The Ironarmor boss squinted into the tiny scope of a human-made telescope. In his massive, clawed hands, the thing looked like a toy—barely worth holding. He gripped it awkwardly with two thick fingers, his scarred face scrunching in frustration as he tried to peer through the too-small eyepiece.
His pinky hovered over the adjustment dial on the side, twisting it ever so slightly—too slightly. With a growl, he turned it again, this time with ork-sized force. The image spun out of focus, and with a thunderous snarl of frustration, he hurled the telescope to the ground and crushed it under his steel-plated boots.
Before his rage could settle, a low grunt came from nearby.
With a backhand slap that moved like a whipcrack, his massive arm smacked a runt's face—thirty yards away.
A shriek of pain followed, which finally made Ironarmor smile.
His temper cooled, the boss knelt to retrieve the battered telescope. He fiddled with it more carefully this time, managing to get the image into focus.
Through the smoke-choked haze of the battlefield, he saw it clearly now.
The fight was between the shrimp—his crude term for the Astra Militarum—and the warpspawn monstrosities of the Immaterium.
Despite the chaos, he could make out the shape of a Warhound-class Titan—a "War Dog," as he'd heard some humans say.
The machine's roar echoed across the plains like thunder wrapped in metal.
Ironarmor's throat bobbed as he swallowed audibly.
"Dat's... proper stompy," he muttered, awe in his voice. "If I had dat big git... Ironarmor'd be unstoppable."
A rumbling purr of satisfaction escaped him as he handed the telescope to a nearby gretchin—what orks sometimes called a "fart spirit"—one of the smarter ones.
Most orks played with fart spirits when bored, using them for amusement or target practice. But this one was useful.
The little creature took the telescope and tucked it into an iron case strapped to its back. For once, Ironarmor looked at it with something like admiration. A gretchin that wasn't completely useless? Rare.
Ironarmor barked orders and assembled his convoy. He watched every boy that climbed down from the wagons, his one organic eye scanning for weakness.
His other eye—and part of his skull—was long gone. In its place: augmetics, mechadendrites, cables, and a single red-lensed bionic eye bolted into his cranium.
Back aboard a Black Legion vessel, the mad Tech-Priests had carved into his skull and rewired his brain—half gone now, replaced with circuits and ceramite.
It was the work of a deranged Dark Mechanicus Magos—some off-the-rails heretek experimenting with ork physiology.
They'd sweet-talked him into the operation. Said he'd be "smarter, stronger." All lies. He got pain and metal—and nothing worth the price.
He'd been furious about it for months.
Still, he lived. And now he had a new plan: take that Titan.
The strategy was simple—orc-simple. Smash the guards, wrap chains around the Titan's legs, then tow the big beast away with trukks and battlewagons.
Perfect plan, far as he was concerned.
But some of the boyz didn't see it his way.
So he pulled out his iron cudgel and a massive, over-modified slugga—the kind of weapon only orks or lunatics would use. The barrel was wide enough to stuff two gretchin down.
The moment the dissenters saw the weapon, their complaints evaporated.
Every ork there remembered what happened the last time he used that thing.
"Oi! Da big ones beat up da shrimp an' legged it!" he roared. "Now it's our turn, ya zoggin' runts!"
The boyz bellowed in delight, slapping plates and revving engines. A proper scrap was coming.
But even as the warband roared to life, Ironarmor squinted at the approaching human force—Xi'rus' troops.
He frowned.
He'd been out among the Dark Stars a long time, a rogue warboss with no ties to the Bonekrumpa warbands or even the larger Waaaghs. Never heard of no "Great Preacher," didn't care to either.
But what he did have—what kept him alive in the void—was instinct. The kind of gut-deep sense only a warboss gets after surviving a thousand battles.
And that instinct screamed now.
Through the haze, framed by the light of the twin-headed aquila's wings, stood a golden figure—a giant clad in resplendent armor.
The sight struck Ironarmor silent.
For one heartbeat, his warlike soul stirred with something close to reverence.
