For Vigilus Star, today was just another typical day on the edge of Imperial space.
The junkheap cities of the greenskins sprawled across the wastelands. Genestealer cults whispered blasphemy in dark alleys, the Drukhari scoured the shadows in search of "playthings," and the warp-touched fleet of the Daemonkin idled in low orbit, waiting for the veil between realities to thin.
And yet, officially, this world remained loyal to the Imperium of Man.
On the wild plains of Vigilus Star…
"Oi, gitz! Fire up da engines! Dis ain't nap time! Get yer boots movin'! When we sees dem monsters—WE START!"
"WAAAGH!"
The thunderous cheers of the Ork Boyz echoed across the storm-swept plain.
Atop the reddest, loudest, most violently painted battlewagon stood a towering greenskin warlord—Kroolkrumpa—his guttural roar riding the wind like a battle-horn.
Kroolkrumpa was always the first Ork to arrive on the battlefield. His secret?
He simply killed any Ork that got there before him.
He'd once fought under Bonebreaker during Dukel's Great WAAAGH!, rampaging across system after system, slamming headlong into Hive Fleets, cracking chitin skulls, and harvesting untold teef.
Bugs made the best enemies.
They were strong. They were endless. And most importantly—they were full of teef.
While fighting humans might net you one or two decent tusks, a proper Tyranid swarm could earn you hundreds of glistening, perfect chompers.
War was fun. War was loot. And the good days were gone.
During a disastrous warp jump, Kada's warfleet had been torn away from the rest of the WAAAGH!. Lost in the Immaterium, even he had begun to worry.
That's when Brother Du—Dukel, the one the orks now revered—appeared in his dreams.
"Boy, go dere. It's gonna be fun!"
With that divine revelation, his fleet was spat back into realspace, right into the edge of the Sentinel Subsector.
Kroolkrumpa didn't know why this planet mattered, but if Brother Du said it would be fun—it must be.
So he brought his boyz to the Warning Star. But for the last few weeks? Nothing.
Xi'rus—the Fabricator General of the local forge world and ally to Brother Du—was off-limits.
No fighting with the humans there.
And the rest? Just wildlife, sandstorms, and the occasional skirmish with pointy-eared gits (the Aeldari). Not enough dakka. Not enough fun.
Bored, Kada declared a planet-wide race for his boyz.
He won, obviously.
Then came a fire-eating contest. Lost three fingers. Didn't care. Had a laugh.
The orks of Dukel's WAAAGH! loved challenges—thrived on them. Their blood-red tattoos of overlapping cogwheels granted not just courage, but thicker hides and tougher bones.
And so, with mayhem games and trials, they passed the dull weeks.
Until…
The warp screamed.
Something vile slithered into realspace. The real fun had arrived.
When Tech Boy told Kroolkrumpa about the Chaos fleet, the Warlord's fanged grin nearly split his face.
He even used his brain—a rare and dangerous event.
"We'll hide an' wait. Let 'em come in nice an' close," he muttered. "Dis gonna be good…"
He and his boyz vanished into the dust-choked mines of the wastelands.
Waiting.
Plotting.
Excited.
"BOSS! SPIKEY BOYZ!" screamed a green-skinned scout from atop a roaring Thunderbolt Boomwagon, a vehicle with more exhaust pipes than sanity.
Kada turned his head, mouth wide with excitement—only to inhale a mouthful of chemically contaminated sandstorm.
Pfthak!
But sure enough—looming through the swirling yellow haze—were Chaos Space Marines, clad in black and crimson, banners of Khorne flapping madly, their armor etched with heretical runes and brass skulls.
"Spikey gitz!" the scout howled gleefully, hefting an oversized slugga launcher. "Can we krump 'em, boss?!"
"Let me see 'em first…" Kada lifted a massive brass telescope, its lens so cracked it functioned more as an Ork artifact than any real tool. But through it, he saw the blood-spattered armor, the twisted ceramite, the gore-drenched axes.
These weren't allies.
These weren't Xi'rus' tech-priests.
These were the enemy.
And Orks don't need a second opinion.
"Oi! Proper spikey jerks, these ones!" Kada bellowed. "WAAAGH!!! CHARGE!!!"
"BROTHER DU PROTECTS US!"
