Dobby scratched his head, looking at Yagg with a slightly sheepish expression. He had been so caught up in the fighting that he hadn't heard a word Yagg said.
Yagg opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. Forget it, dead is dead. Abu would have been a nuisance alive anyway; it was cleaner this way.
With Abu dead, the Gretchins' already meager morale shattered completely. In less than a few minutes, the two hundred-plus thugs were wiped out. Half were dead, half had fled, and those who wanted to surrender never got the chance. By the time Yagg reacted enough to call for a halt, over a hundred corpses littered the ground. Rivers of blood turned the entrance of the hideout green.
Yagg stood amidst the piles of bodies, gasping for air. He was covered in blood, unable to tell his own from others'. He clutched his hand-cannon; the barrel was still smoking and hot to the touch. He still hadn't found any sign of Itachi. That purple shadow was not among these Orks. He found it strange—why would these Orks come to save him? They were clearly Itachi's subordinates; why would they show up on their own if he wasn't here?
The massive brute walked over, looking down at him with a toothy grin. His face was splattered with blood, making the smile look terrifying. "Da Boss... da Boss sent us," he said, his voice like rolling thunder that made Yagg's ears ring.
"Boss? Which Boss?"
The brute didn't answer. He turned and led the other Orks as they vanished back into the dust and mist.
Raynor indeed hadn't had time to log in and manage things here today. The battle in space was fierce, and he couldn't step away. However, he had managed to squeeze in one instruction to Dobby and the others: "Your mission today is simple: Protect that Gretchin named Yagg, the one who was with me last time, as if he were a Big Brain!"
Dobby had thumped his chest at the time, saying, "Don't ya worry, Governor! We'll keep dat lil' git safe!" Thus, Dobby had personally monitored the security around the hideout. When he saw Abu bringing people to cause trouble, he immediately went back to fetch the squad.
Standing where he was, watching the direction they had left, Yagg suddenly understood something. "Itachi..." His eyes felt a bit warm.
Inside the hideout, Yagg sat in the chair that Arvin had once occupied. He looked deep into the corner where Raynor usually slept. That purple figure was still in a deep slumber, and Yagg had no idea when he would wake. But Yagg had a premonition: once he woke up, everything here would change drastically.
He managed a small smile, wiped the blood from his mouth, stood up, and walked to the door. Outside, his lackeys were cleaning up the aftermath. Seeing him come out, they bowed their heads one by one, calling him "Lord Yagg." He nodded and stood at the entrance, gazing at the distant sky. There were tiny flashes of light out there—the expedition fleet and Chandler's fleet locked in a violent engagement. For some reason, Yagg felt that Itachi's slumber was connected to those distant points of light.
Yagg endured a whole day in the hideout, a day that felt longer than any other in his life. He was covered in wounds—a gash on his left shoulder that was still seeping blood despite being bandaged, and a puncture in his right leg that made him limp. His face was bruised and cut, making him look like a defeated straggler.
But he didn't dare sleep. His lackeys finished cleaning the battlefield and counting the loot; those who could leave left, and those who could sleep slept. Some lay in corners snoring, clutching their shared teeth and smiling like fools, while others cried out "Lord Yagg, mercy!" in their dreams. The hideout gradually grew quiet, save for the rhythmic snoring of the Grots.
Yagg sat beside Raynor, leaning against the wall, staring at the sleeping face. Every so often, he would nudge the purple body to see if Raynor had awakened. Just as he was about to hit his limit, Raynor finally woke up.
Movement finally came from the corner. The purple figure sat up. Raynor rubbed his temples as his consciousness returned from the Obsidian Peak, the roar of the space battle still echoing in his mind. After Sarah missed the chance to kill Chandler, Raynor had come here to check the situation without resting. It seemed he still needed to find an opportunity from the inside.
Raynor let out a breath of relief when he saw that the blood-covered little Gretchin in front of him was still alive. "Good to see nothing went wrong," he said.
Seeing Raynor awake, Yagg first broke into an unstoppable, foolish grin. But as he smiled, the tears started streaming down his face. "Ya finally woke up! I thought ya was dead!" he sobbed hysterically, sounding like a rat whose tail had been stepped on.
Raynor didn't stop him. He knew the pressure here had been immense. Yagg cried for a full minute before stopping. He sniffed, wiped his face, and began recounting the events of yesterday—from Abu arriving with over two hundred armed thugs to the Orks charging out and slaughtering them all. He grew more excited as he spoke, gesturing wildly, but his voice eventually dropped.
