In the distance, Tiny's territory was faintly visible. Lights flickered there, Grot patrols were on the move, and several Ork guards stood at their posts.
Raynor carried Arvin's head, walking behind Yagg. As Yagg led the way, his stride became lighter and faster. This was the first step; from today onward, he would no longer be a Grot laborer shoveling dung.
As they neared the gang's territory, Raynor handed Arvin's skull over to Yagg. "Be careful."
"Yeah, I know," Yagg replied, taking the skull solemnly.
Tiny's hideout was located in the center of the ranch, housed in a structure modified from the hull of a small transport craft. The craft was wedged into the ground at an angle, with the hatch converted into a main gate and the hull covered in various graffiti. Two rows of well-equipped Grot guards stood at the entrance, wearing reinforced iron scrap-armor and clutching scavenged las-rifles. While the quality of those guns was questionable, just having them slung over their shoulders was intimidating enough.
The guards blocked Yagg's group as they approached. "Wot ya want?"
Yagg held up Arvin's head. "Brung a gift."
The guard glanced at the skull, his expression shifting slightly before he stepped aside to let them pass.
Raynor did not enter. He stood outside, peering through a window. The hall inside was brightly lit, and in the center sat a massive figure.
"Tiny"—the name was entirely ironic. The git was at least two meters tall, a absolute behemoth by Gretchin standards. He had a bloated stomach, but his limbs were as thin as bamboo stalks; when he sat, his belly piled onto his legs like a mountain of flesh. He wore an exquisite green breastplate, and several necklaces of genuine Premium Teeth hung around his neck, clattering loudly whenever he moved.
Yagg walked in and stood before Tiny. He only reached as high as Tiny's stomach, but he stood straight. He placed Arvin's head on the table in front of Tiny.
"Arvin's bin kilt by me," his voice was steady, neither humble nor arrogant. "I'm takin' 'is place."
Tiny looked down at the head, then back at Yagg. His small eyes darted around, betraying a cunning nature. "How ya prove it was you wot did it? Mebbe someone else kilt 'im an' ya just pickin' up da scraps?"
Yagg didn't say a word. He simply clapped his hands.
The four Grots entered carrying the two wooden crates and flipped the lids open. Two crates full of Premium Teeth gleamed temptingly under the lights—a sea of golden yellow that made one's eyes wander.
Tiny's eyes lit up. "I'm checkin' da teef."
He reached out, grabbed a tooth, bit down on it, and nodded with satisfaction. "Teef are good." The teeth were real and of high quality. "Right den. From today, Arvin's spot is yers."
Even with a rudimentary power structure, Greenskin social interactions were never overly complicated. If you had strength and enough sincerity, that was sufficient.
He grinned, revealing a mouth full of large, yellowed teeth. "But if ya can keep dat spot, dat's up to yer own self."
Yagg cupped his hands. "Fanks, Boss!"
He turned and walked out of the hideout, his legs no longer shaking as they once did. Yagg knew exactly what Tiny meant. The boss wouldn't give him trouble, but he wouldn't help him either. How to rally Arvin's underlings, how to manage those two pens, and how to suppress others who wanted his position—it was all up to him.
Back at the hideout, Yagg moved the final crate of Premium Teeth to the main gate. He kicked the crate open, and the hoard shimmered under the light of the rising star, transfixing the nearby Grots.
Yagg climbed onto the crate and shouted at the top of his lungs: "I'm Yagg! From now on, I'm yer officer! Follow me, an' dere's plenty of teef fer everyone!"
The voice spread through the area, and Grots hiding behind scrap heaps poked their heads out. Soon, over a hundred Gretchins gathered in front of the hideout, stretching their necks to see the crate of teeth.
Yagg kept his word, distributing two Premium Teeth to every Grot who joined his ranks. The Grots took the teeth, bit them, and their eyes sparkled. These weren't ground stones or broken scraps; they were the real deal.
"Ya-Lord!", "Long live Ya-Lord!", "Ya-Lord's gonna make us rich!" The cheers rose up, one louder than the last. In the world of the Greenskins, a boss who could give you teeth was a good boss.
But not everyone was convinced. Arvin's two former headmen stepped forward.
"Why you get to be officer? You didn't kill Arvin!"
"Yeah! Dat purple shadow kilt 'im, wot's dat gotta do wiv you!"
Yagg looked at them without panic. He turned and went into the hideout, and when he emerged, he had changed his attire. He wore Arvin's iron armor; though it was a bit large, it fit well enough when tightened with rope. A steel helmet with goggles was perched on his head—a modification he'd paid twenty Premium Teeth for. The goggles were red, and two long antennas were welded to the helmet; they served no purpose, but they looked imposing.
The most terrifying thing was what he held in his hands: a hand-cannon nearly as tall as he was. Yagg had traded fifty Premium Teeth for it from a Grot trader outside the ranch. The barrel was thicker than his head, and he could only manage to shoulder it with difficulty. The cannon itself was moderately priced, but the shells were expensive—ten Premium Teeth per shot.