The orks roared.
Their cogwheel totems gleamed with warp-touched light, forming shimmering red forcefields around their vehicles.
Their tattoos pulsed. Their muscles bulged. Their screams intensified.
The convoy roared forward. Engines howled. The very earth trembled.
Flame-breathing boyz howled fire into the sky.
Ammo-runts stuffed volatile squigs and fart-spirits directly into shoota barrels.
The Red Blood Gang—Khornate berserkers marching under the banner of the Blood God—froze for just a second when the Ork horde erupted from the storm.
Then they roared back.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
Weapons were drawn.
Axes raised.
And then the two sides slammed together like gods playing dice with tanks.
Boom!——
With a thunderous roar, the Red Blood Warband's first wave was instantly sent flying dozens of meters by the Orks' "Bang Bang Truck."
The Chaos warrior—encased in ceramite power armor and weighing over three tons—crashed into the ground with a force that gouged a ten-meter trench through the arid plains of Vigilus Star.
The Bang Bang Truck was completely totaled in the impact. But in typical Ork fashion, that didn't matter. Hundreds of green-skinned Boyz leapt out of the wreckage, forming a living green tide that crashed over the downed Chaos warrior like a tidal wave of bellowing violence.
Even a warrior blessed by Khorne would struggle under such numbers.
And these weren't just any Orks.
This was an elite horde—tattooed in blood-red ink, daubed in graffiti of triple-colored glyphs, their bodies hardened by constant trials, and their speed, strength, and durability all enhanced by their brutal faith in Dukel.
With a single charge, they overwhelmed the Blood God's less-than-brilliant followers, smashing through the front lines and drowning them in the raw fury of the WAAAGH!
Kroolkrumpa—warlord of the horde—slammed the pedal so hard it hit the fuel tank. His custom-built war-chariot, personally upgraded by a Mekboy touched by the wisdom of Dukel, thundered forward over the howling lunatics yelling "Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
Where his wheels passed, the desert ran slick with corrupted blood. Limbs, armor, and shattered helms were scattered across the dunes. It was a butcher's gallery under the open sky.
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls—!"
One Chaos Space Marine shouted in defiance even as the chariot's massive wheels crushed most of his torso. His severed head rolled beneath the spikes, still screaming its mantra.
WAAAGH!
Kroolkrumpa bellowed with laughter as his vehicle tore through another corpse. Spiked wheels churned up bone, blood, and the shattered ceramite of the traitor Astartes. Arterial blood sprayed his face—and he savored the warmth like a blessing from Dukel himself.
He whipped the chariot into another turn, dragging two mangled Chaos Marines from chains hooked to the frame. Their bodies bounced along the wasteland at speeds over 100 kph, trailing viscera and blasphemous ichor.
A human would've died instantly. But these were Chaos Space Marines—mutated, augmented, and swollen with dark gifts. Their unholy resilience, once a mark of pride, had become a curse as they were dragged screaming behind an Ork war chariot.
Armor shattered. Flesh flayed. Screams echoed into the storm.
Kroolkrumpa just grinned wider.
Sympathy? From an Ork Warlord? Don't be ridiculous.
Before long, the entire Red Blood Warband—including a detachment of lesser Khorne daemons—was wiped out. What wasn't torn apart was burned, smashed, or mutilated in ways even the Ruinous Powers might find excessive.
"Boss! Where we headin' now?" one of the blood-spattered Ork Boyz shouted, breathless with excitement.
"Forward!" Kroolkrumpa roared, slamming the wheel. "Any ghosties we see—bash 'em! I saw it meself—ghosts spillin' outta the warp like sand from a busted pipe! Don't let 'em get away!"
WAAAGH! BOSS SAYS RIGHT!
Engines thundered back to life. The Ork horde surged forward, roaring their praise to Dukel, the one who promised endless fights and endless fun.
Smoke belched from massive exhausts. Sand churned beneath monster tires. The very earth quaked as the green tide pushed forward, driving into the heart of the daemon-infested zone.
Above them, black smoke curled into the sky—forming thick clouds that blotted out the sun, cloaking the battlefield in a haze of oil, blood, and ozone.
Kroolkrumpa glanced back at the two Chaos Marines still chained behind the chariot, both somehow still alive, both howling in agony.
