The giant brought both feet down on the ground. With every step, it crushed the earth beneath it into a pool of gore and blood.
This was the mass-dispersion forcefield at work, evenly distributing the pressure generated by the mech's immense weight to prevent the ground beneath it from collapsing.
The Orks, however, cared nothing for this. They swarmed the towering giant in a frenzy, using their crude, low-grade weapons and ramshackle artillery to blast its indestructible leg armor.
Vehicles that looked as though they were on the verge of falling apart spun out tow-lines between one another, attempting to entangle the giant's feet.
They wanted to bring the titan to a halt, to butcher and rebuild it into an iron incarnation of Gork and Mork.
"Waaaaaagh!!!" The Ork Boyz roared in wild fanaticism, their belief stronger than ever before as they willed the iron monolith before them to trip and fall.
Under the sheer force of their collective belief, miracles began to glow green. Green lightning crackled along the chains, keeping them from snapping under the mech's stride.
However—
The Orks' simple minds were riddled with glaring logical flaws. The steel cables held under the tension, pulled taut as iron rods, and groaned violently under the colossal force of the mech's kick.
The next second, the vehicles dragging the cables were plucked right off the ground like thrown wrecking balls, spinning wildly in the air and crashing into one another around the mech's legs.
Dull explosions mingled with the screams of the Speed Freeks, composing a deadly track of electronic noise.
On the ground, countless Ork Boyz covered their eyes, unable to bear the sight of such an embarrassing failure.
The stupidity of the Speed Freeks was insufferable even to other Orks, drawing sneers and utter contempt from the crowd.
And so, the mech strode past amid their roaring laughter.
Such was the simple mind of an Ork: always distracted by immediate spectacle, descending into chaotic play, completely forgetting what they had set out to do in the first place.
More often than not, while gloating over someone else's misfortune, they would let golden opportunities slip right through their fingers.
Had they been sharp enough to calculate and climb onto the steel behemoth during that brief moment of resistance, they might have actually succeeded.
But without the reckless joy of following their every whim, would Orks even be Orks?
There was no answer to this question, yet with this exact mindset, the Orks had proliferated across the galaxy to this day, bringing green tides of death to countless species.
For the past sixty million years—when the Aeldari ruled the galaxy and humanity had yet to rise—it was precisely this "naivety" that the Orks used to wipe out uncounted civilizations.
---
Guided by the secondary authority of its AI, the Atlan Mech stepped forward with steady, deliberate strides.
A streak of blue light flashed from the distance, agilely dodging a hail of artillery fire as it shot straight toward the mech's head.
The Doom Marine released his grip, leaping down from his high-speed anti-gravity bike: "Execute return protocol."
The anti-gravity bike carved a graceful arc in the air, accelerating to its limits as it banked back toward the battle fortress.
With arms outstretched, the warrior fell through the sky like a peregrine falcon, shattering the rain and howling down with the tempest.
Just then, the Atlan Mech raised its arm, positioning it at a forty-five-degree incline.
Screech!
A bone-chilling sound of friction echoed through the air as the Doom Marine landed on the bridge formed by the mech's arm. The soles of his combat boots sparkled violently with sparks as he skidded down the alloy surface.
Mag-boots!
A standard feature of power armor, now proving invaluable.
Like a high-speed skier, the Legionnaire stayed low, riding a wave of sparks and arcs of lightning down the mech's armored arm.
"Kool!!!"
The Ork Boyz witnessing the scene spared no praise. Their ugly faces were stretched in disbelief, exaggerated expressions blending shock, intense envy, jealousy, and sheer awe.
"Boss! I wanna learn dat!"
"Dat hummie big 'un is bloody brilliant!"
" 'E's even cooler than da Waaaaaagh-iest Boss!"
That last shout instantly dissolved into a agonizing wail of a beating. While many Orks secretly agreed, slander against the Boss could never be tolerated.
The mood on the field instantly turned jovial again as the Ork Boyz fell into a massive free-for-all brawl to defend their respective principles.
They seemed to have completely forgotten that they were on a battlefield—and that a hundred-meter-tall robot was standing right beside them.
Ignoring the chaos below, the Doom Marine moved with the agility of an tiger, making his way along the mech's broad shoulders to the back of its head, using an external cipher to open the cockpit.
"Welcome aboard."
The Atlan Mech's AI spoke with a calm, gentle voice—calibrated to sound like a composed man in his thirties.
