High above the Frost-Forbidden Wall.
The final air-to-air missile streaked from the wing of the Lightning Fighter, slamming squarely into an Ork Fighta-Bommer. This marked the 92nd green-skin aerial vehicle shot down by Squadron Leader Olev today—not including the countless "Stormboyz" he had shredded with his autocannons.
Behind his flight mask, Olev's azure eyes scanned the dashboard. Warning lights flickered like dying embers. His ammunition counters had long since hit zero, his fuel was a mere whisper in the tanks, and the engine emitted a mechanical wail of unbearable strain. Yet, he did not turn back. His mission was not yet over.
Below, on the windswept tundra, a dozen scrap-metal trukks painted in a vibrant, "lucky" red were racing across the snow. Each vehicle towed a massive, pulsating, spherical creature that oozed a yellowish-green slime.
Command intelligence was clear: these bloated organisms were biological poison bombs, "kustom-made" by the Ork Painboyz. They were devastatingly potent and incredibly polluting. Their target was the "Man-River," the vital moat surrounding Brevis's primary Hive City. Fed by mountain snowmelt and deep groundwater, the river passed through a complex purification grid to supply drinking and industrial water to tens of billions.
If those toxin-beasts were detonated in the river, the poison would paralyze the Hive's life-support systems. It would be a death blow to Brevis.
Originally, over a hundred scrap-chariots had attempted to bypass the Frost-Forbidden Wall. Most had been destroyed by the desperate defense of the Brontë Longswordsmen or run down by the Ice-Claw Clan cavalry. Only these dozen "fish" had slipped through the net, and they were now less than fifty kilometers from the riverbank.
They could not be allowed to pass.
Olev opened the squadron channel. "Lightning Squadron, all personnel, assemble immediately."
Eleven battered fighters formed a tight V-shape in the freezing air.
"The xenos below intend to reach the Man-River," Olev's voice was steady. "They want to poison our waters and kill every soul in the Hive. Our brothers on the Wall are trading their lives to hold the main horde. The Ice-Claw riders are bleeding on the plains. Now, it is our turn."
All eleven jets were dry of ammunition. But the Brontë Flight Wing held a grim tradition: every aircraft was fitted with a melta-charge in its nose—a thermobaric payload capable of vaporizing a Leman Russ. When the guns went silent, the pilot became the final missile.
"Target: the green-skin convoy. For the Emperor!"
"CHARGE!"
Eleven burning meteors pierced the gale. With unwavering resolve, they dove toward the red trukks. As the wind howled against his cockpit, what was Olev thinking? Was it compassion for the impoverished masses of Brevis? Was it the irony of protecting the "private armies" of the nobles who refused to leave their mansions? Or was he searching for the savior of this snow-choked world?
In the final seconds, Olev stared at the lead trukk. He could see the manic glee of the Ork Mek at the wheel, fantasizing about the glorious "splosion" his "boss's" Squig-bomb would make.
The delusion ended in an instant.
The Lightning Fighter slammed into the lead vehicle. The melta-charge in the nose detonated, releasing an ultra-high-density energy beam. At such proximity, there was no explosion—only erasure. The trukk didn't just break; it vanished, vaporized at the molecular level. Metal turned to gas; green flesh and Squig-matter were instantly incinerated.
Mushroom clouds of fire, metallic vapor, and toxic smoke rose across the ice field. Eleven such clouds bloomed simultaneously, obliterating the convoy and the ambitions of the Ork Meks. The green-skins would not reach the river today.
...
"COMMISSAR!" The soldiers cried out in grief and fury as they watched the inferno engulf Marcus.
The flames roared for several seconds, turning the breach in Section C8 into a hellish pit. The Warboss, Shattered Tooth, let out a triumphant, guttural laugh, believing the annoying "puny humie" had been reduced to ash.
The laughter died in its throat.
From the heart of the raging fire, a scorched figure rose. His blue uniform had been incinerated; his skin was blackened and unrecognizable, but in his hand, he gripped a charred power sword.
Shattered Tooth snapped out of its shock, roaring as it swung its massive choppa to cleave the man in two. But it was too slow. Miraculously, arcs of gold and blue lightning flickered back to life along the blackened blade of the Commissar's sword.
The burning figure moved. It was a simple movement: a sprint, followed by a single, horizontal slash. To Shattered Tooth's eyes, it was only a blur.
Time slowed. A dazzling fan of golden-blue light traced a perfect line across the Warboss's waist. A heartbeat later, the massive Ork slid apart, halved at the torso. Even its legendary resilience was useless against such a strike. It collapsed into the snow, its life spilling out in a spray of dark blood and entrails.
Commissar Marcus remained standing, sword extended. The flames on his body flickered out as his life finally left him. The charred, broken shell—barely recognizable as a man—did not fall. He remained upright, a silent monument in the snow.
The gunfire never ceased, but every Brontë Longswordsman who witnessed that final stand was transformed. Grief was instantly forged into a cold, psychotic rage.
"FOR THE COMMISSAR!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR!"
"KILL THE XENOS! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"