Old Cripple-Leg stared at the purple figure walking toward him. As a former "Big Boy," he keenly sensed that something was wrong with Itachi. This creature wasn't a Gretchin, nor was it a standard Ork. Those purple eyes filled him with an unease that didn't stem from the usual threat felt from one's own kind.
"Wot... wot are ya, really?"
His question would never receive an answer. Raynor simply raised his blade. The blood on the edge was still wet, glinting with a dark green hue in the morning light. Behind him, countless purple phantoms surged forward.
Outside the hideout, the sun was rising. The ranch was littered with corpses and bloodstains. Gretchins were busy everywhere, clearing the aftermath and counting the loot. Every Greenskin on the ranch knew that the world had changed. From now on, the peak of power would no longer be the Ork Overseer, Old Cripple-Leg, but a common Gretchin—and the burgeoning Ork clan standing behind him.
After a night of deep deliberation, Raynor made a decision.
"Yagg, from today on, you will be the Chief of the Hokage Clan."
Yagg was shocked. His eyes widened into circles, and the stewed fungus in his hand dropped to the ground. "Wot? Me?" He pointed at his own nose, his voice cracking. "Itachi, ya kiddin' me? I can't even be a proper boss-man, let alone a Clan Chief!"
Raynor shook his head. "You're doing just fine."
"But I'm... I'm just a Grot!" Yagg said frantically. "Ya ever seen a Grot as da big boss? Why would dem Ork Boyz listen to me? I ain't even as tall as dere waists!"
Raynor crouched down to look Yagg in the eye. He rarely looked at the little creature with such seriousness. "Because I believe in you," he said.
Yagg's mouth hung open, but no words came out this time.
Raynor continued, "I know what you're thinking. You think you're not strong enough, not smart enough, not ruthless enough. But Yagg, a leader doesn't need all that. A leader needs the hearts of the people! Those workers follow you because you raised their wages and kept them fed. Those Orks follow you because I am behind you, and I follow you..."
Raynor paused for a moment before speaking again. "Yagg, are you willing to start a new, great clan with me?"
Yagg didn't answer. Instead, he lowered his head. He didn't feel worthy of the position. In his eyes, he was still just a Gretchin who had gotten a bit lucky.
Raynor didn't rush him. He simply began to speak in a low voice, "Let me tell you a story."
The surrounding underlings pricked up their ears. Even Dobby and the other Ogryns gathered around, crouching on the ground like children waiting for a bedtime story.
"A long, long time ago, a group of beings known as Dwarfs occupied the mountains. They had advanced technology and formidable strength, and they were ancestral enemies of the Greenskins living in those peaks. The protagonist of our story was born in those mountains. He was born small—so small his own kind mocked him, calling him a 'little rat.'
"During an accident, he saved a cave Squig. This little Squig eventually grew into a behemoth, and in a moment of desperation, it saved him from fire and ruin. They became the best of partners. Later, he acted as an information broker in the mountains. After being betrayed by allies and forced into exile, he eventually killed his enemies with his own hands and unified all the Greenskins surrounding the mountains.
"Finally, he set an ambush in a valley and annihilated a Dwarfen army. History calls it the 'Battle of the Great Mouth.' With that battle, he made a name for himself. People called him the Mountain Warlord. He rewrote the balance between Greenskins and Dwarfs; from then on, the Greenskins pinned the Dwarfs inside their cities.
"Much later, his pet died in battle, and he lost his fighting spirit, eventually vanishing into the mountains. He was a legendary Gretchin through and through, using his wisdom and cunning to become the King of the Mountains—a title that once belonged to the Dwarfs. He brought shame to the Dwarfs and gave the Gretchins a legend of their own."
The surrounding Gretchins and Greenskins felt joy for the friendship between the "little rat" and his Squig. They clapped and cheered when they heard he hadn't fallen after being backstabbed, but instead killed his foes. When Raynor spoke of him becoming famous in one battle and being crowned King of the Mountains, the Greenskins fell into a trance of imagination. What glory that must have been—for a Gretchin called a "little rat" to become such a legend!
Finally, hearing how he lost his spirit after his battle-pet died and faded away from the world, they couldn't help but shed tears of sorrow.
Yagg was also inspired by the story. He stood up, brushed the dust off his body, picked up the piece of stewed fungus from the ground, blew on it, and stuffed it into his mouth. He didn't know if he could become a legendary Warboss like the "little rat" in Raynor's story, but the tale gave him plenty of confidence. Why couldn't he be the Clan Chief?
