
But then, with a roar, the Warboss fired.
The kustom shoota that he didn't use this entire time, blasted the Champion in the chest. The shot hit hard, cracking his armor and throwing him back like a ragdoll. He hit the ground hard, smoke and blood pouring from the damaged chest plate.
The Warboss laughed as he get on his foot.
"HUH HUH! GOT YOU, GIT! THOUGHT YOU HAD ME?!"
He stomped forward slowly, towering over the battlefield, raising his power klaw high up, ready to smash him.
Seeing this, the Sword Brethren roared and charged. Their black armor, stained with blood and ash, caught the fading light as they surged ahead. Power swords crackled, lightning claws hummed—every weapon ready to bite into green flesh.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" one shouted, voice raw with fury.
The Warboss turned his head, snarling, just as the first blade met his armor.
At the same time, a Apothecary reached the fallen Champion. He knelt beside him without hesitation, activating his medical gear. Gauges flashed red. The chest plate was split, smoke and blood seeping out. The Apothecary worked fast, shielding the Champion with his body as the battle raged mere meters away.
The Warboss was now locked in a brutal fight with the Sword Brethren. His klaw swung wide, crushing rockcrete and throwing Marines aside, but they kept coming.
Hearing the figthing, the Champion try to get up but quickly push back down by the Apothecary.
"Stay down, you already suffered major injuries. If you don't make it easier for me, you will not survive," the Apothecary said firmly, pressing the Champion back down.
But even as he spoke, he knew the truth.
The wounds were too severe. The chest plate was split wide, organs damaged, internal bleeding worsening by the second. Even if the Champion lived through the hour, he would never walk again as a man. His fate was already sealed—he would only rise again entombed within the cold sarcophagus of a Dreadnought.
Still, the Champion's hand didn't let go of the Black Sword. His eyes, filled with pain and fury, never left the Warboss.
As the Sword Brethren halting the Warboss, some of the Orks wish to have a try in killing the Champion. But, all of them are kill by bolters or chainswords before they can get close to their target.
One Crusade squads—one Sword Brethren, six full Battle-Brothers, and seven Neophytes—rushed into position, forming a living wall of ceramite and faith around the fallen Champion and the kneeling Apothecary. Bolters snapped and roared in disciplined bursts, cutting down any Ork who dared come close. Chainswords revved to life, hacking into those that slipped through the barrage.
The Sword Brethren at the head of the formation raised his power sword and barked a command. "Hold the line! None shall pass!"
The Neophytes, younger and less experienced, showed no fear. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their mentors, blades and bolters clenched tightly, eyes locked forward. They would not let the enemy reach their wounded Champion.
The Apothecary worked faster now, his gauntlets slick with blood as he sealed ruptured arteries and clamped torn flesh. Auto-sutures hissed, foam packs expanded over the worst of the damage, and pain suppressants were injected directly into the Champion's spine. Every second counted.
After a couple of minutes, the Champion was clearly better than before. His breathing was still ragged, his movements slow, but the bleeding had stopped and his vitals had stabilized—just barely.
"You're in a better condition now." The Apothecary said, his voice firm but cautious as he helped the Champion sit up.
The Champion winced, but didn't cry out. Blood stained his armor, and smoke still curled from the cracked chest plate, but his grip on the Black Sword never loosened. He looked past the Apothecary, eyes narrowing at the distant clash between the Sword Brethren and the Warboss.
"I'm the Emperor's Champion." The Champion said as he now fully standing without anyone help. "The duty He bestow upon me have not been completed."
The moment he finished, he raised the Black Sword and charged.
Each step was pain. Each breath burned. But the Champion did not falter.
Across the battlefield, the Sword Brethren still battled the Warboss. The beast roared in fury, his klaw tearing through armor, his shoota spitting rounds in every direction. Marines had fallen. Others still fought, striking with power swords and claws, but the Warboss was a mountain of metal and hate—unyielding, unrelenting.
Then came the Champion.
A single figure limping forward through smoke and blood, his armor cracked, his body broken—but his will unshaken.
The Warboss turned just in time to see the Black Sword gleam once more.
"YOU AGAIN?!" He bellowed.
The Champion didn't answer. His sword did.
With all his strength, he leapt—armor grinding, muscles tearing—and brought the blade down in a furious arc. The Warboss tried to raise his klaw, but the blow struck first, carving deep into the shoulder joint, severing pistons and splitting flesh.
The Warboss howled and staggered.
The Sword Brethren surged forward behind the Champion, ready to strike, to overwhelm the Warboss and end the threat together—but then they stopped.
Something held them back.
It wasn't a command. It wasn't fear.
It was instinct. Reverence. As if they felt, deep in their bones, that this moment belonged to him alone.
This was his fight before, and it would be his fight now—until the very end.
Even if it was for the one last time.
The Champion stood alone once more, breathing hard, every limb trembling from pain and exhaustion. But he raised the Black Sword again, the edge gleaming faintly through the smoke. His gaze never left the Warboss.
The Ork snarled, blood and oil leaking from the ruined shoulder. But he wasn't done. Not yet.
With a roar, the Warboss surged forward, klaw raised high.
The Champion met him head-on.
They clashed in a final, brutal exchange—blade against claw, will against fury. Sparks flew, metal screamed, blood fell like rain.
Suddenly, the Warboss's roar stopped.
Silence fell for a heartbeat—then the dust began to settle.
The massive greenskin staggered, his feet dragging through the rubble, black blood pouring from his throat. The Black Sword was buried deep into the side of his thick neck, stuck between armor plates and bone. It hadn't severed the head completely—but it was enough.
The Warboss gurgled, tried to move his klaw again—but his strength was gone. He dropped to one knee, then collapsed forward with a heavy crash that shook the ground.
The Champion stood above him, breathing hard. Blood dripped from the cracks in his armor, his wounds have open again from the intense fighting. His stance wavered from this—but he did not fall.
The Warboss was dead.
And the Champion still stood.
As he raised his head, he was surprised to see all eyes were on him—Astartes and Auxilia alike. The roar of bolter fire had gone quiet. Chainswords no longer revved. The battlefield, once a storm of violence, had fallen into a heavy, reverent silence.
During his duel with the Warboss, the rest of the Orks within the combat zone had been purged. With their leader locked in single combat against the Emperor's Champion, the greenskins fought without direction or discipline.
Leaderless and confused, many were gunned down as they tried to charge the Imperial line, while others were butchered in brutal close-quarters combat. What once was a rampaging horde had been reduced to scattered bodies and silence.
The Champion swayed slightly, his armor hissing from torn actuators and ruptured seals. Blood trickled from beneath his helm. But he did not fall.
He slowly pulled the Black Sword from the Warboss's corpse, the blade screeching as it left the thick flesh and ruined armor.
Raising it high, he turned to face the masse.
"No pity." He said, voice hoarse but unwavering.
"No remorse."
A pause, breath drawn with pain—but still, he spoke the words.
"No fear."
And the battlefield roared with the reply.