"Initiate neural link." The Legionnaire stepped onto the central platform, raising a hand to swipe away the dried blood near the neural interface port on the back of his neck.
The platform locked down his power armor boots, extending flexible fiber-optic cables that plugged directly into the armor's external neural ports.
The warrior's body shuddered as his consciousness merged into a cold soul built of digital code.
The warrior's searing, wild consciousness and the mech's cool, precise logic joined as one.
"Mind and soul as one."
The two voices blended seamlessly without a moment's delay, sounding like a singular, layered echo.
In the midst of the wind and rain, the hundred-meter steel titan shuddered. Its overall aura shifted dramatically, radiating a sudden sense of fluid life.
It was no longer a stiff, mechanical automaton. Like a living human, it shrugged its shoulders and tilted its neck, limbering up its massive frame.
Every movement of the mech perfectly mirrored the physical state of its pilot.
As the Atlan Mech fully awakened, its bat-winged visor ignited with light. It casually kicked away several stompas trying to close in.
With flawless human fluidity, it turned around. Rather than retreating straight to the fortress, it activated its Mirage Cloak, dragging a trail of afterimages as it sprinted toward the Titan Throne.
It was not just this mech—every other Atlan Mech across the field executed the exact same sequence.
Moving in perfect synchronization, they charged toward the Titan Thrones.
Those were not merely drop pods; they contained full support systems and served as the mobile armories for the Atlan Mechs.
Massive siege-type dimensional weaponry could never be allowed to fall into Ork hands.
Even if the Orks couldn't comprehend the Old Tech-derived Noor Crystals, the remaining technologies were far too dangerous.
The Atlan Mechs moved with terrifying speed. In the mountainous terrain, these humanoid war machines were in their absolute element.
Along the way, they crushed Ork vehicles underfoot and sent stompas of all sizes flying, acting as walking, humanoid natural disasters.
Crushing the Mekboyz who were busily trying to dismantle the outer plating, the Atlan Mech hoisted the Titan Throne onto its shoulders and beat a swift retreat toward the fortress.
---
In the improvised outpost, Blazkowicz watched the Atlan Mech return with the throne, letting out a subtle sigh of relief.
The technology packed inside those mechs was far too dangerous; it had to be safely recovered and secured.
The shoulder-mounted Shield-Breaker Cannon could bypass shields entirely to hit its target directly.
If the mech and its spare shoulder cannons were left behind, just a few shots would be enough to tear the battle fortress apart.
If that happened, the Imperial Fists and a million elite Legionnaires would be left as helpless lambs to the slaughter against the Ork tide.
Aside from the Doom Slayer, Dorn, and his honor guard, no mortal or Space Marine could survive within an Ork Waaagh! without fortress support.
Across the battlefield, engine lights began to flare up one after another. The Doom Marines' various specialized vehicles were mostly recovered, returning safely to the battle fortress.
Anything that couldn't be carried or recovered had secrecy protocols activated, self-destructing alongside their drop pods.
Seeing the equipment fully recovered and the unplanned variables eliminated, the heavy stone in Blazkowicz's heart finally settled.
"Now then."
He withdrew his gaze, turned around, and asked Dorn, "Brother... who authorized this unscheduled, highly dangerous landing?"
"Not part of the plan?"
Dorn whipped around, his speed almost terrifying—as though he had turned in a single instant.
His eyes widened, his facial muscles tense, his pale short hair practically standing on end as he growled, "What did you say?"
The Legionnaires gathered around their Primarch were equally bewildered, exchanging glances only to find a dark, grim realization reflected in each other's eyes.
They had been played!
"Perturabo!"
Dorn let out an enraged roar. His usually stoic, unyielding face was contorted with fury, the corners of his mouth twitching violently, the calm depth in his golden eyes shattered entirely.
In an uncontrollable fit of rage, he brought his heavy iron fist down, smashing both the tactical holo-projector and the alloy table to pieces.
The Primarch's roar drowned out the thunder of bolters, suppressed the bellowing of the Orks, and shattered the pouring rain!
Ice-cold rainwater ran down the rugged contours of his resolute face, but it could not quench the burning fury within his chest.
Dorn stared intently at the shattered table, his teeth grinding together so hard they creaked.
In that moment, enlightenment struck him.
Perturabo had used a lie—claiming concern for Blazkowicz —and paired it with a clumsy reverse-psychology trick to dupe him into descending onto the War World, giving Perturabo a seamless excuse to take command of the fleet brought by the Imperial Fists.