"But dey all seen 'em now," Yagg whispered. "Now da whole ranch knows I got Orks behind me. Tiny definitely knows, and da Overseers will find out sooner or later..." He grew more panicked. "Maybe we should run? Before we're found out, take da teef and run far away..."
Raynor listened and then smiled. "That's a good thing!"
Hearing this, Yagg thought Raynor had been beaten into stupidity and reached out to feel his forehead. Raynor brushed his hand aside and told him not to worry. Then, he closed his eyes and had Sarah scan his and Dobby's physiological structures. Seconds later, the results came back: their Greenskin traits already exceeded fifty percent. Now, even if they were dissected, they would only be suspected of being mutated Ork Boys.
Raynor opened his eyes, unable to hide his delight. It seemed the news of "Yagg having a group of Orks behind him" had spread through the ranch and was being "believed" by more and more Greenskins. They were turning into real Greenskins!
Raynor stood up, his purple eyes glowing in the dark. "It seems there's no longer any need to keep up the act."
Yagg didn't understand. "Itachi, what's dat s'posed to mean?"
"Just wait here," Raynor patted his shoulder, giving him a reassuring look. "The owner of this ranch... it's time for a change."
Next, Raynor had Yagg rush-produce a hundred sets of purple ninja outfits, modeled after the style Yagg was wearing. Though confused, Yagg didn't ask questions and immediately got to work. He turned out all the purple dye in the warehouse and woke up every sleeping lackey in the hideout.
Cutting fabric, dyeing, sewing. The lackeys were so tired they could barely keep their eyes open, but seeing Yagg's grim face, no one dared to slack off. After a full day of work, over a hundred crooked but wearable purple outfits were piled in the corner. Raynor glanced at them and nodded. "Good enough."
Raynor went alone to his "birth point." The corner was the same as last time—stinking of trash and Squig dung. Sarah was already awakening a second batch of Ork Boys, even larger than the first. This time, she had collected behavioral data from Raynor, Dobby, and the other Ogryns. The thought patterns of these newly activated Orks were already fifty to sixty percent similar to regular Ork Boys.
As over a hundred confused Greenskins stood up from the corner, the momentum was quite striking. Their eyes held that specific brand of Greenskin stupidity, like a group of toddlers who had just learned to walk. Raynor stood before them, his gaze sweeping across the line. This was enough. Whether Tyranid or Greenskin, combat was an instinct etched into their DNA.
______________________
Raynor returned to the hideout leading over a hundred and thirty Ork Boys. Even though their gait was clumsy and lopsided as they emerged from the dust and mist, the mere sight of over a hundred tall, hulking figures standing together was intimidating enough.
Yagg and his underlings stood at the entrance, their legs turning to jelly. Someone whispered, "Are... are dese all our boys?" No one answered him, for even Yagg was struck with awe.
Following Raynor's orders, the Orks donned the purple ninja outfits. Their massive silhouettes began to look distorted and blurred, a visual effect that only deepened the Gretchins' terror. Raynor then found a sheet of scrap metal and used a knife to engrave a swirling cloud with a single horizontal stroke through the middle.
"Dis is da mark of da Hokage Clan," Raynor declared, raising the metal plate.
Each Ork used strips of cloth to tie the engraved metal to their foreheads as headbands, while others fastened them to their arms or waists. Raynor raised a banner painted with the same swirling cloud symbol.
"From dis day on, da Hokage Clan is officially formed!"
The Orks let out a heaven-shaking roar that drowned out the whistling wind of the ranch. The sound carried far into the night sky. Distant, sleeping Gretchins were startled awake, unsure of what had happened, but the sound left them filled with unease.
By this time, Tiny had known about the total annihilation of Abu's forces for a while. Thirty-plus Ork Boys! That was no joke. He immediately notified several surrounding gang bosses, telling them to be on high alert. But the more he thought about it, the more unsettled he became. Thirty Orks—if they continued to breed, there would be at least a thousand in a month! He didn't dare imagine what would happen after that.
Sitting in his luxurious hideout—a repurposed transport craft—Tiny was restless, unable to even stomach his favorite stewed fungus. He drank mushroom wine incessantly, pacing back and forth, his mind filled with those purple shadows. He began to regret giving Abu's territory to Yagg. No, he regretted propping Yagg up in the first place. He should have killed that little Grot immediately and thoroughly investigated everything around him. But it was too late for regrets.
As midnight fell, Tiny's hideout suddenly went dark. Then, every window shattered simultaneously. Purple shadows flooded through the openings, their forms so blurred they were impossible to track. Over five hundred Gretchins inside and outside the hideout descended into total chaos.
