"Blood Axe Clan?"
At this mont, on the bridge of the strike cruiser that had reached low orbit, Rowan looked at the imagery displayed on the auspex scanner and pondered slightly.
The formation of Greenskin Orks shown on the device exhibited traits completely contrary to their chaotic nature; instead, it demonstrated sothing that could genuinely be called discipline.
Whether it was their attack waves or their staggered echelons, there were obvious signs of training. The tactical coordination between the firing positions and the armored tanks was sothing anyone with a modicum of military knowledge could instantly recognize as abnormal.
Obviously, this was the highly unusual Blood Axe Clan among the Greenskin Orks.
The defining characteristic of this clan was that they were not chaotic and disorderly like ordinary Greenskins. They would mimic the behaviors of human armies and adapt human discipline.
In battle, they utilized various human tactics, actually using their brains to formulate strategies—such as behind-enemy-lines harassnt, creeping artillery barrages, and tactical infiltration. Sotis, they even surpassed their teachers and executed these maneuvers better than humans did.
"Whatever, there is no need to overthink this."
Rowan didn't take it to heart.
Even if the enemy was such a unique Greenskin clan, with his reality-bending abilities, it shouldn't be Rowan fearing an unknown enemy, but rather the unknown enemy fearing him.
"Then, let's start with a wave of orbital bombardnt."
Following his invisible connection with the machine spirit, Rowan ford a thought and decisively issued the order.
High in the void, the strike cruiser's lance batteries began to gather blinding light.
Although most of the warship's weapon systems were completely offline, a significant portion remained operational, such as the lance arrays that required precision instruntation. These systems hadn't been twisted and corrupted by Chaos; instead, they had been preserved through the purification of the Emperor's holy power.
Blinding crimson beams of energy lanced out from the warship. Under the excited gazes of the Armageddon Steel Legion soldiers entrenched below, the beams struck the earth like spears of retribution hurled by the Emperor's wrath, wantonly carving deep, blackened scars across the landscape.
The Ork artillery positions and nurous anti-air emplacents were rapidly reduced to ash under the continuous orbital bombardnt.
"Well, as expected, it doesn't work."
Rowan extended his perception slightly and found he hadn't devoured any souls, prompting him to frown and let out a sigh.
As the saying goes, "It is not I who kills, but the weapon," and this phrase couldn't be more appropriate here.
He was rely the one issuing the firing order to the machine spirit; the entity actually pulling the trigger and killing the enemy was the strike cruiser itself.
Thinking of this, Rowan briefly pondered whether it would be feasible to elevate the reality intensity of an entire five-kiloter-long strike cruiser—ship, machine spirit, and all—and then drive it around the galaxy wholesale-issuing Exterminatus.
Ultimately, he concluded that the required expenditure of reality intensity for such a feat would be an astronomical figure he still couldn't afford at his current level, so he had to drop the idea.
Ending his brief contemplation, Rowan waved his hand and ordered: "Deploy the drop pods."
In the next mont, within the drop bays at the bottom of the ship, the fully transford Astartes—bathed in dim lighting—walked silently through the long corridors and stepped into the Dreadclaw drop pods waiting before them.
From the ship's underbelly, a massive swarm of drop pods was released. They tore through the sky, descending like teors. Their velocity was so imnse that circular, crimson shockwaves of superheated air ford around their hulls.
Down on the ground, having lost the vast majority of their heavy anti-air firepower, the Ork Boyz could only desperately point their shootas skyward under the roaring commands of their Nobz. They struggled to elevate the small cannons mounted on their various Trukks, acting as makeshift anti-air batteries, firing frantically at the incoming pods.
However, not only did most of their fire miss entirely, but the remaining hail of bullets that did strike the Dreadclaw drop pods—vehicles heavily armored for Astartes insertion—only produced dull "thudding" sounds, completely failing to inflict any substantive damage.
The drop pods slamd violently into the earth. As the crimson retro-rockets ignited, their descent velocity abruptly halted, crashing down with deafening, ground-shaking booms.
"WAAAAAGH!!!"
The roars of the Greenskin Orks erupted.
Hordes of Ork Boyz, brandishing their choppas and shootas, howled and surged forward like a green tide, charging desperately toward every single drop pod.
Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!
The instant the drop pods landed, their integrated automated heavy stubbers and heavy bolters activated. A roaring barrage of fire swept out like a torrential downpour, mowing down the Ork Boyz who hadn't yet reacted.
Imdiately following, a series of sharp, popping detonations rang out.
It was the explosive bolts detonating—a failsafe against chanical jamming—violently blowing the drop pod doors wide open.
One by one, the Astartes stepped forth from within.
They were the undying army. They were the penitent host.
In the endless, eternal wars to co, they would prove their loyalty... to humanity, to the Emperor.
[For the Emperor!]
Their physical bodies had long been reduced to ash, naturally depriving them of the ability to vocalize war cries. Yet, even so, this phrase remained eternally branded into the soul of every single Astartes. Raising their weapons, they comnced a cold, chanical slaughter in the Emperor's na.
The exhaust trails of mass-reactive bolts drew crisp lines through the air. Under the absolute precision forged by centuries of combat experience, every Greenskin caught in their visors t the finality of death.
As for the bizarrely constructed Ork vehicles, they were greeted by lta bombs hurled with the force of artillery shells.
Blinding flashes of incandescent light erupted. Turrets were lted into puddles of slag, and the searing jets of superheated tal flooded the crew compartnts, instantly incinerating the Greenskin drivers within.
With Rowan's unsparing support, every single Astartes was ard to the teeth.
Entire squads were equipped with Iron Halos, Artificer-pattern bolters, specialized mass-reactive rounds, an abundance of plasma weaponry, an inexhaustible supply of lta bombs, Master-crafted power swords, and Terminator assault cannons...
The consequence of such overwhelming armant was best illustrated by the rapidly disappearing Greenskin lives on the battlefield.
After taking nominal casualties and clearing a localized beachhead amidst the surging green tide, the Astartes imdiately began utilizing the wrecks of destroyed vehicles to establish a relatively stable defensive periter.
And the Orks, renowned as a species forged for war, naturally wouldn't leave this unanswered.
When the Greenskins quickly realized that these "humie beekies" had chosen to drop directly into the teeth of their armored assault, they imdiately beca ecstatic.
Massive numbers of Trukks and looted tanks began to contract their formation, their density rapidly increasing. Like a pair of violently closing pincers, they charged directly at the Astartes, attempting to grind these incredibly Waaaagh!-worthy enemies into bloody paste.
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