Cătălin and Daniel advanced carefully along the winding spiral of the manufactorum. The central structure wrapped around Grey Hound's cradle like a metallic spine, a towering spiral of grated walkways, service platforms, and maintenance scaffolds. The air was thick with dust, smoke, and the faint hum of machinery feeding the Titan below. Every step carried them closer to the platform—and to the heart of the Imperator—but also deeper into enemy territory.
Orks had already discovered their approach.
From twisted walkways above and below, stragglers and scavenger mobs emerged, rifles crackling, crude axes swinging. One Nob appeared, massive and hulking, bolted-armor glinting under flickering lights. Its eyes were wild with instinctive greed: the dormant Titan for themselves.
Cătălin gestured sharply. "Split cover. Clear every deck as we move."
They moved in practiced rhythm. Daniel's heavy bolter tore through the first wave of orks on the grated platforms, the roar echoing down the spiral. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off machinery and support beams. Cătălin pressed forward, chainsword igniting, teeth tearing through armor and ork flesh alike.
One ork swung a jagged blade from above. Cătălin blocked with his power fist, then kicked the attacker off the railing. Daniel stepped in immediately, sending bolter rounds into the remaining foes, suppressing fire for Cătălin's advance.
The spiral narrowed, forcing them onto a single grating path. Here, every step was dangerous. Orks dropped from hatches, fired through railings, or tried to push debris onto them. One particularly large Nob waited near a collapsed maintenance lift, swinging a massive cleaver with practiced power.
Cătălin leapt, catching the cleaver on his chainsword guard, twisting the Nob off balance, then drove a brutal punch into the ork's headplate, staggering him back into Daniel's line of fire. The Nob dropped with a heavy thud.
Above, below, and to the sides, the remaining orks faltered under the disciplined assault. Cătălin pressed onward, boots echoing on the metal, chainsword roaring. Daniel covered each angle, carving a path up the spiral.
At last, the spiral leveled out onto the Titan platform itself. Grey Hound stood before them, dormant and monumental, cradled in clamps and service cables. The orks had concentrated here—hoping to prevent anyone from reaching the Titan—but most were now dead or fleeing.
Cătălin took a deep breath, chainsword ready. Daniel scanned the platform for threats. They had reached the edge of the dormant Imperator.