Daniel held up a fist.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant thunder of artillery. Smoke drifted low through the street, turning the ruins into shifting silhouettes. Catalin wiped green blood from his visor with the back of his gauntlet and scanned the upper levels of the buildings.
"Too easy," Daniel muttered. "Orks don't commit armor without backup."
As if summoned by the words, the ground shuddered.
A deep, metallic boom echoed from somewhere beneath the street, followed by the grinding howl of engines forcing their way through rubble. Catalin turned just as a sewer grate across the intersection was hurled skyward, smashing into a wall. From the darkness below, shapes surged upward—Nobz, bigger and meaner than the boys they'd just slaughtered, armored in scavenged plates and roaring with laughter.
At their center lumbered a brute nearly twice the size of the others, a power klaw snapping open and shut, eyes glowing with savage intelligence.
Catalin felt the familiar surge of battle-focus flood his mind.
"Daniel," he said calmly, "new priority target."
Daniel swung the heavy bolter, bracing it against a collapsed column. "On it."
The bolter thundered again, chewing into the first Nob, staggering it but not dropping it. The others bellowed and charged, boots hammering broken stone, crude guns firing wildly. Explosions burst around Catalin as slugs ricocheted off ceramite.
He advanced to meet them.
The first Nob swung a cleaver the size of a man. Catalin caught the blow on his power fist—impact shaking his arm to the shoulder—then drove the fist forward. The Nob went down hard, armor buckling, weapon clattering away.
The big one roared and came for him.
They collided like tanks. The power klaw snapped shut inches from Catalin's chest as he shoved back, chainsword screaming against thick armor plates. Sparks flew. The Nob laughed, breath hot and foul, and slammed its head into Catalin's helm.
Stars flashed across Catalin's vision—but he held.
Daniel's bolter rounds hammered into the brute's side, tearing chunks of armor away. The Nob howled in rage and turned, giving Catalin the opening he needed. He plunged the chainsword into the gap under its arm and revved it to full.
The Nob collapsed with a thunderous crash.
The remaining orks hesitated—just for a heartbeat.
Catalin pointed his chainsword at them. "Run."
They didn't.
Moments later, it was over.
As the echoes of gunfire faded, a new sound rolled across the ruins: a low, distant horn, ancient and deliberate. Not ork-made. Something else had entered the battlefield.
Daniel looked toward the horizon, unease creeping into his voice.
"That's not greenskin."
Catalin followed his gaze, smoke parting to reveal movement far down the avenue—tall silhouettes, disciplined, advancing in formation.