---
As the fog cleared, Dorn's superhuman mind quickly pieced together the exact sequence of events, as well as the sole beneficiary behind the curtain.
Perturabo wanted absolute command of the fleet, and rather than negotiating, he had used trickery to seize it outright.
In Perturabo's cold, calculating logic, there was no room for anyone else!
To that block of cold steel, a brother was nothing more than an unpredictable variable in the chain of command, and banishment to the ground was his chosen solution.
---
At that same moment, on the bridge of the super-carrier, Perturabo felt a sharp tightening in his chest. His mental terminal hesitated for a single second in issuing its next command.
This micro-delay caused an anomaly in the command chain: a battleship tasked with intercepting incoming artillery took a barrage far exceeding calculated parameters.
He tirelessly restructured the entire plan, a cold smirk curling at the edge of his lips.
The sudden wave of malice—relayed through their genetic bond—made it blatantly obvious to Perturabo where it originated.
Rogal Dorn, his "dear brother."
It seemed that serious block of stone had finally figured out why he was sent down with the bulk of his Legionnaires.
"Too late, my blood brother," the Lord of Iron muttered to himself, suppressing a smirk. "By the time you pull yourself out of that war-torn quagmire, you will witness an unimaginably glorious victory—orchestrated entirely by me."
"And now..." Perturabo turned his head to look out through the viewport at the star-spanning battlefield, the cabling behind his head creaking softly as he moved. "Another brother is about to arrive."
"How should I deal with him?"
The long, whispered question echoed through the empty bridge, but the cold steel and digital data offered no answer.
---
At the War World's outpost, Dorn clenched his fist so tightly the air popped beneath the pressure. He looked up at the sky, his eyes brooding and dark.
Blazkowicz hadn't expected a routine question to trigger such a violent reaction from his brother.
"My Lord, King of Warriors."
While Dorn remained silent, a warrior at his side took a few careful steps forward, respectfully kneeling before Blazkowicz and presenting a holo-projector with both hands.
Sigismund looked up, his eyelashes trembling from the raindrops, yet he didn't dare blink.
This was his first time standing at such close proximity to the legendary King of Warriors—the Emperor's most favored son, the mightiest warrior of the Imperium, and the Master of the Stars of Nur.
He held deep gratitude toward this great Primarch.
Before he ever joined the Imperial Fists and became a Space Marine, Sigismund had grown up in the violent, desolate streets of Terra's wasteland.
Back then, he was impoverished, living a life plagued by cold and starvation.
To secure food and shelter, he had to constantly fight and kill, protecting himself and his small band of companions.
Thanks to his exceptional combat prowess, Sigismund carved out a fierce reputation across the chaotic waste, earning the right to survive.
Yet, precisely because he refused to join any gang, he became a thorn in the side of every faction.
During yet another clash over survival resources, a gang war erupted, and the unaffiliated group of youths became an easy target for all sides.
Sigismund fought desperately, killing enemy after enemy, but his companions fell one by one.
Just as tragedy seemed inevitable, the fierce slaughter ground to a sudden halt.
A tearful outlaw scout rushed back with news: a Nur starship had brought grain and water, setting up soup kitchens and water points open to anyone.
The gangs scattered immediately, and the firefights ceased on the spot.
Out in the wastes, survival came first. If not to stay alive, who would willingly draw a blade against another?
With an abundance of survival resources suddenly available, the system of violence that bound their existence shattered almost instantly.
Sigismund had survived.
Along with a few of his companions, he was saved by a blessing casually bestowed by a figure high above.
Later on, he took part in the Space Marine selection.
Possessing extraordinary physical endurance and an innate, uncanny sense for combat, tests revealed Sigismund's geneseed was highly compatible with both the 7th and 8th Legions.
As for the 21st Legion, they didn't test for compatibility at all—anyone could apply for genetic modification, and whether you survived depended entirely on yourself.
A crude sign above their recruitment office door read: 21st Legion: Enter if you dare.
Below it, in smaller text: Modification Success Rate: One in a hundred million.
Standing before that wild signboard, Sigismund—like many others—paused before the shadow of death.
Fear surged within his heart.
Not out of fear of living or dying, but out of fear of dying with regret.
Sigismund wished to see the Master of the Stars—the man who had brought those resources and indirectly saved him and his friends.
He was the Emperor's twenty-first son, the greatest warrior in the galaxy.