Yagg pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The first headman was sent flying, landing on a pile of scrap in the back. He didn't make a sound; his departure was very peaceful. Gunsmoke filled the air, thick with the smell of sulfur.
He turned toward the second headman. The Grot looked at his companion's corpse and then at the smoking muzzle; his legs went weak, and he knelt publicly. "Ya-Lord! I'm wiv ya! I'm wiv ya!"
Yagg stood at the door and blew the smoke from the muzzle. He didn't fire a second shot. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing another ten teeth. No one knew he was grieving the money; in the eyes of the Grots, Ya-Lord was being merciful and magnanimous.
Regarding this "unfair" duel, no one saw any issue. In the Greenskin world, there was no such thing as fairness. If someone had the teeth to buy better gear, that was their own skill. If you paid-to-win, why shouldn't you be able to beat those who didn't?
The remaining Grots knelt and chanted in unison: "Ya-Lord! Ya-Lord! Ya-Lord!"
Yagg looked at the body that had been blasted away, then at the hand-cannon in his grip. He hoisted the smoking weapon onto his shoulder and turned back into the hideout with a swaggering stride. His silhouette actually seemed to grow taller, his formerly scrawny frame filling out the loose armor.
Raynor followed behind, watching Yagg's back with a smile of approval.
After Arvin's death, the Grot lackeys who had served under him were thrown into a state of panic. Some wanted to run, some wanted to cause trouble, and others were just waiting to see which way the wind blew; the atmosphere of the entire hideout became quite eerie.
Yagg stood on the second floor, looking down at the whispering lackeys. He already had a plan. He picked out the core members who had been closest to Arvin and split them into two groups.
For the first group, he constantly picked at their faults in public, scolded them, docked their pay, and sent them to work in the filthiest pens. Conversely, Yagg greeted the second group of core members with a smile. Their wages were paid in full, and their rest time was never cut short.
In this way—dividing them first, then suppressing one group while winning over the other—Yagg employed a set of tactics that seemed instinctive, as if he were born knowing them.
The suppressed group was indignant. Why was the group that had served Arvin alongside them now living so comfortably? They began to speak ill of Yagg behind his back, but when these words reached the ears of the favored group, the latter were displeased. They argued that the others were simply too loyal to Arvin and couldn't recognize a good thing now that Ya-Lord was in charge.
This viewpoint completely enraged the suppressed group. They had all agreed to resist Yagg together, yet now a few petty favors had bought half of them out. The favored group, of course, refused to admit their change of heart was due to Yagg's preferential treatment. The two groups clashed, and the argument eventually escalated into a violent brawl.
From then on, the two sides were at each other's throats, making life difficult for one another at every turn. The conflict shifted from being about Yagg to the inequality of their treatment.
After dealing with the troublemaking core members and killing a few "hard-heads" to establish authority, no one dared to question Yagg's position. The heads of those few hard-heads were hung at the hideout entrance, reeking to high heaven. Passersby had to cover their noses, but no one dared to take them down.
From then on, the Grot workers lowered their heads whenever they saw Yagg, calling him "Ya-Lord" louder than anyone else. Some even started mimicking his style, wearing fake tooth necklaces just like his.
The Greenskin Waaagh! field began to take effect. Because the underlings "believed" Yagg was the boss, he began to grow stronger. His formerly scrawny frame grew to about 1.5 meters in height within a single day. Muscles bulged from his withered skeleton, as solid as the Muscle Squigs in the pens. He walked with a swagger, and even the look in his eyes changed. It was no longer a shifty cowardice but a brutish "I'm in charge" arrogance.
He stood before a mirror for a long time, grinning incessantly. "Am I lookin' fierce now?" he asked Raynor.
Raynor looked at the Grot's 1.5-meter height, then at his own 1.8-meter stature, and shook his head. Yagg didn't care and continued striking poses in the mirror. He was no longer the little Grot mocked by Pico; he looked like a genuine officer.
Walking down the street, the Gretchins who used to bully him now steered clear. When Pico saw him, the smile on his face looked more like crying as he bowed and scraped, calling him "Ya-Lord." Yagg called him "Pico-Lord" in return, using the exact same tone Pico had used to show off before him.
It was only after becoming an officer that Yagg realized just how greedy Arvin had been. He originally thought Arvin might have skimmed half the funds. Who would have guessed that the gang allocated ten common teeth per worker per day?
Back then, Yagg had only received two. Arvin had pocketed a full eighty percent, leaving the scraps for the workers. Two teeth was just enough to keep someone from starving; otherwise, his appetite might have been even larger.
Looking at the ledger Arvin had written by hand, Yagg grew angrier with every page, wishing he could dig Arvin up and kill him again. The workers slaved away every day, chased by Squigs and cursed at by Arvin, only to get twenty percent. Meanwhile, Arvin did nothing and took eighty percent just by lying around. What kind of logic was that?
