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The surface war was a vision of cruelty and carnage, a relentless, blood-soaked battlefield where life was as fleeting as a dying ember in the wind. The cries of the wounded and the clash of steel against steel melded into a deafening symphony of destruction. Soldiers fell like discarded leaves, their bodies crushed beneath the unyielding tide of war. Blood soaked the ground, seeping into the earth as if the planet itself was drinking in the suffering.
With the Primaris Space Marines at their side, the Star Forces managed to hold their positions once more, but at an unbearable cost. The battlefield was strewn with the fallen, a grim testament to the price of war.
Hawk stood in the trench, his expression unreadable as he observed the strange new companions assigned to him. One of them—a girl no older than eighteen or nineteen—stood out. Her eyes were pure, untainted by the horrors that surrounded them. There was faith in her gaze, a stubborn hope that clung to her like a fragile veil against the storm of reality.
But this time, he did not speak to her.
Not again.
The battle in space mirrored the brutality unfolding below.
Above the chaos, amid the void of the cosmos, the war raged on. The Emperor's forces fought tooth and nail against the orc hordes, the clash of warships lighting up the abyss like a violent, burning constellation.
Corvo had chosen a strategy of direct confrontation, knowing that speed was paramount. To eliminate the orc threat swiftly, he committed his forces to boarding actions—close-quarters combat within the very heart of the enemy fleet.
It was a perilous maneuver. The orcs wielded a mysterious power—one that defied conventional logic.
The WAAAGH force field.
A force fueled by belief itself, capable of twisting reality within its reach. It was an eldritch, chaotic energy, known as "the power of my thinking," allowing the orcs' crude and haphazard technology to function against all reason.
Imperial researchers had long theorized that this energy field contained either psionic influence or quantum mechanical distortions, bending the laws of physics to align with the collective will of the greenskin hordes. This phenomenon explained why their ramshackle, barely functional war machines operated flawlessly under their own hands but often collapsed into useless scrap when taken by others.
More than just an enabler of their bizarre technology, the WAAAGH field also interfered with space itself, unleashing destructive energy akin to the powers of trained psykers.
It was strongest around the orc warboss, a concentrated aura of raw, untamed might.
To teleport blindly into such a force field was to invite catastrophe—risking materializing inside solid metal, being scattered across the void, or torn apart in an instant.
Instead, Corvo opted for the only viable method: boarding assault boats.
His fleet carved a path through the enemy, clearing the way for the Emperor's Sword, his flagship, to close in on the orc command vessel.
Fifty kilometers away, the hangar doors of the Emperor's Sword yawned open, unleashing ten assault boats into the darkness. Trails of fire marked their descent as they hurtled toward the massive orc warship.
Inside one of the assault boats, Corvo stood clad in his blue and white Centurion power armor, his massive frame locked into place by an intricate restraint system. The armor hummed with raw energy, its plating a fortress of ceramite and adamantium.
He raised an armored hand, tapping the holographic interface before him. The ghostly projection flickered to life beneath his touch.
"Transfer mission data," he commanded, his voice steady. "Priority mission—kill the orc boss, paralyze the target warship."
A chorus of electronic acknowledgments echoed in the helmets of his warriors.
[Mission data received. Building combat overlay model.]
With each pulse of information, intricate battle schematics flared to life on their retinal displays. Ammunition reserves, armor integrity, squad formations—every vital statistic was laid out with machine-like precision.
Their wargear had been refined under the guidance of the mechanical sage Cawl, integrating advanced battlefield analysis systems. Each suit of armor was a self-contained command center, scanning the environment in real-time and feeding processed data into the shared network.
Through this seamless synchronization, the squad became an unbreakable unit, a perfectly coordinated engine of war.
The assault boats pressed forward, threading the gauntlet of enemy fire. Beneath the protective barrage of torpedoes and artillery, they sliced through the defenses like steel daggers plunging into flesh.
The ship trembled with the force of acceleration. Vibrations coursed through the armor of the warriors, the force of inertia growing stronger as they neared their target.
Corvo's gaze remained locked on the projection.
"One minute to target," he declared. "Check your weapons one last time. It's time for these orcs to suffer the wrath of humanity."
Clicks and snaps echoed through the cabin as warriors chambered rounds and released safety locks. The bolters, heavy with death, awaited their moment to roar.
The machine spirits within their armor whispered to them, running final diagnostics, ensuring all systems were primed for war. A sea of green runes flickered across their visors—each one a silent promise that their wargear was ready.
Then came the impact.
A thunderous collision rocked the hull, sending a deep vibration through their bones. The assault boat had embedded itself within the orc warship's armored hide.
[Meltdown activated. Estimated breach in 30 seconds.]
The countdown began.
The warriors braced.
Weapons primed.
Hearts pounded.
The final moments stretched, a fleeting breath before the storm.
With an explosive hiss, the hatch ejected violently.
The restraints released. Corvo and his warriors surged forward, stepping into the inferno.
The air shimmered with residual heat. Pools of molten iron dripped from the breached bulkhead, the remnants of the melta charge still glowing a vicious red.
Nothing could withstand such power. Not steel. Not flesh.
Corvo led his warriors into the corridor, weapons raised.
The orcs were already there.
"Big ship!" they bellowed, their guttural voices booming through the halls.
"Big ship!"
Their cries of surprise barely had time to register before the battle began.
Boom.
A single shot rang out. A towering, two-meter orc was obliterated in an instant, its upper body shredded into a rain of gore by a bolt round.
The kill was a signal.
The corridor erupted into chaos.
Fifty Space Marines advanced, their assault points precisely chosen, their movements like a coordinated tide of death.
The orcs, ever eager for battle, surged forth with frenzied roars, but the Primaris warriors were relentless.
Corvo fired his bolter, cutting down another enemy in an eruption of crimson mist. In his other hand, his gravity hammer crackled with power.
An orc swung a rusted axe at him. He sidestepped the blow with calculated precision before bringing the hammer down on its shoulder.
Bone shattered. Flesh tore. The axe was flung away as its wielder's arm was ripped from its socket.
The orc's roar of rage turned to agony.
Corvo didn't hesitate.
His warhammer arced through the air once more, striking true.
The power field around the weapon surged, and in an instant, the orc's massive head was reduced to pulp.
"For the Primarch! For the Emperor!" he bellowed, charging forward.
The battle raged. Bolters thundered. Chainswords screamed. The Heart of Guilliman burned within them, fueling their unyielding advance.
The orcs faltered.
Fear crept into their ranks.
Chaos became disorder. The mindless frenzy that had once driven them was turning to blind panic.
Corvo gave the order.
"Clean them up. Head to the control room."
Their true target awaited.
And then came the final challenge.
The orc warboss.
A hulking monstrosity, five meters tall, clad in armor thick as fortress walls.
It roared, the sheer force of its voice like a shockwave.
"Dead ship!"
The beast stood before them.
And the battle for the ship had truly begun.