And so, he turned away from the 21st Legion, keeping his life so he could one day meet that great figure and offer his heartfelt gratitude.
Ultimately, out of disgust for gang culture, Sigismund rejected the 8th Legion and joined the 7th.
Later, their Primarch returned, and the 7th Legion was renamed the "Imperial Fists."
Sigismund's hard work and raw talent bore fruit within the Imperial Fists.
Yet while his career flourished, his journey to offer his thanks was far from smooth.
During the Rangdan Xenocides, each Legion was assigned different tasks and primary battlefronts. The Imperial Fists were tasked with sector defense, entering the main warzone only as the conflict drew to a close.
When several Primarchs visited Terra, internal tournaments were held among the Templar Brethren to establish rankings, leaving him no opportunity to request an audience.
When he received the urgent directive to intervene in the Ork war within the Segmentum Tempestus—and especially upon landing on this War World—Sigismund felt genuinely overjoyed.
Now, he finally stood before the Primarch, gazing up at the King of Warriors who differed so greatly from the legends.
The Primarch was immense, clad in a mysterious half-suit of power armor with various weapons slung at his waist, looking like a Spartan warrior out of ancient myth.
His face was noble and heroic, sharp-featured with a fierce brow, and his black eyes ran immensely deep.
From prolonged campaigning, stubble covered his jaw and cheeks, blending a subtle touch of melancholy into his sharp, formidable aura.
"Sigismund."
Blazkowicz gave a slight nod, speaking the name of the warrior standing before him.
During the victory parade on the Rangdan homeworld, this very man had marched at the head of the Imperial Fists carrying their banner, chest held high as he was reviewed by the Master of Mankind.
He had also stood upon the dais of honor on behalf of the Templar Brethren, receiving the collective banner of honor directly from Rogal Dorn's own hands.
Yet, search his memory as he might, Blazkowicz found no trace of any personal interaction between them.
'Sigismund.'
This warrior carried the true demeanor of a legend. His sky-blue eyes were filled with scrutiny, immense respect, and an unusual, burning fervor as he looked at Blazkowicz.
"You might want to temper that enthusiasm of yours a bit," Blazkowicz chuckled, casting a sidelong glance at Dorn with a subtle glint of mischief in his eyes.
A Space Marine bearing a Primarch's geneseed kneeling before another Primarch was by no means improper out of respect and etiquette.
The issue, however, was that the fervor he displayed went far beyond mere protocol—it bordered on overstepping.
Sure enough, upon hearing Blazkowicz's subtle attempt to "mellow" the mood, Dorn snapped out of his rage over being deceived. He looked down at Sigismund, a complex mix of conflicted emotions surfacing in his eyes.
His favorite son was kneeling before his blood brother.
And the aura radiating from that back in the rain was something he had never seen on Sigismund before.
Reverence, worship... and a silent, deep gratitude?
Those tangled emotions caused even the usually stoic Dorn to feel a sting of envy, his expression hardening slightly.
"This is the operation plan provided by the Lord of Iron," Sigismund said, keeping his head raised as he held up the holo-projector. His face was pale to the point of being nearly translucent—whether from the cold rain or something else entirely.
He could feel the complex gaze burning into his shoulder blades from behind. It came from his genetic father, and a sudden wave of prickling unease crept up his spine.
He realized that, in his excitement, he had overstepped his bounds.
Suppressing his personal emotions immediately, his voice shifted back to a tone of formal, dutiful respect. "Please review the war plan, My Lord, to see if anything has been altered... and give us the truth."
---
Blazkowicz lowered his gaze to the tactical projector, a playful smile gracing his features.
At this point, the truth was no longer what truly mattered.
The Imperial Fists had already landed. Even if it was proven that Perturabo had duped Dorn, what could be undone?
At most, it would give Dorn a more justified reason to confront Perturabo or greet him with an iron fist after the war was over.
The reality was that two blood-bound Primarchs would never completely fall out over this.
Because war was a brutal game judged solely by its outcome.
If Perturabo dared to trick Dorn, he would undoubtedly secure a brilliant victory—complete with a flawless campaign report—to shut his brother's mouth when the time came to settle scores.
Dorn knew this as well. Thus, his retribution would amount to little more than furious punches and harsh words.
As for defeat—
The odds of defeat were infinitesimally small. Had that happened, it would be an entirely different story.