"I'll do it," he said, chewing the fungus. His voice was muffled but firm. "I'll be da Chief."
"That's more like it!" Raynor smiled.
"But I got a condition," Yagg raised a finger. "Ya be da Vice-Chief. Ya decide da big fings, I handle da small fings."
"What counts as a 'big thing'?"
"Fightin' is a big fing. Takin' territory is a big fing. Everyfing else is small."
Raynor looked at Yagg. The kid was certainly catching on fast. "Deal."
Yagg reached out his hand, and Raynor shook it. The surrounding underlings burst into cheers. Though they didn't fully understand what had happened, they were happy because the Boss was happy. Dobby grinned and slapped his thigh, the impact nearly knocking several nearby Gretchins over.
Raynor's plan was simple. Propping up Yagg wasn't just to deceive others; it made it easier to blend in when facing higher-level Greenskin leadership. Greenskins themselves were a resource—a war resource that was infinitely renewable for the Tyranids. To perfectly control this resource, he needed to install a "Warboss" who obeyed his orders. Yagg was the most suitable Grot he had ever met: ambitious, intelligent, possessed of a moral compass, and grateful. Such a Grot was ten thousand times easier to control than an Ork who only knew how to fight.
With Old Cripple-Leg dead, the entire ranch lost its backbone. The remaining Orks were leaderless; those who wanted to run or cause trouble were everywhere. Yagg took the Orks of the Hokage Clan and "visited" them one by one. They hacked down those who wouldn't listen on the spot, recruited those who were wavering, and chased down and beat those who tried to flee.
In three days, there wasn't a single dissenting voice left on the ranch.
Raynor didn't idle either. He made another trip to the abandoned fence, where Sarah awakened several hundred more Ork Boys. The newly hatched Orks put on the purple ninja suits, tied on their headbands, picked up their weapons, and joined the ranks. Combined with the remnants of Old Cripple-Leg's forces, the Hokage Clan's strength grew from over a hundred and thirty to over a thousand.
The sight of a thousand Ork Boys dressed in purple standing together was enough to strike terror into anyone who beheld them.
As the forces grew, Raynor noticed that his own physique was also expanding. In just three days, he had shot up from two meters to nearly three. His muscles were firmer, his movements more coordinated, and even his voice carried a more authentic Greenskin "vibe."
Meanwhile, Yagg, the acting Clan Chief, had become sharper and more cunning. He spoke with more logic, handled matters more systematically, and was far more insidious when plotting against others. This indicated they were already being influenced by the "Waaagh!" field. Because the Greenskins "fancied" that Yagg was the boss, Yagg began to grow smarter. And because the Greenskins "fancied" that Raynor was an Ork, Raynor was truly becoming more like one.
Three days later, the Greenskin transport ship responsible for collecting goods arrived. At regular intervals, the Squig Ranch would welcome these freighters. They were required to hand over at least eighty percent of their Squig meat production to feed the operations on Karl-2.
It was a ramshackle freighter cobbled together from scrap metal, wobbling as it landed in the clearing at the center of the ranch. The hatch opened, and an Ork Big One hopped down, followed by dozens of fully armed Ork Boyz. He looked around, and instead of Old Cripple-Leg, he saw a 1.5-meter Gretchin standing at the front. The Grot was wearing a purple ninja outfit with a swirling cloud headband tied across his forehead.
The Big One narrowed his eyes, looking displeased. "Where's Old Cripple-Leg?"
Yagg stepped forward and cupped his hands in a respectful salute. "Old Cripple-Leg's been beaten by me. From now on, Yagg's da one callin' da shots on dis ranch."
The Big One blinked, momentarily unable to process the claim, before bursting into roaring laughter. "You? A Grot? Beatin' Old Cripple-Leg?" He looked down at Yagg as if looking at an ant. "Are ya pullin' me leg, ya git?"
The Ork Boyz behind him laughed too, their voices cackling across the clearing in a grating chorus. Yagg didn't laugh; he just stood there. Suddenly, hundreds of purple-clad Ork Boyz surged out from behind him like a hallucinogenic mist.
The Big One's laughter froze on his face. He looked at those Orks, and something seemed to click. Yagg remained silent, waiting for the Big One to reach his own conclusion. The Big One swallowed hard. He wasn't stupid. He cleared his throat, and his tone softened considerably.
"Right... Old Cripple-Leg's dead, and ya want to be Overseer. Dat ain't a problem, really." In Greenskin society, whoever could fight was the boss. "But, da ones up top might not like... a Grot bein' Overseer." His tone was hesitant, as if he were genuinely concerned for the higher-ups' opinions.