"I'm raisin' da pay to five teef a day!" He slammed the table, his eyes wide and round, nearly dropping his hand-cannon. "Let da boys know dat followin' me is ten times better dan followin' Arvin!"
Raynor watched him from the side without speaking. He knew Yagg was acting out of anger and that words were useless at this moment. He waited for him to cool down.
Once Yagg had calmed, Raynor finally spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it cooled Yagg's temper instantly. "If you raise it by that much all at once, they won't be grateful. Instead, they'll think you're making even more than Arvin did, and that this is just a pittance of charity."
Yagg was awakened by these words. Having climbed up from the bottom, he understood the Grot psyche all too well. They were greedy, mean-spirited, and quick to bully the weak while fearing the strong. If you gave too much, they wouldn't be thankful; they'd only think you could afford to give more. If you couldn't maintain that amount later, they would hate you for it.
"Den how much is right?" Yagg asked.
"Three," Raynor said. "Being better than before is enough."
"Right!"
Yagg did as Raynor suggested, and the effect was indeed excellent. The Grots' eyes lit up when they received three teeth, and they worked harder than ever. Some even came to thank Yagg, saying they had never met such a good officer in their lives. Yagg felt smug inside but kept a calm, stoic face.
However, he still harbored some curiosity and eventually couldn't help but ask. "Itachi, how'd ya think of all dat?"
Raynor was prepared for this. "When I was scavengin' before, I found a secret book. It had lots of stuff in it. Da book talked about dat situation."
Although Yagg was curious, he didn't pry. In the world of the Greenskins, strange things happened all the time. Finding a secret book that taught life lessons wasn't that unusual. He nodded, pushed the matter to the back of his mind, and went back to studying the ledger.
While Yagg was busy managing his territory with great fervor, Tiny sat in his chair, staring at Arvin's decaying head. A few days had passed, and the head had begun to stink, attracting swarms of buzzing insects. However, it was still largely intact, and the wounds remained clearly visible.
He turned it over and over, and the more he looked, the more something felt wrong. This head hadn't been chopped off with a blade; it had been torn off—ripped away by terrifying, brute force. Where would a Grot get that kind of strength?
Tiny set the head down and leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing to slits. He remembered the night Yagg first came to see him. That had been a scrawny, tiny figure who trembled just while walking; how could he have achieved something like this?
And then there were the rumors. The Gretchins who had fled the tavern were all saying that Arvin had been killed by a "purple shadow." Fast as the wind, fierce as lightning—it was impossible to see what it was. Some said the shadow had four arms, some said it was covered in spikes, and some said it had emerged from the ground.
Opinions varied, but one point was consistent: that thing definitely wasn't a Grot.
Tiny's gaze became playful. He stroked the sparse whiskers on his chin and looked at the rotting head on the desk again.
"Could it be... an Ork?"
Lying inside Yagg's new hideout, Raynor was just about to "log off" when he suddenly felt a subtle change occurring within the body of Itachi. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was happening, but he felt as though the body was slowly developing a sense of belonging to this place.
Back on the Obsidian Peak, Raynor immediately had Sarah perform a scan on Itachi. Sure enough, its physiological structure had partially shifted toward that of a genuine Greenskin.
"It seems a fish has taken the bait," Raynor said with a smile.
Clearly, some "big shot" had noticed his existence and perceived him to be an Ork Boy. Now, all he needed to do was deepen that impression.
The next day, Yagg was summoned to Tiny's hideout under the pretext of being rewarded for "meritorious service in managing territory." The news arrived at noon while Yagg was checking the growth of the Squigs near the pens.
He had changed into Arvin's armor, his steel helmet polished to a bright sheen that looked quite imposing. With his hand-cannon slung across his back and shells tucked into his waist pouch, he walked with a swagger, followed by a few newly recruited lackeys for extra flair.
However, in front of Tiny, he was still a small fry. Tiny sat in his chair, looking down at him from his height. His small eyes, buried deep in rolls of fat, stared at Yagg for several seconds, making the Grot's skin crawl.
Tiny began by offering a few words of praise, saying he had managed well, that production was up, and that the gang was very satisfied. Yagg was quick to be humble, claiming it was all thanks to the boss's cultivation and the hard work of his subordinates, and that he was merely basking in everyone's reflected glory.
After a bit of small talk, Tiny's tone shifted. "By the way, Yagg, I've been curious—how exactly did you kill Arvin back then? I'm not doubting you, just curious. That git was a waste of space, but he still had dozens of lackeys protecting him. How did you do it alone?"
Yagg's left hand tightened instinctively before relaxing an instant later. His heart skipped a few beats, but his face remained unchanged. Having survived at the bottom for so long, his greatest skill was putting on an act. He swallowed hard and began to talk nonsense.
"Boss, to be honest, I don't really know what happened myself. One day, I was walkin' down the road, tripped, hit me head on a rock, and blacked out. When I woke up, I felt like I'd awakened somethin' special..."
"Like Big Boss Seth?" Tiny's gaze became sharp. His small eyes scrutinized Yagg's face, searching for any sign of a lie.
