"All o' you Boyz, look at me!"
A thunderous roar rolled across the battlefield, cutting through the din to reach every Greenskin ear.
Amid the chaotic green tide, an Ork Boss leapt onto the roof of a tank and stood tall.
He was huge and hideous, fangs jutting, limbs crudely cyber-amped to comedic bulk; a soot-belching jet-pack jutted from his back.
What truly broke composure was his outfit: the brute wore a coat unmistakably styled like an Astra Militarum Political Commissar's, the crimson cloth blazing against the battleground.
Thrusting a mighty mech-claw, the Boss pointed at the Astartes line and bellowed, "Look at dem tin o' shrimp! So full o' themselfs dey think flesh'n bone can measure up ta Gork and Mork's iron fist—who's bigga, who's stronga, who's more Waaaaagh!"
His voice, warped through some ramshackle amp, swept the field.
"So—wot's our answer?"
The Greenskin Boyz answered as one:
"Waaaaagh—!!"
"Ah-ha-ha-ha! Dat's da stuff!"
The Ork Boss swelled with pride. "We's Blood Axe Clan! For our Warboss! For Victory! For da Great Waaaagh!"
Naturally, the Astartes up-line couldn't miss a racket that loud.
Dozens of shield-piercing special-issue bolts screamed in.
The Boss barely shrugged, as though expecting it; he tilted, presenting a thick shoulder-plate while a crackling green energy field shimmered around him.
The storm of rounds barely scraped through the field, clinking off armour of unknown make before falling spent.
"See, Boyz? I'm unbreakable—Gork and Mork are watchin'!"
he roared.
Heartened, the Greenskin horde gunned engines and surged; burstas and boomers lobbed shell after shell at the defenders.
Blasts overlapped in a thunderous roar, the grinding steel-on-steel slaughter pushing the fight to fever pitch.
Out-numbered, the Astartes quickly lost ground.
Howling Tankbusta Boyzs sent volley after volley of rokkits arcing down like steel rain.
True to Ork style, you never knew the payload—one might pop harmless flash, the next could be a lethal melta charge.
More and more Astartes fell, their shattered power-armour revealing… nothing inside.
The Greenskins noticed, then shrugged it off.
Wotever they were, who cared?
If it could fight, it was worth krumpin'.
Waaaagh an' be done with it!
+Query: how long must we hold?+
An Astartes' thought rippled through the psychic link while he swept his power sword, cleaving a charging Choppa Boy.
Swallowed by the Ork tide, they stood as blood-soaked breakwaters, clashing with the surge each heartbeat.
Thanks to Adam's prodigious intellect—and a twist of reality—every former Blissful Angel now awakened to soul-speech.
The gift wove their minds into the Emperor's psychic lattice, unity absolute.
+Mash, no more waiting.+
The company Commander's mind-voice came across the soul-link.
+Mission complete.+
By then a wide ring of ground had been cleared around the Commander.
Tele-beacons stabbed into the soil, arcs of psychic lightning knitting a cage that swallowed hectares.
With crackling Warp-flash and sudden chill, hoarfrost spider-webbed the dirt—mass transit from the Immaterium complete.
Reinforcements stepped from the light.
Eighteen dreadnoughts loomed like mobile bastions, their suppressive fire more than enough to steady the buckling line.
Among them strode Adam himself, wreathed in psychic halos.
Behind him: Leonardo in Custodian terminator armour, Lucia winged and haloed, Sibylla hefting a power sword.
They had abandoned the ship in low orbit, choosing to teleport straight into the slaughter.
"Forward. Pulverise them."
Adam nodded calmly, giving the word.
The dreadnoughts answered with engine-growls, each footfall trembling the ground as they loped to assigned fire-points.
Under the Astartes' soul-guided direction, heavy fire lashed out, shoring the wavering front in seconds.
Leonardo and Lucia moved at Adam's order.
They blitzed so fast even Space Marines lost sight of them, racing from the line's centre to the spear-tip of battle.
Leonardo struck first.
The guardian spear spat special bolts—not one struck an Ork, yet every round found unstable Greenskin tech: rockets, smoke-belching bike engines, bomb-laden squigs.
Each detonated in perfect sequence.
"Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!!!"
Overlapping blasts shredded the mob rushing the "shiny big'un."
Without pause Leonardo sidestepped three dirty shells, then waded into the armoured stampede.
A single swipe in under 0.1 s carved the scrap-vehicle into pieces.
The Ork driver blinked, felt the thin red line across his throat, then disintegrated with his ride.