"Let me see," Blazkowicz's lips curled upward into a slight smile. Waving off the Grand Duke who stepped forward to take it, he took the tactical projector himself. "Let's see what he's up to."
The weight in Sigismund's hands vanished, and the heavy stone in his chest finally dropped, allowing him to quietly let out a long breath.
He felt the intense glare pinned to his back ease up considerably.
Shaking his head to end his teasing of the Legionnaire, Blazkowicz tapped the edge of the tactical projector, casting the operational plan into the air.
Light and shadows flickered, outlining the grand strategy and marking the system's current phase.
Blazkowicz looked at the warrior and explained with a gentle smile, "There is nothing wrong with this plan."
"We are currently in the delay phase. The Doom Marines have been dropped onto Planet Three to draw and hold down the main Ork forces."
As the Primarch explained, Sigismund's expression froze. The hope in his eyes turned into a blank stupor.
Blazkowicz's smile remained unchanged as he cast a glance at Dorn, who had turned his face away, before continuing: "In the void, Perturabo is commanding the fleet engagement to neutralize key Ork strongholds, while the Iron Warriors drop onto the alien coalition's colonial world to purge all xenos presence."
"The plan is proceeding step-by-step. The actions are entirely justified."
"The current battle situation is developing precisely according to plan without deviating in the slightest."
With that, Blazkowicz casually shut off the projector. He stooped down, pulling the stunned Sigismund to his feet, and said softly, "Calm the storm within your heart."
"The Imperial Fists were tricked by the Lord of Iron, and your hearts burn with resentment, humiliation, a sense of broken trust, and anger."
"However, what Perturabo did was also for the sake of victory."
"He used dishonorable means to seize command of the Imperial Fists' fleet, and he owes Dorn an apology for that. But all of that belongs after the war is won."
Sigismund was helped up by the Primarch, his expression still somewhat dazed, his eyes staring blankly.
'So that's how it is.'
The war plan hadn't been compromised at all. Aside from the Imperial Fists being tricked, everything was proceeding strictly according to schedule. As far as the overall theater was concerned, humanity was marching steadily toward victory.
He glanced back at his genetic father. The Primarch's expression was a complex mix of frustration as he shook his head helplessly at him.
Clearly, his genetic father's fleeting anger had stemmed from being deceived under the guise of brotherly bond, not from any flaw in the tactical situation.
All in all, the Imperial Fists' sudden orbital drop was merely a minor interlude that had no negative impact on the battle.
The Lord of Iron simply didn't want to be tied down, so he used a lie to "exile" his brother to the war-torn planet below.
Dorn's rage and resentment were mostly directed at himself.
He was furious at his own emotional blindness—that he failed to see through such a crude lie and led his Legion right into a simple trap.
"So that was it..." Sigismund lowered his head and shook it lightly, his tone muted, his shoulders slumping as if a mountain had collapsed within him.
Unfamiliar emotions surged inside him as he realized the price of his impulsiveness.
Perhaps in his genetic father's eyes, he had played the villain who sowed discord between brothers, earning him his Primarch's permanent disfavor.
"Don't overthink it," Blazkowicz said, lightly clapping the warrior on the shoulder. His massive palm conveyed a steady, comforting strength. "A man who is a bit headstrong, who doggedly pursues clear facts and the truth, is always worthy of respect and affection."
"A man must have convictions to see beyond the surface."
"As commanders, our eyes are fixed on the gains and losses of the broader battlefield. Positioned where we are, we must know what to sacrifice and focus not on a single point, but the entire picture."
"You cared about the truth, and so you bravely stepped forward to reveal it. That is a noble trait in a warrior—an indispensable quality on the path to becoming a legend."
Sigismund felt his head spin. The Primarch's words seemed packed with an almost magnetic power, forcing his slumped spine to straighten right back up.
'A legend? Me?'
He had never imagined that he would receive such high praise from the mouth of the great King of Warriors.
Moreover, as the Primarch spoke, the intense gaze locked onto his back gradually softened into peace.
"There is just one thing I'm curious about," Blazkowicz shifted the topic smoothly after bailing Sigismund out, asking in a low voice, "Our paths have rarely crossed... so where does that burning emotion in your eyes come from?"
Blazkowicz had not forgotten the searing, soul-deep emotion that shone in the eyes of this future legend as he looked up at him.
Sigismund's eyes cleared in an instant. Dropping back down to one knee once more, he voiced a high praise for the Primarch's virtues:
"Merciful King of Warriors!"