"Yeah! Yeah! Just like the Big Boss!" Yagg grew more animated as he spoke, gesticulating wildly, his voice rising an octave. "From that day on, I found out I could summon a purple shadow to help me fight. I call it a 'Stand'! That thing is incredible—so fast and so strong. Arvin didn't even have time to react before..."
"That's all I can say, Boss. Please don't be angry."
At this point, Tiny's expression was a masterpiece of "Are you kidding me?" His lip twitched, but he suppressed his irritation. Yagg genuinely had a talent for management; in just three days, the production of the two Muscle Squig pens had increased by ten percent. This was mainly because the Squigs were being cared for better and, with corruption decreasing, the amount of Squig meat turned in naturally rose.
Yagg was someone who could help him make money; there was no need to kill him off casually. Moreover, if there really was an Ork behind Yagg, it was even more important not to act rashly. Orks rarely appeared alone. And Tiny knew all too well what a group of Orks could do in a sea of Gretchins.
He didn't press further. Instead, he stood up and patted Yagg on the shoulder with a smile, nearly knocking the Grot over with his strength. "Good! You've got skill! Since you're so capable, I'll give you another pen. From now on, that sector to the west is yours too."
Yagg's brow furrowed upon hearing this. The western sector had always been the territory of Abu, the most senior officer. Abu managed two pens and was rumored to have over three hundred thugs; he was the most formidable character in the Muscle Squig sector. Yagg had lived on this ranch for years and had never dared to look Abu in the eye. That guy was said to have served in the logistics of the Karl-2 regular forces; after the unit was decimated, he returned to become an officer. He had real weapons and a gang of desperate followers.
By handing Abu's territory to him, Tiny was essentially giving Yagg half the entire sector. This was no reward; it was a hot potato.
But on the surface, Yagg acted as if he were moved to tears of gratitude, nearly kneeling to kowtow while repeatedly saying, "Thank you, Boss! Thank you, Boss!"
In the split second he stole a glance upward, he saw Tiny's eyes. There was no trust in them, only cold suspicion.
Back at the hideout, Yagg shut the door, and the smile vanished instantly. He leaned against the door, gasping for air. "Itachi, we're in trouble." He told Raynor everything that had happened. For some reason, he had an instinctive trust in this Ork of mysterious origin.
Raynor didn't panic. He simply asked, "What else did Tiny say? Don't leave out a single word."
Yagg replayed the conversation. From entering the room to leaving, he recounted every sentence and every detail. Raynor listened and then pondered for a moment. "He wants to use Abu's hand to test you."
Since Yagg's birth, the Muscle Squig sector had been divided three ways. Three officers, each managing two pens—none could take more. Now Yagg alone held three, including the territory of the veteran, Abu. Raynor had also heard that Abu and Arvin were quite close, having fought together on this ranch for years. Arvin was dead, and his territory was being occupied; could Abu tolerate this? If he didn't act, how could he ever hold his head up in front of his subordinates again?
Yagg was flustered. "What do we do? Even with your help, Abu has over three hundred thugs. We can't win... How many people do we have? Barely a hundred and fifty if we count everyone, and half of them are just fence-sitters we just recruited. Those gits shout loud, but when it's time to risk their lives, they'll be the first to run."
Raynor looked at him and asked calmly, "What do you think Tiny is actually trying to test?"
Yagg thought for a moment. "Test what?" His brain worked at high speed. He remembered the look in Tiny's eyes and the rumors about the "purple shadow." Suddenly, he thought of that decaying head sitting by Tiny's hand during their meeting. It was Arvin's head.
"Maybe he's already guessed that the way Arvin died was wrong—that I didn't kill him. Or rather, that I didn't kill him alone. He suspects there's someone behind me..."
Raynor finished the thought. "An Ork."
The room fell silent, save for the distant cries of Squigs. In a Squig ranch dominated by Gretchins, the power of an Ork was disruptive. A single Ork Boy could take on dozens of Grot; they possessed a natural, inherent suppression over Gretchins. A half-crippled Ork Nob could become the overseer of the entire ranch, managing tens of thousands of Grot.
And Tiny, of course, wanted to know what exactly was hiding behind Yagg. If it was just a Grot who got lucky, it didn't matter; he could do as he pleased. But if it was an Ork, the nature of the situation changed completely.
Yagg's expression shifted rapidly. "Then what do we do?"
Raynor shook his head. "Do you know what the best thing to do is when someone suspects you have a blade?"
Yagg thought for a while and sighed. "I don't know..."
"It's simple. You'd better actually have a blade, and you'd better show it."
Yagg's eyes widened in sudden realization. "But having just one Ork like you isn't enough to 'show the blade'."
Raynor smiled. "Who told you there was only one of me?
Raynor led Yagg to that specific corner of the pen where they had first met. This was the place where he had "born," and Yagg had strictly forbidden any other Gretchin from approaching it.
In truth, the Grot didn't quite know why he did it; he simply felt in his gut that this place shouldn't be seen by others. It was as if the secrets of Itachi were buried here.
