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The air in the control room felt thick with tension, as if the very walls bore witness to the monstrous presence that now stood before them. The Primaris Space Marines, despite their genetic superiority and rigorous training, could not ignore the sheer oppressiveness of the Orc Boss's presence. His hulking form loomed over them, his bloodshot eyes burning with violent intent.
With an almost casual motion, the behemoth reached down and grasped a massive axe hammer—an absurdly large weapon, dwarfing even the imposing forms of the Space Marines. The sheer act of lifting it sent a shudder through the deck, the metal groaning under the force. But wielding it? That was something else entirely.
The Orc Boss spun the weapon effortlessly, its brutal arcs slicing through the air with deafening whooshes. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in its path—lesser orcs unable to move in time—were obliterated, their mangled bodies flung aside like ragdolls.
Around him, his personal guards—larger, better armored than the rest of the greenskin horde—stood ready, their weapons crude but deadly in their massive hands.
"Damn shrimp," the Orc Boss growled, his voice a guttural snarl as he stomped forward, the deck plates shaking beneath him.
His guards roared in kind, their excitement palpable. The battle was upon them.
Beyond the threshold, the tide of battle raged on. The corridor outside had become a meat grinder, more and more orc warriors flooding in, their numbers threatening to overwhelm the Astartes. The clash of steel, the bark of bolter fire, and the sickening crunch of bodies being torn apart filled the air.
In the chaos, one of the Primaris warriors broke formation, charging forward with reckless determination. His courage was admirable, but it was misplaced.
The Orc Boss took notice.
With a single, merciless sweep of his weapon, the warrior was sent hurtling through the air, his armored body slamming into the wall with a sickening thud. His attempts to rise were futile; his limbs twitched, but the impact had been too severe. Over the comms, the squad could hear his strained, pain-laced breathing.
Corvo's jaw clenched at the sound. Without hesitation, he barked out orders.
"Secure the wounded. Take down the guards. The boss is mine."
As the others rushed to engage the lesser orcs, Corvo strode forward. The Orc Boss turned to him, baring jagged teeth in a sneer. Several were missing, but that didn't make the smile any less menacing.
"Stupid shrimp."
Corvo didn't respond. He steadied himself, feeling the latent power surging through him—the gift of Guilliman's heart, an organ of unyielding resilience. Pain, fatigue, even doubt—none of it mattered.
The Orc Boss let loose a primal roar, charging with reckless abandon. Each step sent lesser orcs tumbling as he barreled through, his massive weapon raised high.
Corvo met his charge with his own.
"For the Lord of Ultramar! For the Holy Emperor! Die, alien filth!"
Their weapons clashed, the impact sending shockwaves through the control room. The sheer force of the collision sent both combatants skidding backward, their enhanced bodies struggling to absorb the recoil.
The Orc Boss's eyes gleamed with a savage hunger.
"Go to hell, shrimp."
With frightening speed, he raised a massive firearm—crude yet devastating. A deafening bang erupted as a storm of heavy-caliber rounds tore through the air.
Two unfortunate orcs in the line of fire were instantly reduced to gore, their armor offering no resistance.
Several rounds slammed into Corvo, some deflected by ceramite, others finding weak points between the plating. Burning pain seared through him, but even as blood spattered the ground, his body was already repairing itself. The enhanced biology granted by Guilliman's heart went to work, knitting flesh, forcing out bullets, restoring strength.
There was no time to hesitate.
Before the greenskin could fire again, Corvo lunged.
He abandoned his bolter entirely, gripping his power hammer with both hands. He swung it in a deadly arc, putting his entire weight into the strike. The air itself seemed to ripple as the weapon came crashing down.
The Orc Boss raised his own in defense, and the two weapons met once more in a collision that made the entire room tremble. The force of the impact sent vibrations through Corvo's arms, splitting the flesh of his palms beneath his armor. The backlash was immense.
But the Orc Boss fared no better.
A roar of agony tore from his throat as his own weapon slammed against him from the sheer force of the rebound. He staggered, taking several unsteady steps backward, his hulking frame wavering.
Corvo did not relent. He saw the opening, and he struck.
With unerring precision, he drove his warhammer forward, the power field crackling as it connected. The blow tore through the alien's thick armor, shattering ribs, pulverizing organs.
The Orc Boss reeled.
"WAAA—"
The war cry never finished. His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees, his head bowing forward. With a final, shuddering breath, the monstrous warlord collapsed.