"I catch yer drift," Yagg said. He was well-prepared for this. He waved a hand, and his lackeys began hauling crates onto the Big One's transport. They didn't stop until the tenth crate was loaded.
The Big One frowned, about to speak, when a subordinate leaned in and whispered a few words into his ear. The Big One's expression instantly became animated. He strode over to one of the crates and flipped the lid. Inside was a full crate of premium big teeth, radiating an alluring luster.
He slammed the lid shut, turned back to Yagg, and beamed with a wide grin. "Ya got a bright future! I likes yer style!"
Yagg smiled back, though his heart was bleeding. Those were ten crates of premium teef—Old Cripple-Leg's accumulated wealth had just been slashed by a third. But he didn't show it. He knew these teeth were well-spent.
The Big One collected enough Squig meat and boarded the ship with his boys. Before leaving, he glanced back at Yagg and said meaningfully, "I'll put in a good word for ya wiv Boss Chandler."
The ship left, leaving only the purple silhouettes and Yagg standing at the front. Yagg turned to Raynor. "Soon. Dey'll be back to recruit. Da front lines are short on boys, and since we got so many Orks here, dey won't let us sit idle."
Raynor nodded. This was exactly what he wanted—a way to go to Karl-2 legitimately. However, both Yagg and Raynor knew they couldn't just go as they were. Being used as cannonfodder to fill a line was acceptable, but they feared being assigned to manual labor or logistics. For Greenskins, an inability to fight meant an inability to promote. That was not a good position.
So Yagg started spending. He tracked down the wandering traders roaming around Karl-2 and purchased a large quantity of armor and weapons, while also digging out the rest of Old Cripple-Leg's inventory. Eventually, they scrounged up three hundred sets of standard Ork gear and a heap of random projectiles and ammunition. By the time everything was gathered, the ranch's reserves were nearly bottomed out.
Three days later, the collecting Big One returned. This time, he was accompanied by an Ork of significantly higher status, wearing high-quality power armor and carrying a Big Shoota in his left hand. He didn't waste words, speaking directly to Yagg: "Count out five hundred Ork Boyz and follow me."
Yagg's heart tightened. He asked tentatively, "Wot kind of job?"
The Big One ignored him as if he hadn't heard. Yagg wasn't deterred; he signaled his lackeys to bring up several crates of teef. The Big One glanced at them but still said nothing. Yagg gritted his teeth and signaled for several more crates. This time, the Big One's lips twitched. He finally spoke: "Outer shipyards. Guard duty."
Yagg looked relieved on the surface, but he was disappointed inside. "Outer shipyards? Not bad, hahaha!"
The Big One caught the hidden meaning and snorted. "Wanna go to da front? Ya ain't heavy enough for dat yet."
The ship departed, taking five hundred Ork Boyz with it. The leader wasn't Raynor, but Dobby. Raynor hadn't gone; he sent Dobby with the original ranch Orks to blend in and gather intel.
Raynor stood at the hideout entrance, watching the ship disappear into the distance. He knew that if they continued to just "blend in," they would never achieve their goal. He needed fame—more fame! The Hokage Clan was currently just a small gang running a Squig ranch. In the eyes of the Big Ones, they didn't count for squat. To gain fame, they had to fight—fight Orks, fight humans, fight anyone.
But right now, they didn't even have a decent opponent. Other Squig ranches? They were full of Gretchins, too weak; winning wouldn't matter. The Big Ones with spaceships? Too strong; they couldn't win yet. Raynor was troubled; he was beginning to understand why Greenskins always wanted to launch a grand Waaagh!
Unable to find a solution, he walked out of the hideout to wander around the ranch to clear his head. The Squigs were grunting in their pens, the Gretchins were busy working, and the Ork Boyz were lazily basking in the moonlight. Everything was normal.
Suddenly, Raynor stopped in front of a fence. Inside were two Hot Squigs—bright red, short-tempered, and capable of breathing fire. Their meat was naturally spicy and usually used as a seasoning. An unlucky Gretchin breeder had accidentally fallen into the pen. He was screaming, running for his life toward the exit.
The two Squigs noticed him and lowered their heads simultaneously, charging at him. The Grot ran incredibly fast, his short legs spinning like wheels of fire. The Squigs chased him, one on the left and one on the right, neither yielding to the other. Finally, the one on the left was faster; it slammed into the Grot's back, sending him flying.
