Mountain Guga was in a foul mood.
"Why'd ya come back again?!" Guga roared, slamming a massive green paw onto the head of a Boy, sending the smaller Ork spinning like a top. "I said charge! Keep chargin'! Get to da bottom of da wall! Why'd ya all turn tail?!"
The Boy clutched his ringing head, looking aggrieved. "There wuz too many big guns, Boss! Bang bang bang! Da lads wuz broken before we even got close!"
"Then we build even more big guns!" Guga bellowed. "Mekboy! Where da zog is da Mekboy?!"
A tech-obsessed Ork, covered in tools and wearing a soot-stained welding mask, scurried over. "Boss! We're buildin' 'em! But there ain't much good iron left! Da humies have hidden all da shiny scrap behind their big wall!"
Guga was so enraged he grabbed a handful of roasted squigs and stuffed them into his mouth, the bones crunching loudly between his tusks. To a casual observer, Guga looked like a mindless brute, but he possessed a dangerous, low-level cunning.
He knew the humies had suddenly become dangerous. Their "big guns" were fierce, and their "tin toys"—the Knights and tanks—were hard to crack. Charging headlong was suicide, and while his Boys weren't afraid of death, if too many died, there wouldn't be enough left for a proper Waaagh!
So he waited. He waited for more "lads" to grow out of the fungal spores in the ground. The mushrooms around the camp had been growing exceptionally well lately, with hundreds of thousands of new buds sprouting every day. He just needed to wait for his Mekboys to create even more amazing "big gubbinz."
He had already decreed that all scrap metal be prioritized for the Meks; anyone found hoarding even a single bolt would be executed. Once there were enough Boys and enough Dakka to smash through that wall, he would personally lead the charge, take the humie leader's head, and hang it atop his highest totem.
Thinking of this, he grinned, revealing rows of gleaming white teeth set into his fleshy green face. He would become the most "Waaagh!" Boss on the planet. Perhaps he could even go back and find that fat, ugly Lurkner and chop him down too, proving once and for all who was the strongest Ork.
Guga laughed, grabbing another handful of stewed meat.
Unbeknownst to him, a Lictor lay motionless on a rusted crossbeam fifty meters above his head. Its chameleonic scales allowed it to blend perfectly with the metal, its systems in a state of minimal power consumption. It even adjusted its body temperature to match the freezing air. Its three pairs of compound eyes remained fixed on Guga, the vats, the Mekboys, and the half-assembled Deff Dreads nearby. Every detail was transmitted in real-time through the Hive Mind's consciousness network.
In the temporary command post behind the Forbidden Wall, Raynor sat back in his chair with his eyes closed. From beneath his sleeve, a Ripper extended a transparent sensory tendril, gently piercing the skin of his wrist. There was no pain, only a cool, refreshing sensation as the connection solidified.
Raynor let out a soft, satisfied exhale as the Lictor's vision unfolded in his mind. He could "feel" everything the scout perceived: the chaotic din of the camp, the savage stench of the Ork Boys, the bubbling vats, and the rhythmic hammer of the Meks.
He focused on Mountain Guga. Having seen the intelligence reports, Raynor knew this wasn't the legendary "Big Stomach" Lurkner, but a rising contender. This Ork exuded a sense of brutish calculation. Raynor's mental gaze swept the camp, noting the Evil Sunz clan members fighting over newly assembled trukks.
After observing for a time, he disconnected and opened his eyes. A notification from Sarah arrived: The gift for the Greenskins is ready.
Raynor sent a pulse of doting affection back to Sarah. She truly was his most reliable partner.
The gift arrived a week later.
The Third Vanguard Corps, consisting of three million soldiers, arrived at the Forbidden Wall alongside the final batch of combat-ready troops. The remaining forces at the main base were now mostly instructors and low-readiness militia.
Accompanying the convoy was a heavily sealed transport vehicle located at the very center of the formation, indicating its extreme importance. The commanding officer, a Major General of the PDF, immediately presented Raynor with a data slate.
"Your Excellency, the Research Institute has delivered 'Peyton-I.' It is still in the testing phase, but it has passed primary verification."
Raynor scanned the data. The Peyton Virus was based on discarded Magos Biologis research regarding Greenskin spores, further refined by the Brevis Institute of Xenobiology. Since becoming the Vanguard Commander, Raynor had established this institute in the Hive's Upper Spire. In reality, most of its members were either Genestealer Neophytes or researchers already infected by the brood.
While searching for ways to provide Sarah with biomass, the institute—with "Sarah II" as its biological core—continuously researched bio-weapons targeting the Orks. The Peyton Virus was the result. It was contact-transmitted and, while not fatal, it could significantly weaken the physical capabilities of an Ork for three to twelve hours.
"Well done," Raynor said, handing the slate back. "Move the transport to Warehouse C. Level-four security. No one enters without my direct authorization."
"Understood, Governor."
After the officer left, Raynor looked out the window. The secondary inner walls were complete. They weren't as towering as the Forbidden Wall, but at five meters high and wide enough to deploy Leman Russ tanks, they formed a perfect "killing pocket" behind the breach in Sector C8.
Now, only one step remained: finding a way to lure the Ork Warboss into the trap. However, there was a small internal problem to solve first. Raynor called Leo into his office to discuss the final deployment.
"The Knights will play a crucial role in the 'Decapitation' phase," Raynor said. "Especially Knight Quinn St. Gallus. His machine is equipped with heavy thermal cannons, perfect for area suppression once the trap is sprung."
Leo's expression darkened slightly at the mention of Quinn. The pilot who had arrived with the reinforcements had barely participated in the defense. He was always in the rear, claiming his Knight required "maintenance" or "re-calibration," all while maintaining an insufferably arrogant attitude toward the local defenders.
"He may not cooperate," Leo said tactfully.
"He will," Raynor replied calmly, his eyes reflecting the cold steel of the wall. "I will speak with him personally."