The two passed through the fence and stepped into this forgotten corner. The iron gate hung askew, letting out a piercing screech as it was pushed open. The ground was carpeted with rotting trash and dried Squig dung, feeling soft and spongy underfoot. A strange scent permeated the air—beyond the stench of waste, there was something more primal, more savage. It stirred something that had been dormant in Yagg's bloodline for a very long time.
Following the scent to its source, they found thirty-odd Ork Boys crouching in the corner. Some were staring blankly at the ground with hollow eyes; others were gnawing on scavenged trash, their jaws making a rhythmic crunching sound as thick saliva dripped from their mouths. A few Boys were shoving each other, play-fighting like newborn pups, rolling around and kicking up clouds of dust.
Sensing company, they stood up one by one. Their gazes were vacant, like people who had just woken up and hadn't yet figured out who they were.
The one at the very front was the most massive—standing 2.3 meters tall, covered in slabs of muscle, with arms thicker than Yagg's waist. He stood there like a fortress wall, his chest muscles bulging like iron plates and shoulders wide enough for three Gretchins to stand abreast. He was a full size larger than the other Greenskins, exerting a heavy pressure just by existing.
When he saw Raynor, his eyes suddenly focused, as if recognizing something. Raynor met his gaze, and something passed between the two of them. Their eyes locked in a brief exchange before they simultaneously looked away. Raynor gave a slight nod, and the big brute blinked almost imperceptibly.
Yagg had already guessed what Raynor intended to do. He asked worriedly, "Will ya win, Itachi?"
Raynor gave a confident smile. "I'll win."
Then, Raynor let out a provocative roar at the massive brute. It was a sound that directly challenged authority. The big brute froze for a moment, then his mouth split into a terrifying, toothy grin. There was no malice in that smile, only excitement—the pure joy of finally having a scrap to fight.
He roared back like an enraged beast and charged at Raynor. His footsteps were heavy, each stride leaving deep prints in the mud. Yagg ducked behind the fence, his heart in his throat. He gripped the iron bars, silently praying for Raynor to win.
Although Raynor had grown to two meters tall during this time, he still looked somewhat undersized compared to the giant. The opponent was roughly 2.3 meters, with a sturdier build and arms that looked thicker than Raynor's thighs. Yagg wasn't sure if Raynor could actually beat him, but he had no choice but to believe.
The two initiated a simultaneous charge and slammed into each other with a violent thud. What followed was a passionate exchange of blows; both sides threw punches continuously, and neither showed any intent to dodge. The dull thud of impacts echoed through the pen, a sound that made Yagg's own teeth ache.
Raynor seemed to be in poor form; his movements were stiff, like a machine that hadn't been oiled. After taking several consecutive punches, he staggered backward. Every punch from the giant forced him back, his heels plowing two shallow furrows into the ground.
Under pressure, Raynor began making a series of blunders. After missing a punch, his body leaned forward, leaving a glaring opening. The giant seized the opportunity and slammed an elbow into Raynor's shoulder. A sharp crack of bone echoed.
Raynor dropped to one knee, his left shoulder slumped and his entire arm hanging limp like melted clay. The giant pounced, pinning Raynor to the ground. His massive frame pressed down like a mountain. Raynor lay there, face covered in blood, his right eye swollen shut. The giant's fist hovered in mid-air, ready to hammer down. If that punch connected, Raynor's head might burst like a melon.
Raynor's defeat seemed certain. Yagg closed his eyes, unable to look any longer. It's over. Itachi is done. That single thought dominated his mind. His legs went weak, his hands slipped from the bars, and he slumped onto the ground. Without Raynor's help, he had no idea how to face the vicious Abu.
After a moment, the expected scream of agony didn't come. Yagg slowly opened his eyes, and the scene before him left him speechless.
Raynor stood in the center of the area, covered in blood, let out a roar of absolute triumph—like a lion announcing its victory after winning a territory. Meanwhile, the giant brute lay at his feet, unconscious, his massive body sprawled on the ground like a collapsed mountain. Seeing this, the other Greenskins lowered their heads in a gesture of submission.
Yagg still couldn't believe his eyes. He rubbed them and looked again. It was real! He scrambled up from the ground, his legs still shaking, but his face had broken into a wide grin. A wave of wild joy surged in his heart; Itachi had actually won! Now they had over thirty Orks; three hundred Gretchins were nothing by comparison.
He jumped out from behind the fence and ran to Raynor's side, wanting to support him but not knowing where to touch. Raynor was covered in blood, looking like he'd been pulled out of a meat grinder. All Yagg could do was stand there, grinning like a fool and repeating, "Itachi, you're amazin'!"
Raynor secretly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. His ribs throbbed with pain, his left shoulder was dislocated, and his right eye was swollen shut. In reality, he couldn't have beaten the giant; that fellow's initial stats were un-nerfed. Every punch carried terrifying strength, hitting like a runaway truck. If they had fought for real, Raynor wouldn't have lasted ten moves.