The successful Squig stopped, turned to look at the one that had been a step slower, tilted its head back, and let out a triumphant cry. The slower one wasn't about to take that; it charged forward and rammed the other. The two Squigs started fighting, kicking up dust and chaos.
Raynor stood outside the fence, watching this scene. Something suddenly exploded in his mind. Greenskins loved excitement. Besides fighting, what was more exciting than racing? Horse racing, car racing—racing anything that could run. The obsession with speed was etched into the Greenskin genetic code. They painted things red because "Red wunz go fasta."
So... what if he organized a Squig Racing Tournament?
The more Raynor thought about this idea, the more potential he saw in it. He turned and ran back to the hideout to find Yagg.
"Yagg! I've got a plan!"
Yagg was busy balancing the accounts and was startled by Raynor's sudden burst of energy. "Wot plan?" Since knowing Raynor, he had rarely seen him this excited.
"Squig Racing!" Raynor poured out his ideas like beans from a jar. "We turn the low-yield pens into racetracks. Let the Orks ride Squigs and compete—see who's faster, who's crazier! We'll become famous across all of Karl-2, and we can set up betting pools to rake in a fortune!"
Yagg listened, feeling a bit skeptical. Everyone had seen a Squig; what was so interesting about watching them race? However, looking at Raynor's glowing face, he conceded, "We can... give it a try?"
Raynor calmed down slightly. "Yeah, a trial run. Let our own ranch boys try it first to see the reaction."
That afternoon, Raynor began selecting the site. He chose a patch of low-yield pens on the eastern side of the ranch, moved the resident Squigs elsewhere, and tore down the fences to rebuild. Hairpin turns, straightaways, obstacles—not a single element was missing.
Yagg stood by, watching with lingering doubts. Raynor stood in the center of the track, watching the busy Orks while calculating how to make the races even more explosive.
That night, the first Waaagh! GP (Squig Racing Championship) officially kicked off at Hokage Ranch. Raynor hadn't forced everyone to attend, so the crowd wasn't particularly large. A few dozen Gretchins stood sparsely along the track, yawning, picking their noses, or asking, "Wot's dis for?"
No one knew what this was, not even the contestants themselves. They only knew that according to Itachi-Boss's rules, the winner would receive ten premium teef.
There were only ten contestants: seven Ork Boyz and three self-volunteered Gretchins. They stood at the starting line on their chosen Squigs, lined up in a messy row. Some Squigs were pawing the ground, while others were simply lying down to nap.
One Grot sat atop a Squig as round as a ball; his legs couldn't even reach the ground, and he wobbled precariously. Another Ork rode a creature covered in long spikes; he sat with a pained grimace but refused to get off—it was the only one willing to let him ride.
A Grot dressed in a referee's outfit stood on a high platform by the start, holding a flag. He glanced at the disorganized racers, sighed, and announced the start of the race.
Three gunshots rang out, and the flag dropped.
"WAAAAAGH!!!"
Ten Squigs bolted forward simultaneously. Some ran fast, some stopped after two steps to eat roadside trash, and one even ran in the opposite direction.
However, one Squig took a commanding lead. It was a Bomb Squig, bright red, propelled into the air by the sheer force of its internal combustion. The Grot clinging to its back held the reins tight, his expression shifting from terror to pure exhilaration.
"I'm da first! I'm da first!" He looked back; the other racers were left far behind, the closest being dozens of body-lengths away. He felt victory was certain.
Close behind were several Great Squigs. These were the popular choices for most contestants—lean, muscular, with powerful limbs built for sprinting. They ran fast and steady, clearly destined to be the favorites in future races. One Ork sat low on his Great Squig, eyes fixed on the Bomb Squig ahead, filled with fighting spirit.
There was also a Grot riding a War-Hog Squig, a beast much larger than the average variety that made the ground tremble as it ran. Raynor himself rode a Muscle Squig, trailing at a leisurely pace in the middle of the pack. The creature was a mass of bulging sinew; it wasn't particularly fast, but Raynor hadn't chosen it for speed.
The first turn arrived.
The Bomb Squig slowed down to navigate the corner, and the Great Squigs seized the chance to close in. Raynor's eyes lit up. He pulled a club from his waist, aimed at the head of a nearby Ork Boy, and swung with all his might.
The Ork let out a cry and tumbled off his Squig, rolling several times on the ground. He scrambled up, cursing at Raynor's disappearing back, but he could no longer catch up.