It felt like he was seeing Gork and Mork themselves—some god of war made manifest.
He didn't know the name Lion El'Jonson.
But he did know one thing, deep in his ork heart:
"I wanna follow dat git," he muttered to himself, awestruck.
Ironarmor scoffed at the strange pull in his gut. Him? Someone else's boy? No way. He wasn't made to follow—he was born to lead.
His war-chariot thundered across the ash-scorched plains, its massive engine roaring like a caged beast. The vibrations rattled his armor and made his massive frame quiver with glee. He bellowed with laughter as the engine spewed fire.
The engine? Looted straight off a Khorne daemon engine. Ironarmor had watched it tear across the battlefield, dragging a mountain of twisted iron and screaming daemons behind it. He figured: why not stick it in a buggy?
Turned out he was right. The engine's power was insane. The crude, cobbled-together chariots screamed forward with savage speed, a blur of green-painted steel and red war-glyphs trailing thick smoke and promise of death.
Ironarmor howled with the wind in his ears, the taste of promethium and blood in the air.
Dis is what it means to be an Ork.
Enemy in front, tank beneath ya, shoota in yer hand. Life doesn't get any better.
Ironarmor's chariot smashed through a daemonic entity standing dumbly in its path. The creature was covered in bone spurs and weeping fire from its eyes, its body a mess of warped flesh and broken ceramite. One moment it stood; the next, it was pulp—its head exploded like a ripe grox melon under the warbuggy's spiked ram. Bits of brain and molten ichor sprayed across the field, its dazed eyeballs bouncing off a rock, still full of confused disbelief.
Further off, Ironarmor spotted a line of red-robed figures. He squinted.
Skulky mech-boyz.
They weren't just any enemies. These were Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, with their gleaming servo-limbs and burning incense stacks. Ironarmor's lip curled. He hated mech-boyz. Always muttering to themselves about some weird tin-can god. Creepy lot.
"BOYZ! SHOOT DEM! BLOW DEM TO BITS!"
His roar cracked through the air like a thunderclap. He could admit, the humies had gotten tougher lately. Xi'rus' lot had some bite—but not enough to stand against da Waaagh.
Gunfire erupted from the orkish convoy. Chariots belched black smoke and autocannons thundered. Half the guns were falling apart, barrels glowing red-hot, smoke trailing dangerously from split casings. But it didn't matter.
Pull da trigger. Leave the rest to Gork—or maybe Mork.
See, orks believe in two gods: Gork, who hits hard, and Mork, who hits sneaky but still hits hard. Every greenskin knows that. Even if they can't tell which is which.
Some orks think Nurgle—since he's big and green—must be one of the gods. Others join Khorne cults by accident, mistaking all the shouting and violence for a really good Waaagh. A few even reckon the corpse on the Golden Throne is Mork himself, just really, really lazy.
In battle, faith shows in strange ways.
As the shootas overheated, Ironarmor reached out, grabbed a nearby grot—what the boyz call fart spirits—and shoved it on the barrel of his gun. The poor thing screamed as it sizzled like squig meat on a fire, the smell of burning flesh wafting through the air.
Miraculously, the gun cooled down.
The others followed his lead. More squeals. More smoke. More gunfire.
The Adeptus Mechanicus's Skitarii were forced back, retreating behind cover as the storm of bullets tore through their ranks.
Ironarmor grinned wide. His boyz roared in triumph, and the Waaagh-energy surged. He felt stronger. Like the very warp bent to his will.
Then—crack.
A sniper round whizzed past, barely missing his skull, the impact slicing through his cheek. Another bullet found its mark in his side. Blood sprayed. Pain blurred his vision. For a second, he stumbled—
—but he didn't fall. Not Ironarmor. Not after what he'd survived in the Dark Stars.
The ork convoy tore into the warzone between the Imperium and the servants of Chaos like a green tide.
Neither side was ready.
Ironarmor smashed through daemon engines like toys, flipping one twisted construct with a shoulder charge and crushing another beneath his tank treads.