But halfway through, under Raynor's constant eye signals, the giant brute finally remembered. He remembered who he was, why he was here, and the female voice speaking in his mind. He began to "pull his punches," reducing the force of his blows by more than half and slowing his movements, intentionally leaving openings for Raynor to exploit. For the final punch, he even proactively swung wide and used the momentum to fall and play dead.
These Greenskins had all been created by Sarah and deployed here alongside Itachi. Raynor had simply woken up first to scout the situation; now that he had a need for them, he had awakened the rest. Since Sarah still couldn't quite replicate the specific brand of "orkish stupidity," Raynor had come up with a solution: have his Praetorian Guard—the Ogryns—control this crucial batch of Ork Boys.
The Ogryns only needed to act naturally to reach the absolute limit of Sarah's acting capabilities.
They were naturally dim-witted, loved a good scrap, enjoyed boasting, and were perpetually hungry—acting like Orks was a role the Ogryns were practically born to play.
Dobby was the first to raise his hand, declaring he was up for the task. The other Ogryns joined in, muttering things like, "Nothin' hard 'bout dat, we's da best at actin' daft."
Raynor looked at their earnest expressions, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He gave them clear instructions beforehand: follow the female voice in their heads for commands, and for everything else, they were free to improvise.
As soon as the Ogryns heard they were to play Greenskins, their enthusiasm soared. They looked ready to charge into a mob of Orks and start a fight right then and there.
The massive brute from before was, in fact, controlled by Dobby. In reality, Dobby stood 2.6 meters tall; controlling a 2.3-meter Ork felt cramped and frustrating for him. However, he followed Raynor's orders with absolute loyalty, so he endured the discomfort.
Yagg, oblivious to any of this, only knew that Itachi had won the duel. Seeing those Orks act so submissively toward Raynor made the Grot stand a little taller. These were over thirty Ork Boys—each one tall, massive, and clearly capable of wrecking havoc.
Standing beside Raynor with his chest puffed out, Yagg felt incredibly prestigious. He even began to fantasize about the moment Abu arrived. He would lead these thirty Orks in a charge, sending Abu's gits running for their lives, and then the entire ranch would know the name of Yagg.
Clinging to these beautiful delusions, the two returned to the hideout.
The next day, Tiny's allocation arrived. Two crates overflowing with teeth—nearly double the previous amount. This was because Tiny had given Yagg the wages for three full sectors.
When the lids flipped open, the sea of teeth shimmered under the sunlight. No Greenskin could remain unmoved by such a sight. Yet, standing before the crates, Yagg couldn't find it in himself to be happy. He knew all too well that these teeth wouldn't be easy to swallow.
By giving him Abu's territory and Abu's wages, Tiny was sending a clear message to the veteran officer: Someone has stolen your stuff; do something about it. This wasn't a reward; it was "murder by a borrowed knife."
Yagg recalled the phrase Raynor had used and felt it fit the situation perfectly. Tiny's move was ruthless; without lifting a finger himself, he could test whether Yagg really had an Ork backing him. If Yagg held his ground with Ork help, Tiny's suspicions would be confirmed. If he failed, Yagg would lose his position, and there were plenty of others waiting to take it.
A lackey leaned in, whispering cautiously, "Ya-Lord... maybe we should... give these teef back to Abu?"
"I heard Abu's gatherin' his boys. Over two hundred gits, all carryin' blades. We ain't got a solid footing yet; there's no need to bash heads wiv 'im." The lackey's voice trailed off as he noticed Yagg's expression souring.
Yagg remained silent for a long moment before refusing. "Give 'em back? Why? Da Boss gave us da territory, and da Boss gave us da teef. Why should I give 'em back?"
He stood straight, and though he was only 1.5 meters tall, his tone was firm. "Dere's no reason to spit out fat meat once it's in yer mouf. Let 'im come. Let 'im come so I can tell everyone, right to dere faces: Dis territory belongs to Yagg!"
The lackeys exchanged glances, not daring to argue further. They didn't know where Yagg got his confidence, but he didn't look like he was bluffing.
Yagg scanned the hideout but couldn't find the purple shadow. He went to the spot where Raynor usually slept and found him lying there, motionless. His sleeping posture was exactly the same as the day before.
"Itachi? Itachi!" Yagg nudged him, but there was no response. He felt a pang of unease and pushed harder, yet Raynor remained unresponsive. Raynor was still breathing, but he seemed to have lost his soul, unable to be awakened.
Yagg's heart began to sink like a stone being weighed down. "ITACHI!!!" He called out again and again, but Raynor did not wake.
Yagg slumped onto the ground, his mind going blank. Was there anything worse than the "Big Daddy" of the team going AFK at the most critical moment? At this moment, it felt like the sky was falling. He could almost see Abu leading his gits to chop him into mincemeat.
Meanwhile, aboard the Obsidian Peak in deep space, Raynor stood on the bridge, listening to reports from the front. They had just entered the vicinity of Karl-2 and encountered Chandler's fleet attacking Luna's fleet.
