At the moment the sky went dark, Calanthus, leading his team along the flank of a massive Ork encampment, felt a surge of grim optimism. Total darkness could not blind an Astartes, but it would severely limit the organic vision of the common Ork.
An Ork war factory was a machine that never slept; its location would be betrayed by the harsh glare of industrial floodlights. In the sudden gloom, the most luminous point on the horizon would be either the Warboss's palace or the forge-factories.
However, the situation proved far more chaotic than he anticipated.
As the atmospheric shroud failed, the Orks became noticeably more agitated. In the camp, mobs of Boyz began hoisting "Zzap-manned" Weirdboyz, their bodies crackling with psychic arcs, and parading them toward the distant battlefield.
Using the camp's crude, flickering torches for reference, Calanthus took the opportunity to survey the sprawling settlement.
Greenskins were everywhere, huddled around scrap-metal hovels and trash heaps. Gretchin skittered through the shadows, pilfering metal scraps from one pile only to vanish into another. Exceptionally large Nobz were locked in constant brawls, establishing dominance through sheer brutality.
On the outskirts, massive mobs were engaged in "training"—a violent, uncoordinated mess of swinging choppas and crude blades. Others sat around roaring squig-fires, swilling foul fungus beer from rusted containers.
Navigating this bedlam, Calanthus lunged from a shadow and snapped the neck of an Ork sentry before the creature could grunt. The Primaris neophytes behind him watched with silent reverence; none of them had even detected the sentry camouflaged in the dirt. Had they walked past, they would have alerted the entire horde.
Suddenly, a lone Ork came stumbling back into the camp, shrieking at the top of its lungs.
"BOSS! BOSS! DA TOWER! DA TOWER'S GONE SPLAT!"
The Orks tasked with delivering the latest batch of Weirdboyz had reached the battlefield only to find the spire missing. Unable to comprehend the cause of the collapse, they had raced back to find their leader.
The Ork's garbled Low Gothic was thick, but Calanthus and his brothers understood the message.
"The tower?" Calanthus whispered over the private vox. "They mean the scrap-spire on the plains. It seems Nalson's team has returned, perhaps faster than expected. They must have made a significant discovery."
"We must accelerate. Find the war factory now."
Calanthus quickly divided his strike force into four tactical cells, preparing to fan out through the camp.
Thump. Thump.
A heavy, rhythmic thudding echoed from the rear of the camp. A massive Ork, standing over ten meters tall, emerged from the shadows. His voice carried the weight of absolute, violent authority.
"Waaagh! Gulzar, ya git! Did ya really run all da way back jus' ta tell me da lighthouse broke?!"
The Warboss snatched a nearby Boy by the throat, shoving his scarred, massive face inches from the smaller Ork's eyes.
"Where's da lads wot wuz s'posed ta be haulin' da weirdboyz?!"
The choking Ork pointed a trembling hand toward a reinforced scrap-shack. The Warboss tossed the Boy aside like a piece of refuse, sending him crashing through several piles of junk.
A group of Orks stood outside the shack. One of them, nearly as tall as the building itself and wearing thick welding goggles, stood surrounded by a swarm of Gretchin.
As the Warboss approached, the two massive Greenskins locked eyes.
"Kagusna! Me Big Mek! Ya got 'ere fast!"
"Boss Black-Hammer! I heard me masterpiece got stomped! I gotta see fer meself!"
Black-Hammer leaned back, crushing several screaming Gretchin as he sat directly on the ground. He reached down, scooped up the mangled remains of the Grots, and tossed them into his maw, dark blood dripping from his tusks.
"Gulzar says da tower ain't dere no more."
Kagusna pulled a massive wrench from his belt and scratched his head. "I knowz it's busted, boss. If it weren't, da sky wouldn't be dis dark. But I gotta know if I built it rong or if summat broke it."
"I need ta see da scrap. Den I kan figger out wot's wot. Mebbe da bits are still good."
Black-Hammer pushed himself up with one hand and let out a deafening roar that shook the camp.
"I want a mob o' smart-heads ta go ta da battlefield wid me Big Mek! NOW!"
A small group of Orks scrambled forward. While most had no idea what was happening, they were experts at appearing busy when the Boss was shouting. Others looked around in confusion.
"Smart-heads? Who's got a smart head?" one asked his neighbor.
Black-Hammer growled in frustration. While fighting was simple, commanding a mob of "thick" subordinates who were secretly cunning but outwardly stupid was exhausting. All the Orks with half a brain were already assigned as Flyboyz, Kommandos, Tankbustas, or pilots for the Stompas and Gargants. The ones left in the main camp were the bottom of the barrel.
Sometimes, Black-Hammer felt the Gretchin were smarter than his own Boyz. At least they built interesting things, like Killa Kans or Grot Bombs.
Then, Black-Hammer paused. Something felt... off.
"Oi… why does it feel like dere's fewer lads dan dere oughta be?"
Normally, a Warboss wouldn't notice if a few thousand Boyz went missing. But Black-Hammer knew exactly how many Kommandos he had. Within a two-kilometer radius, there should have been over forty elite scouts acting as a perimeter watch.
But only twenty-odd "smart-heads" had answered his call.
A flicker of uncharacteristic cunning crossed the Warboss's face. Something had infiltrated his territory.
A rhythmic, pounding drumbeat began to echo through the camp. Calanthus, still scouting the edge of the war factory, realized in a cold instant: they had been hunted.
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