That one strike changed the entire atmosphere. The mid-pack racers seemed to receive a signal; they all pulled out prepared weapons. Clubs, wrenches, iron pipes, chains—a passionate brawl broke out instantly.
One Ork smashed a wrench into a Grot's head; the Grot tilted over, nearly falling, but held onto the reins for dear life and swung back, hitting the Ork's arm. Another Grot attempted a sneak attack from behind but was kicked away by an Ork, sent flying into the bushes along with his Squig.
The cheers from the audience exploded.
So this wasn't a ranking race—it was an elimination race!
"Hit 'im in da 'ead!", "Kick 'is squat!", "Yeah, dat's it!"
The sparsely scattered Gretchins were suddenly revitalized, howling as they crowded toward the edge of the track.
As the race entered the brawling phase, Raynor's advantage became clear. The Muscle Squig was sturdy and powerful, giving him the upper hand in a fight. It rammed into the crowd, shoving two Orks aside and flattening another Grot with a whip of its tail. Raynor sat tall, fending off three opponents at once without losing ground. He spun his club in a blur, striking left and right, sending opponents staggering.
The track entered the mud-pit section—a swamp where the mud reached the knees, inhabited by dozens of Bog Squigs. These crocodile-like creatures were covered in sludge, revealing only their eyes as they swam through the mire. The racers had to fend off both their rivals and these predators.
One Ork charged into the mud on his Great Squig, and his speed plummeted. The Squig got stuck, unable to move. A Bog Squig lunged from the side and clamped onto the Squig's leg; the creature shrieked, bucked the Ork off, and fled. The Ork struggled in the mud, his fate unknown as the other racers trampled over him.
The leading Bomb Squig burned out in the swamp. Its burst was impressive, but it lacked endurance once the fuel was spent. By the time it reached the mud-pit, it was panting heavily; the Grot had to jump down and push it. Raynor had made it a rule: both the racer and the Squig had to cross the finish line together to count as a win.
The following Great Squigs caught up, and an Ork Boy sent the Grot flying with a wooden stool. The Grot flipped twice in the air before splashing into the mud, sending a massive spray everywhere.
Just then, a Grot riding a War-Hog Squig felt something beneath the mud. He reached down and pulled out a rocket launcher—it was filthy, but it looked functional.
Yagg, having just squeezed through to the trackside, saw this and gasped.
"Dere's power-ups too?!"
This was another of Raynor's clever touches: in various specialized sectors of the track, contestants could randomly pick up various "power-ups." The more treacherous the terrain, the easier it was to find a powerful item.
The Grot hoisted the rocket launcher, aiming straight for Raynor—who was currently showing the strongest momentum and looked the most capable. The Grot wanted everyone to know that while he was a Grot, he was no coward! If you're going to fight, you fight the strongest enemy!
He pulled the trigger. With a sharp whoosh, the rocket streaked out, flying dead-on toward Raynor. The entire crowd held its breath, wondering how Raynor would dodge this lethal blow.
Raynor reached into the mud and pulled something up: a segment of chain-link fencing. He yanked it from the muck and held it up as a shield. The rocket slammed into the wire mesh but didn't detonate immediately. Gritting his teeth, Raynor gripped both ends of the fence, catching the rocket in the air like a net.
The projectile was still smoking, liable to explode at any second. With a violent heave, Raynor flung the fence aside, launching the rocket toward an Ork Boy who had been trying to sneak up on him. The Ork's eyes bugged out, but before he could react, the rocket detonated right in his face.
BOOM! The Ork was blasted off his mount, tumbling into the sludge.
"WOW!!!" The stadium erupted in a mountain-shaking tidal wave of cheers. The Gretchins jumped around frantically, losing their minds with excitement.
Standing on the high platform, Yagg began a spirited commentary: "Itachi! Itachi blocked da rocket wiv a fence! Wot?! He threw it back?! Wot kind of move is dat?!" Yagg barely knew what he was saying himself, but the audience was hooked on every word.
The race continued. The track entered the Desert Sector, where sandstorms filled the air and visibility was near zero. Racers squinted and hunched over, trudging through the shifting dunes. One Ork Boy kicked something in a sandpile; looking down, he found a rocket booster. He grabbed it, strapped it to his Squig's back, and slammed the switch.
The booster ignited, and the Squig took off like a missile. Ultimately, relying on that booster, he overtook Raynor in a single bound to claim the championship.
"A new champion is born! Let's congratulate..." Yagg realized he had forgotten the Ork's name.
"I'm Naruto!" the Ork Boy at the finish line screamed, raising his arms.