The battle between Luna and Chandler had reached a fever pitch. The Mad Bull was frantically ramming the Ruler of Precepts. Ork ships were swarming Luna's fleet like a pack of hungry wolves. Raynor had to command the expedition fleet to intervene immediately; otherwise, Luna's fleet wouldn't survive the day.
Raynor glanced at the timer. He knew something might be happening on Yagg's end, but this was more urgent.
"Ya-Lord! Ya-Lord!" A lackey came scrambling in, face pale and legs trembling. "Abu's comin'! Over two hundred boys! Dey've already reached da scrap heaps to da west. Dey'll be here in fifteen minutes tops!"
After finishing his sentence, the Grot collapsed on the floor, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
Yagg stood up. He glanced at the slumbering Raynor, then at the door, and took a deep breath. He stood at the hideout entrance, clutching his hand-cannon. He could now lift the heavy weapon with ease. He checked the shells, confirming the magazine was full.
In truth, Yagg wanted to run too. He wanted to take the teeth and run to a place where Tiny couldn't find him and Abu couldn't catch him. But he couldn't run, and he wouldn't. He had fought so hard to climb to this position; how could he just abandon it?
Finally, he gritted his teeth and steeled his resolve. He led his Grot lackeys out of the hideout to meet Abu.
Yagg stood at the entrance and ordered everyone to gather. The command spread quickly through the large hideout. The Grots hiding in the corners emerged slowly, heads bowed, looking around nervously.
There were usually 151 thugs on the payroll, but this time, fewer than a hundred showed up. Those who didn't come were either faking illness in their shacks or had already fled in the chaos.
Yagg glanced at the empty spots. He didn't launch into a tirade of curses; he simply looked at those who had stayed and gave a small nod. Having risen from the bottom, he understood the nature of these fence-sitters perfectly. When there were benefits, they would fight to the front; when there was trouble, they would run faster than anyone.
Such people couldn't be kept, and they weren't worth keeping.
Outside the hideout, over two hundred Gretchins stood in a dark, dense mass, everyone clutching a blade with murderous intent. Those blades glinted under the sun, some still stained with blood from unknown past encounters.
Abu stood at the very front. He was a size larger than the average Grot, wearing a discarded piece of flak armor that, despite several bullet holes in the chest, remained sturdy. An axe hung at his waist, its edge ground to a bright finish capable of splitting a Gretchin in half from head to toe with ease. He looked at Yagg with disdain, a cold smirk playing on his lips, as if looking at a chicken waiting to be slaughtered. The thugs behind him were a vicious lot, openly boasting to one another about how many heads they had taken.
In contrast, most of the underlings on Yagg's side had been mere workers not long ago. They were as thin as bamboo poles, standing there like a row of scarecrows that might tip over in a stiff breeze. Their weapons were scavenged wooden sticks tied with scraps of iron or stones, and the hands holding them were trembling. Some Grots held nothing at all, standing there with clenched fists, looking visibly strained.
The two sides seemed to be in entirely different leagues—a flock of sheep facing a pack of hungry wolves.
Abu was in no hurry to strike. He took a step forward, his voice as grating as sandpaper. "Yagg, things that don't belong to you... I suggest you hand them over."
He didn't explicitly say what those things were, but every Gretchin present knew: the territory, the teeth, and the wealth left behind by Arvin. Abu had no idea that the 1,500 premium "Big Teeth" had already been spent by Yagg.
Yagg stood at the forefront, his hand-cannon resting on his shoulder. He could now wield the weapon perfectly. He responded to Abu with firm resolve: "Hmph. I got these things through me own skill. You think you can just ask for 'em back?"
Abu narrowed his eyes, a dangerous light flickering in those thin slits. "So there's nothing to talk about?"
"Nothing!" Yagg knew he couldn't show weakness now. If he softened, everything would be over. The underlings behind him would flee, and the fence-sitters watching from the sidelines would defect to Abu. The teeth, the territory, and everything he had gained by climbing to this position would slip away like sand.
Seeing Yagg's defiance, a hunched figure leaned in beside Abu. It was an Ork, but an incredibly stunted one, barely 1.5 meters tall, wearing ill-fitting armor that looked almost comical. Back during recruitment, the "Big Boys" hadn't spared him a second glance, deeming him too short and useless. Consequently, he could only stay by Abu's side as a strategist, offering advice and running errands.
"Boss, this Yagg is being awfully bold. There might be a trap!" the stunted Ork whispered, his eyes darting around like a frightened rat.
Abu nodded. They had all heard the legend of the Purple Shadow—the one that had brutally slaughtered Arvin outside the tavern. Arvin's head had been torn off alive, spraying blood everywhere. In truth, they all understood what Tiny was planning: using Abu's hand to test exactly what was behind Yagg. If something really was there, Abu was the sacrificial stone used to probe the path. If not, Abu was the knife used to kill. Regardless of the outcome, Tiny wouldn't lose.