Silence fell over the battlefield.
For a moment, the orc warriors, so consumed by bloodlust moments before, simply stood frozen. Their leader—undefeatable in their eyes—was dead.
Then came the panic.
The greenskin horde crumbled, their once-unbreakable spirit now shattered. The Primaris Marines wasted no time, cutting them down like wheat before the scythe.
Beyond the ship, the chaos spread.
The orc fleet, once a storm of madness and destruction, wavered. Their WAAAGH energy faltered, and without it, discipline gave way to confusion. One by one, their warships were torn apart by Imperial firepower, their remains turning to drifting wreckage in the cold void.
The battle had turned.
Corvo led his remaining warriors deeper into the enemy flagship, slaughtering greenskins as they went. When the ship's core finally became unstable, they retreated to their assault boats, escaping just as the orc vessel was consumed in a roaring inferno.
Onboard his transport, Corvo wasted no time.
"The fleet will divide," he commanded. "One half will pursue the remaining orc warships. The other will reinforce ground operations. We will not allow a single xeno to remain."
Corvo issued commands to the entire fleet from the assault boat.
Their war was not yet over.
But this battle, at least, belonged to the Emperor.
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Metalica— the most vital Forge world in the Charadon sector.
This world served as the central hub for the subspace waterways connecting the nine forge worlds of the Charadon star region, making its strategic significance unparalleled.
The warp was an endless expanse, and while one could navigate it recklessly, doing so invited death. The safest and swiftest paths were the only real options—especially now, as the Astronomican's light waned and stable routes became ever more crucial.
Above Metalica, Guilliman's flagship, Macragge's Glory, remained in orbit.
Before waging war against the Orks and the Necrons, he had to consolidate the Imperial forces stationed in the Charadon sector.
Despite being one of the Imperium's major industrial strongholds, the sector's standing military presence was lacking. However, what it did have was formidable:
- The forces loyal to Metalica's Forge General, Khleng—his Cathars, the Intelligent Control Legions, and the Knight Households.
- The Imperial Navy garrisoned at Solari Anchorage.
- The scattered planetary defense forces and Space Marines.
- The wandering orders of the Adepta Sororitas and the Space Marine Chapters.
Guilliman's first priority upon arriving in the sector was uniting these forces under his command while enacting his reforms.
These reforms not only strengthened the Imperium's military but bolstered Guilliman's own power. With the entrenched and corrupt aristocracy overthrown, the people's loyalty had turned to fanaticism—faith that further magnified his strength.
In the Reception Chamber
Metalica's Forge General, Khleng, met with the Primarch.
Khleng's mechanical body was a towering, tank-like mass, its sheer bulk necessitating the use of gravitic platforms, servo-tools, and mechanized prosthetics just to maneuver.
Over seven centuries of systematic augmentation had stripped away nearly all traces of flesh and blood. What remained of his original body was little more than a fragment of brain tissue and a few gilded vertebrae, encased within an enormous mechanical shell.
Even the spacious chamber, built to accommodate Guilliman himself, felt cramped with the Forge General's hulking presence.
"My lord," Khleng's synthetic voice echoed through the chamber, "this knowledge lacks an STC-standard manufacturing template. Implementing it recklessly risks opposition from Mars. Furthermore, your reforms violate the sacred dogma left by the Great Omnissiah. I cannot comply."
Guilliman tapped his fingers against the table, studying the towering Tech-Priest before him. Then, in a measured tone, he replied:
"Then let's discuss a different matter—whether, according to the Omnissiah's decrees, you have already overstepped the red line by engaging in forbidden research into intelligence and technology."
He leaned forward slightly. "I will petition the Mechanicus on Mars to conduct a full-scale review of Metalica. I am certain they will be most interested in what they find."
Khleng hesitated for the first time. A pause, then:
"My lord, such actions would be… highly inappropriate. Please, do not interfere in the internal affairs of the Mechanicus."
"Spare me the tricks you used to deceive the High Lords of Terra." Guilliman's voice remained calm, yet unyielding. "You have two choices.
"First—you implement the reforms as ordered. In return, you will gain access to the technological knowledge you crave and retain your position as Forge General.
"Second—I summon representatives from Mars to conduct an audit. And if that happens…" Guilliman stood, looming over the bloated Tech-Priest. "Then Metalica will likely require a new Forge General."
He let the words sink in before delivering the final blow.
"I assume you would prefer not to be investigated, Forge General?"