"Let's congratulate Racer Naruto! He is da champion of da first Waaagh! GP!"
Naruto rode his Squig in a victory lap around the track, waving to the crowd. The audience pelted him with chunks of stewed fungus and teef in appreciation. Raynor rode his Muscle Squig slowly across the finish line. He was covered in mud, his face bruised and swollen, but he was smiling.
He looked around. The stadium that had been empty at the start was now packed with Greenskins. Grots, Orks, and even a few stray Squigs from who-knows-where were squeezed against the track barriers, craning their necks to see inside.
That night, the entire ranch talked of nothing but the Waaagh! GP. Some discussed Itachi's god-tier play with the fence; others debated the champion's rocket booster. Some wondered if there were more items hidden in the mud and desert. More importantly, many more claimed they wanted to try it themselves—they wanted to train the strongest, fastest Squig ever!
Raynor knew his idea was a hit. Now, he just needed to scale it up. Yagg, too, felt the magic of it. Standing on the high platform, watching the excited crowd and the racers still dissecting the match, a surge of heroic pride welled up in his chest. He turned to Raynor.
"I'm wiv ya. Full support!"
Over the next few days, Yagg kept only a few core Squig sectors to maintain the basic meat supply. Every other pen was violently demolished, leveled, filled, and paved into various racing stages. Mud pits, deserts, ice fields, and volcanic obstacle zones were installed. More than half the ranch was converted into a racetrack.
Regarding this, Raynor simply stated that any shortfall in Squig meat quotas could be settled with teef. But the Waaagh! GP was something no other ranch could replace!
A few days later, the Big Ones responsible for the transport shuttles were puzzled. Usually, these Squig ranches were crawling with Gretchins, so why was there hardly a soul in sight today? They visited several ranches, and the situation was the same: some had only a few old or sickly Grots sunning themselves; others were ghost towns.
Curious, a Big One grabbed a Grot for questioning. The Grot looked wilted and uninterested, his head drooping as he answered, "Dey all went to Hokage Ranch to watch da Waaagh! GP. I got da short straw for guard duty, so I couldn't go."
The Big One was confused. Wot was that? Back on the ship, he contacted other Big Ones, but none of them knew either. So, they unanimously decided to go see for themselves.
Upon arriving at Hokage Ranch, they were stunned. The outer perimeter of the ranch was being expanded, with construction Grots and Orks everywhere. The ranch was teeming with spectators, dense as ants. They shoved their way through for a long time before finally reaching the inner circle.
Before them was an Ice Sector, converted from the former Frost Squig pens. The ground was covered in thick ice, and a howling blizzard swirled through the air. Racers passing through not only had to avoid slipping but also had to watch out for the Frost Squigs along the track. Those white-furred beasts would spit ice shards that hit with the force of a bolter.
Just then, Yagg's voice rang out. He stood on the high platform, holding a megaphone fashioned from scrap metal, delivering a passionate commentary. Since the first race, Raynor had realized Yagg had a natural talent for broadcasting, so the responsibility had been handed to him.
His voice pierced through the heavy snow, full of fire: "Da racers are enterin' da Ice Sector! It's a blizzard all year 'round 'ere! Da cold and da low visibility are a massive challenge for dere navigashun and sense of direcshun!"
As soon as he finished, over a dozen Ork Boyz riding bizarre Squigs burst into the Ice Sector. As the intensity of the competition had ramped up, Gretchins were largely no longer fit for the job. These mounts were specially bred or modified—stronger, faster, and with more endurance.
One Ork rode a long-haired Tundra Squig, moving over the ice as if it were level ground. Another rode a Great Squig fitted with anti-skid chains, drifting in a perfect arc around a corner.
Yagg's voice rose again: "Looks like our first champion, Naruto of da Hokage Clan, is gonna take first place again!" Naruto was flying across the snow on a red Squig, several body-lengths ahead of second place.
"Wait! No!" Yagg's voice suddenly spiked in volume. "Grot Johnny seems to have a new idea!"
As one of the few remaining Grot racers in the later stages, Grot Johnny was a fan favorite. Amidst the heavy snow, a massive snowball suddenly surged forward, chasing Naruto's red Squig. The snowball rolled larger and faster by the second.
"He actually saved da Bullet Shield he picked up in da Bullet-Rain Sector until now!" Yagg's voice trembled with excitement. "He's usin' da shield to cover 'imself while spinnin', rollin' a massive snowball across da ice! He's gonna use da momentum of da Great Snowball Spin to overtake Naruto!"