The gazes of the two leaders clashed in the air, neither willing to back down. The subordinates on both sides waited for their respective bosses to speak. Yagg's boys were shaking, but Abu's boys were trembling too—the legend of the Purple Shadow left them feeling uneasy. Some stole glances behind them, fearing that shadow might suddenly emerge from the rear. No matter how vicious they appeared, they were still Gretchins at heart; cowardice was their nature.
Seeing no further movement from Yagg's side, Abu waved his hand. "Get 'em!"
Over two hundred thugs swarmed forward with a deafening war cry. Their blades rose, a shimmering sea of steel under the sun, like a pack of wolves pouncing on sheep. Yagg gritted his teeth; he was no coward!
"Wiv me, boys!" He charged at the very front, using his hand-cannon as an assault weapon—it could fire, and it could bludgeon. He knew that as long as he killed Abu, he could win. Seeing their boss charge, the underlings followed with a howl, but their steps were hollow and their legs were still shaking.
"Kill one, and get ten teef!" Under the promise of heavy rewards, there were bound to be brave souls. The scrawny workers heard the mention of teeth and, with a rush of blood to their heads, charged forward screaming.
But the gap between them and the professional thugs was too great. The enemy cut through them with ease. The workers didn't even have proper weapons. One worker raised a wooden stick, only for it to be sliced through along with his arm; he collapsed to the ground screaming. Another charged with a crude spear, only to be kicked over and have three or four blades plunge into his belly simultaneously. Yagg's people fell one after another, screams echoing as blood splattered across the dirt.
Yagg himself managed to blast several Gretchins. His hand-cannon took them down one by one; those hit were sent flying, leaving blood and shredded meat everywhere. Seeing the corpses of their comrades, the Grots' legs went soft, but the ones behind continued to push forward. He blasted more and more, but his ammunition was limited. After firing ten consecutive rounds, his waist pouch was empty.
He began to use the hand-cannon as a club. The barrel smashed into heads, spraying brains; the butt slammed into stomachs, sending bodies flying. He was like a crazed beast, lunging through the crowd with a desperate ferocity in every move.
After killing over a dozen Gretchins, Yagg's stamina began to fail. Gradually, he was surrounded. Seven or eight Grots held their blades toward him, grinning as they closed in step by step. Blood still dripped from their blade tips—the blood of his underlings.
Abu stood at the back, watching the scene with a frown. Was this Yagg really just an ordinary Grot? Was my brother Arvin just unlucky enough to be killed by him?
Yagg looked at the encroaching blades, a sense of despair welling in his heart. He really couldn't do it after all. Without Itachi, he was nothing. His shells were gone, his strength was spent, and his underlings were either dead or fleeing. He closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow.
Suddenly, a wild roar erupted from behind Abu. The sound didn't belong to a Gretchin, nor did it belong to a Squig—it was something far more violent and savage. Everyone froze and turned to look.
Through the rising dust and mist, a group of blurred figures emerged, with only faint glints of purple visible. The momentum they carried made them look like a horde of demons charging out of hell. Abu turned pale with fright and immediately ordered his lackeys to protect him. "Block 'em! Quick, block 'em!"
But the thugs were already panicking. They didn't know what was in the mist, but their instincts screamed danger! It was a fear etched into their very bones.
It was only when they were almost face-to-face that they saw the true nature of the newcomers. It was a group of powerful Ork Boys, wearing strange purple clothes that blurred their silhouettes in the dust like moving shadows. The leader stood 2.3 meters tall, covered in slabs of muscle. Just by standing there, he made it difficult for others to breathe.
Over a hundred thugs with extensive street-fighting experience were helpless before this group of Orks. They didn't even use weapons; relying purely on physical impact, they smashed the Gretchin defensive line to pieces. One Ork lowered his head and charged into the crowd like a bull, sending three or four Grots flying. Another spread his arms and slammed two Grots together like swatting flies, their skulls shattering. One Gretchin was picked up like trash and hurled away, knocking down a whole row of others.
After the Gretchins died, their choppas fell to the ground. The Ork Boys picked them up, weighed them in their hands, and split their faces into wide grins.
Then, the slaughter began.
The Orks harvested Gretchin lives like reaping wheat. With their sharp choppas, the Ork Boys could even kill two Gretchins with a single swing. The thugs who had been so vicious moments ago were now scurrying around like frightened rabbits. The Grots began to flee, throwing away their weapons and scrambling over each other; some even knelt to surrender.
But in the eyes of these Orks, there was no such thing as surrender. They only saw stationary targets beckoning to be hacked.
Abu was knocked down in the chaos. Before he could scramble back up, a massive foot slammed onto his back. He struggled desperately, his limbs scratching at the ground, but the foot remained immovable.
Dobby looked down at the struggling Grot beneath his foot and raised his choppa.
Yagg shouted from a distance: "Keep 'im alive!"
It was too late. The blade had already fallen. Abu's head rolled away, only to be crushed instantly by another Boy passing by.