"I knew Brother Du would never lie to a lad like me!" Kada howled with glee.
The pitiful shrieks of his prisoners stirred something in his blood—like promethium poured over a bonfire. Every pained yelp was a drumbeat to war.
He could feel it now: more enemies ahead. More toys. More fights.
Unable to contain himself, he threw back his head and screamed into the storm:
"WAAAGH! THIS IS DA LIFE!"
The rest of the Boyz echoed him, revving their bikes and chariots so hard their engines coughed fire.
Red-painted tanks belched flames from their stacks, chewing up sand as they surged into battle, a chaotic mess of yellow dust and black exhaust marking their wake.
Meanwhile…
Harkon Worldreaver: "…"
The Chaos Lord of the Black Crusade stared grimly at his instruments.
The readings didn't lie—millions of green-skinned xenos were charging toward them. A full-on Ork horde, wild and relentless, and already tearing through his forward daemon hosts like a meat grinder.
He stood beside his war spear—planted proudly in the soil of Vigilus Star to mark his claim of conquest.
It was his custom. Every world he razed, he drove his spear into its heart. A grim declaration of victory.
But now…
He was seriously considering pulling it back out.
Are all Ork brains made of compost? he wondered bitterly. Why are they attacking the daemon legions instead of the corpse-worshippers?
He gritted his teeth, his armored gauntlet curling into a fist.
"Someone tell me what the warp is going on here!" he growled.
"Weren't these aliens fighting the False Emperor's servants last we checked?!"
"Yes, my lord," his adjutant replied cautiously, "based on the prior intelligence, that was indeed the case..."
At this moment, even the adjutant wore a look of confusion.
Not long ago, their scouts had returned with footage clearly showing Imperial forces clashing with Orks. But what they didn't know was that, after a brief skirmish, the Imperial Guard had submitted a formal request to the Departmento Munitorum for reinforcements.
The response had been clear: Disregard the greenskins.
Now, seated upon his throne, Harkon Worldreaver—Herald of the Black Legion—glared at the shifting tactical feed. His eyes frequently flicked between the incoming reports and the blackened spear embedded in the crust of the planet below—a declaration of conquest.
"It seems those pathetic lapdogs of the False Emperor have allied with the xenos," he growled, his voice like grinding metal. "Filthy Orks, forming ranks with the Imperium... disgraceful."
"What are your orders, my lord?" the adjutant asked, stepping carefully.
The Worldreaver rose slightly, casting a burning gaze over the tactical display. The tide of green was vast, unstoppable. It devoured everything—daemons, cultists, traitor Astartes—without discrimination.
"We purge this world with fire and iron," he declared. "The Warmaster draws near, and this world must be his by the time he arrives."
"Let the skies rain death. Let this pitiful resistance—whether daemon, xenos, or man—learn the price of defying the Black Crusade. We will reap this world in His name."
The words rang with finality.
The orks may have been numerous. The Imperium might still have claws dug deep into the crust. But the Black Legion did not retreat. And the Worldreaver would never remove his spear.
The adjutant inclined his head in acknowledgment. Amid the chaos, he'd gleaned the critical detail: Abaddon was coming.
And with the Warmaster behind them, victory was assured.
"This planet shall be your trophy, my lord," the adjutant said, his voice filled with cruel confidence.
War blazed across the surface of Vigilus Star, rising like a funeral pyre to the heavens.
Following the Worldreaver's orders, the daemonic forge-engines of the Hellforged Legions roared to life. Sirens blared across the corrupted command decks. Rows of war machines groaned as ancient gears rotated into motion, and the infernal spirits bound within them shrieked with rage.
As the daemonic coalition and the Ork horde collided in brutal melee, Worldreaver issued a new command.
"Unleash the orbital batteries. Blanket the surface. Leave no survivors."
In orbit, fleets bearing the Eye of Horus opened fire. Lance strikes and warp-forged payloads fell like divine judgment, searing the heavens and gouging out canyons of molten earth.
More heretics and daemonkin were deployed via drop-pods and warp-rifts, their roars joining the cacophony.
The planet trembled under the weight of war.
And in the heart of that madness, fire and smoke swallowed the world of Vigilus Star whole.
...
T.N:
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