The humans, whether shouting "Warmaster!" or "For the Emperor!", dove out of the way of the onrushing orks.
But Ironarmor had his eyes on one thing: the Warhound Titan.
The giant machine loomed in the distance, roaring across the battlefield.
His chariot engine howled louder, flames spurting from the exhaust, the entire vehicle shaking like it was about to come apart.
His driver stomped on the pedal, snarling in excitement.
Then, just as they were about to close in—Ironarmor saw him.
A giant in black, red, and gold power armor. He stood tall in the heart of the battle, a crimson cloak stained with blood billowing behind him. Bareheaded, his black hair caught the light of battle. His eyes burned with unyielding will.
Surrounding him were the shrimp-cans—Adeptus Astartes. They roared with zeal, eyes bright with devotion, ready to die at his command.
Ironarmor's breath caught.
Now dat's waaagh.
Forget the Titan.
This... this was what true power looked like.
No commander, no warlord, no prophet had ever stood like that. Not since the Big Krumpin' at the dawn of time.
Clang-clang—
Ironarmor's gun slipped from his hands, unnoticed. His gaze never wavered.
His eyes sparkled like an overcharged power klaw. He didn't just see the giant—he felt him. Felt the draw in his bones.
In that moment, Ironarmor believed he was looking at the living incarnation of Gork—or maybe Mork. Probably both.
He didn't hesitate.
He yanked the wheel, sending his chariot skidding in a spray of gravel and blood. The Titan forgotten. The battle ignored.
He charged toward the giant in red and gold.
Toward the true boss.
But soon, he found a swarm of blind, warp-spawned monstrosities blocking his path.
Ironarmor didn't hesitate. He led a torrent of Ork war-chariots straight into the daemonic ranks, smashing through their line like a green hammer through glass.
Nothing would stop him from reaching the giant. He had already decided—he'd recognize this one as his boss, and together, they'd bring carnage and glory to every battlefield in the galaxy.
Behind Dukel, countless heroes of the Imperium surged forward, roaring the name of the Warmaster with unrelenting fervor.
The commander stood like an unshakable lighthouse amid the storm, his presence alone directing their charge.
Above, Stormhawks and Thunderbolts shrieked through the skies, raking the battlefield and striking down anything that dared to threaten the Warmaster.
No one had ordered them to protect Dukel.
Dukel didn't need protection.
Their actions were born from unwavering devotion—for this man was the supreme commander not by decree, but by right.
With hands firm and unyielding, he held aloft the crumbling remnants of the Imperium in its darkest hour.
Conqueror of stars. Guide of mankind. An invincible king.
His name echoed from hive cities to star fortresses, whispered by the faithful, feared by the wicked.
He would tear apart every enemy of humanity.
He was the Son of the Emperor—the Warmaster revered across all loyal worlds.
Asmodai gazed at his back, and tears welled in his eyes before he even realized. Joy ran freely down his face.
His heart thundered in his chest. He would follow the Warmaster into any fire.
He looked around. He wasn't alone—nearly every warrior around him wept the same tears, shouted the same praises.
They had believed they would die in this abyss. That their small, forgotten lives were not worth the Warmaster's notice.
Yet in their darkest hour, he had stepped into the fire to save them.
And with his coming, the darkness had been driven back.
Typhus, Lucius, and other infamous traitors had met violent ends.
Chaos had suffered a blow more devastating than any in living memory. Even the most ancient of Imperial tomes held only a few victories to match this one.
With the last enemy crushed, the warriors prepared to claim final victory.
But then came the noise.
From the edge of the battlefield came a thunderous racket—a convoy of green-skinned Orks barreling in, wrapped in choking black smoke.
The roar of their engines shattered the sky, their vehicles blazing forward at unbelievable speed.
Asmodai blinked, baffled. Why would a horde of Orks charge into the remnants of the Chaos line?
He wasn't the only one confused. The cultists and traitors had no answer either, as the greenskins plowed into their ranks with primal fury, howling with wild delight.
…
TN:
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