The Orks were tall, agile, and possessed terrifying strength. One swing, one kill—they harvested lives like reaping grain. Some Orks charged into the crowd wielding dual blades, turning themselves into living meat grinders. Screams, pleas for mercy, and the sound of tearing flesh blended into a symphony that echoed through the night.
Tiny was guarded by several Ork bodyguards armed with guns, but the purple shadows were too eerie. Their forms, camouflaged by the purple ninja gear, became indistinct like moving patches of fog. The guards fired continuously, but in the darkness, they couldn't hit the high-speed moving shadows. One by one, the guards were cut down, and the gunfire soon ceased entirely.
Tiny curled into a ball on the floor, trembling violently. Despite his massive size, his courage had been shattered; he didn't even have the heart to resist. He huddled there like a frightened ostrich, his bloated belly pressed against the ground and his limbs tucked underneath him.
Raynor walked up to him, looking down at the heap of flesh. "Now dis is wot I call 'Tiny'."
Hearing this, Tiny looked up, seeing only a pair of brutal purple eyes within the blurred silhouette. A blade flashed through the air, and everything came to an end.
News traveled faster than Greenskin spores. The gang boss of the neighboring Squig Park soon received word of Tiny's death. He was frightened out of his wits. Over a hundred Ork Boys! This was not something he could oppose. He scrambled to get up, intending to hide with the Ork Overseer, but before he could even reach the door, he heard the screams of his guards.
Thinking fast, he stripped off the armor he considered his pride and joy, threw on some rags, and tried to blend in with the ordinary Gretchins. The boss shoved his armor and weapons onto one of his guards, forcing the underling to impersonate him. Meanwhile, he smeared soot frantically across his face, trying to make himself look as unremarkable as possible. He then crouched in a corner, shrinking his body to appear smaller, and began to creep his way out inch by inch.
Just as the boss stepped outside, he couldn't help but look up at the sky. Karl-2, which usually acted as the moon, was a deep crimson tonight, like a blood-red eye looking down coldly at the chaotic ranch. He froze, a sense of foreboding welling up in his heart.
Before he could think further, a purple figure dropped from above. Raynor had been crouching on a pillar, watching for a long time. Even though the boss had changed clothes, a 1.8-meter frame was still far too conspicuous among a crowd of Gretchins. His gait, his panicked demeanor, and the skeleton he tried to shrink but couldn't hide made him impossible to miss.
Raynor leaped down. A flash of blade-light followed. A piercing scream tore through the night, but it was quickly swallowed by silence.
Starting from Tiny, every gang boss who had just received news of the Ork riot was slaughtered in their respective hideouts. One hundred and thirty-plus Ork Boys were an absolute steamroller against Gretchin bosses hiding in their dens. In a place dominated by Gretchins, let alone an assassination, Raynor was confident he could achieve an overwhelming victory even against a frontal army of a thousand Grots.
In a single night, over a hundred gang bosses across the ranch were cleared out.
At dawn, the Ork Overseer, Old Cripple-Leg, received the news of over a hundred gang bosses' deaths simultaneously. He sat in his chair, unable to react for a long time. This ranch, which he had strictly supervised for nearly half a year, had actually erupted in an Ork riot of such scale? A hundred bosses dead in one night?
He could hardly believe his eyes, but reports kept piling up, every single one mentioning the same words: Purple Shadows, Orks, and Slaughter. He flipped through the reports repeatedly, hoping to find some detail that proved it was a hoax. But there was none; every report was the same, telling the same story.
His career was over.
Old Cripple-Leg quickly gathered his men. As the Overseer, he was the only one with the right to openly possess an armed Ork force on the ranch. However, he could only muster fifty fully armed Ork Boys at his hideout. Usually, no one dared to cause him trouble here, so his forces were scattered throughout the various sectors of the ranch.
He looked at his well-equipped Ork guards, yet his heart remained profoundly uneasy. Fifty against over a hundred—even with guns, he wasn't reassured. He paced the room, wondering if he should flee first, but felt it would be too humiliating. He had been the Overseer here for over six months and had never feared anyone.
But today was an exception.
Just as his men were assembled, a voice came from outside the door. "Where's da Overseer goin' wiv so many boys?"
The voice was calm, even carrying a hint of a smile. "Why don't ya tell me? Mebbe I can help ya... find 'im."
The heavy doors were pushed open. A blood-stained purple figure, clutching a blade, walked inside.