"All you Boyz, look at !"
A deafening roar echoed across the battlefield, ringing clearly in the ears of every Greenskin despite the chaotic din.
Amidst the churning green tide, an Ork Warboss leapt onto the roof of a tank, towering above it.
He was massive and grotesque, his maw bristling with exposed fangs. His limbs had undergone exaggerated chanical augntations, looking crude and clunky, while a belching exhaust pipe spewed thick black smoke from his back.
But the most jarring detail was the Warboss's attire: his hulking fra was clad in sothing closely resembling an Astra Militarum Commissar's uniform, its bright red color sticking out glaringly on the battlefield.
Thrusting out a thick chanical klaw, the Warboss pointed toward the distant Astartes defensive periter and bellowed, "Look at dese Humie Tin Cans! Dey fink dey's so zoggin' great, so right zoggin' arrogant, dat dey wanna use their squishy bits to test our Gork and Mork iron fists! Let's show 'em who's bigger, who's stronger, and who's more WAAAAAGH!"
His voice carried across the entire warzone through so bizarre amplification device.
"So, wot's our answer, Boyz?!"
The Ork Boyz roared back in unison: "WAAAAAGH!!!"
"Hahahahaha! Dat's right! Dat's exactly it!" The Warboss grew even more pumped up, his voice booming, "We are da Blood Axes! Fer our Warboss! Fer victory! Fer da Great Waaaaagh!"
Naturally, with such a massive commotion, it was impossible for the Astartes in the distant trench line not to notice.
Dozens of specialized mass-reactive bolts, capable of easily punching through shields and armor, instantly shrieked toward him.
But the Warboss rely scoffed. As if anticipating the strike, he leaned slightly, exposing his massively thick pauldron, while a bizarre, green energy shield flared to life around his body.
The torrential hail of bolts poured in, barely piercing the energy shield before deflecting uselessly off armor plating made of Emperor-knows-what materials.
"Look, Boyz! I is un-krumpable! Gork and Mork are watchin' !" the Warboss roared.
Emboldened by this sight, the Greenskins surged forward with unparalleled fanaticism. They gunned their engines, rushing like a rolling tide, while round after round from shootas and boomgunz blasted into the Imperial defensive line.
The deafening roar of interweaving artillery fire marked the climax of this brutal, steel-grinding at grinder of a battle.
As the combat intensified, the vastly outnumbered Astartes quickly found themselves at a disadvantage.
Accompanied by the manic laughter of Tankbustaz, a barrage of rokkits rained down like a monsoon.
These rokkits perfectly embodied the Ork style: you never knew what payload they carried. One might just be a harmless burst of flash and smoke, while the very next could be packed with lethal lta charges.
More and more Astartes were knocked to the ground, sustaining heavy casualties. As their power armor shattered, the chilling reality that they were completely empty inside was exposed.
The Ork Boyz naturally noticed this anomaly, but they quickly tossed it to the back of their minds.
Who cares what the zog these things were? As long as they put up a good, proppa fight, it made no difference to a Greenskin.
Just Waaaaagh and get stuck in!!!
Query: How much longer must we hold the line?
An Astartes' thought rippled through the psychic network even as he swung his power sword, cleaving an incoming Choppa Boy in twain.
They were now entirely engulfed by the rolling green tide, acting as the blood-soaked anchors in the at grinder, fighting the surging Greenskins tooth and nail every single second.
Under Rowan's staggering intellect and reality-bending modifications, every Astartes of the forr Angels of Ecstasy warband had awakened soul-communication capabilities.
This ability established a highly efficient information network, linking everyone's consciousness through the sacred psychic might of the Emperor, forging them into a single, unified entity.
Marsh, no further holding action is required.
The intent of the Astartes Company Commander pulsed through the soul-link.
Objective completed.
Around the Commander, a wide clearing had been rapidly secured.
Teleport hors were driven deep into the soil one after another. Arcing psychic lightning chained between them, quickly blanketing a massive area.
With crackling pops of psychic energy, the ambient temperature plumted, and fine ice crystals ford on the ground as a large-scale warp translation was completed.
Within the teleportation zone, massive reinforcents materialized.
Eighteen Dreadnoughts stood like towering, mobile fortresses, boasting overwhelming firepower sufficient to provide the critical fire support the frontline Astartes desperately needed.
And amidst them, stepping out of a psychic halo, was Rowan himself.
Following closely behind were Leonardo in his Custodian Terminator plate, the winged and haloed Lucia, and Inquisitor Cybia gripping her force sword.
That's right—Rowan and his retinue had abandoned the strike cruiser anchored in low orbit, electing to teleport directly to the surface to comnce an absolute slaughter.
"Let's go. Crush them."
Rowan nodded calmly, issuing the order to the group around him.
The Dreadnoughts moved in unison, their chanical servos letting out thundering roars. They strode forward with massive steps, each footfall causing the ground to tremble.
Directed by the soul-linked tactical data of their Astartes brothers, they rapidly moved to predetermined firing positions. A ferocious curtain of suppressive fire was instantly unleashed, imdiately stabilizing the crumbling front line.
Upon hearing Rowan's command, Leonardo and Lucia sprang into action.
The two erupted with a blinding speed that even the transhuman reflexes of Space Marines would struggle to track. In a fraction of a second, they carved a path from the center of the periter to the absolute bleeding edge of the frontlines, charging headlong into the roaring fires of war.
Mid-charge, Leonardo struck first.
The Guardian Spear in the Custodian's grip continually spat specialized bolts. Not a single round impacted the body of a Greenskin, yet this was by no ans a display of poor marksmanship—it was an exhibit of unbelievable precision.
Every bolt followed an esoteric logic, striking all the highly unstable Ork contraptions within his field of vision in a highly specific sequence—including Tankbusta rokkits, thick-smoking engines of Ork Warbikes, and Bomb Squigs packed with explosives.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!
A cascading chain of deafening explosions erupted, instantaneously shredding a massive swathe of Greenskins who had been charging toward this obviously very Waaaaagh!-worthy golden giant.
Leonardo did not break his stride. With microscopic shifts in his footwork, he effortlessly evaded three looted tank shells screaming toward him, plunging headlong into the rolling armored tide.
Arriving before a Trukk, he swung his spear. In less than a tenth of a second, the entire vehicle was carved into several pieces, completely dismbered.
The Ork driver in the cab was exposed, a look of utter bewildernt on his face. He reached up to touch his neck, where a thin line of blood had already appeared. A microsecond later, he joined his beloved ride in crumbling into pieces.
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