The bombardment continued.
It was no longer clear which side the shells came from, and in truth, it didn't matter. They all came from gunpowder, born of unwavering conviction and will. The thunderous artillery shattered everything fragile, forcing the soldiers to summon every ounce of courage to keep their own spirits from breaking.
"For the Emperor!"
Humans and Orks clashed everywhere. After prolonged combat, the Orks had grown significantly in size, making the naturally lean human frames appear even more frail and withered. Yet, their attacks remained fierce. Yarrick had personally seen a soldier, his entrails spilling out, shove a grenade into his own wound and hug an explosive charge to blow apart an Ork warbike.
He witnessed a battlefield so horrific it rivaled the most terrifying campaigns he had ever endured. The people protected by the Emperor of Mankind were no weaklings; even this patchwork motley crew could bring down the Hammer of Divine Punishment upon the Emperor's foes in His name!
"For the Emperor!"
Yarrick felt himself growing younger. He swung the massive power claw, and his bolt pistol—which by all logic should have been too heavy for him to lift with such ease—was raised high. The Orks began to scream; this old Umie with a power claw and a laser eye was becoming incredibly "Waaagh!"
Yarrick repelled yet another Ork assault, one of countless over the past days. He felt his body becoming stronger, his mind sharper, and those around him erupted with extraordinary combat prowess under his influence.
As the Greenskins continued their relentless tide, Yarrick's consciousness became preternaturally clear. He remembered many things: the stories from his first battlefield, being raised by his grandfather, and his early days after joining the Astra Militarum.
He remembered the face of a Krieg Commissar he once knew, Kovak. That face, split by a jagged scar, had smiled at him before a charge: "Remember, lad, we are all dead. What lives now is only the Emperor's will."
Kovak was not a Krieger.
Kovak had fallen in that battle, his heart pierced by an Ork spear. But before drawing his last breath, he used a melta pistol to vaporize the heads of five Greenskins.
Just like now, Yarrick saw a soldier whose eye had been gouged out. That boy—to Yarrick, everyone here was just a child—could no longer see anything. When he heard the Orks' war cries, he smiled, revealing teeth blackened by soot.
"I thank the God-Emperor for guiding my way."
He embraced the enemy as if hugging a long-lost friend. The explosion was muffled, like distant thunder.
"I know him," Yarrick said to himself, his voice swallowed by the cannons. "His name was Mikhail. He came from the lower levels of Hades, the son of a baker."
He remembered the pilots giving one last salute before climbing into their cockpits. Those planes were held together with scrap metal and patches on the wings. They had no right to mock the junk-creations of the Orks. Yet they took off anyway, carving arcs through the narrow airspace of the Hive. The last fighter, before crashing, rammed its fuselage into two Ork interceptors, turning into a brilliant fireball like the fireworks during the Feast of Sanguinius.
"That was Cassandra Squadron," Yarrick whispered. "Their leader was Yelena. She has a daughter in the Armageddon Steel Legion."
These memories were not burdens; they were fuel. With every name remembered, every face recalled, the boltgun in his hand felt lighter, and the power claw swung with more precision.
The Orks began to recoil. This old Umie—this relic who should have been in a grave—had eyes burning with something they couldn't comprehend. It wasn't the fanaticism of a Waaaaagh! or the joy of battle, but a cold, eternal resolve.
Yarrick felt time turn viscous. He couldn't tell if the one swinging the power claw was himself or Commissar Kovak from thirty years ago; he couldn't tell if the fallen soldiers died today or were the spirits of those sacrificed on countless battlefields long ago.
"We are all dead," he repeated the old Commissar's words in a low voice. "What lives now is only the Emperor's will."
Yarrick was not a Krieger either.
His consciousness was piercingly clear, as if washed in ice water. He saw every detail of the battlefield: a bouncing shell casing, a droplet of blood suspended in the air, a silent prayer on a soldier's lips. He saw space and time fold at this moment, all the souls fighting for Hades Hive converging into a single torrent.
Was this the source of his strength?
No. It wasn't. Yarrick would never admit where his power truly came from.
But how could he not understand? He was an expert on Orks. He exerted every effort to summon his memories of heroes, trying to prove it was the human will and the power of the God-Emperor helping him fight here.
But when he killed a Greenskin and heard it shout his name in the Ork tongue, when he saw the Greenskins willing to risk being torn apart by traps and artillery just to charge at him...
Especially when his bionic eye—originally meant only to light cigarettes—fired a laser capable of slaying an Ork, did he really not know where the surging power within him came from?
Deep down, Yarrick was aware. But now, he had successfully convinced himself: this was the Great Might of the Emperor!
Ghazghkull watched the human positions from a distance. Yuki was still by his side.
"Well? As I said, it's difficult for you to truly take this place."
Ghazghkull wasn't angry. He burst into a thunderous laughter that made the nearby Ork Boyz hold their breath.
"Hahahahaha! Dis is a scrap! Dis is a propa foe!"
He heard Yarrick's legend spreading among the Orks. Newly born Orks, hearing the tales from the elders, treated Yarrick as their ultimate rival, for only a powerful enemy could birth a powerful Ork. The Green Tide would eventually surge through countless enemies and sweep across the entire galaxy!
When Ghazghkull turned to describe the grand future Gork and Mork had shown him to Yuki, he suddenly realized that Yuki was no longer there.
Perhaps he had been dreaming as well.
Centuries later, Armageddon—scarred by countless wars—would still remember this battle. Compared to the Third War for Armageddon or the conflicts of the far future, this might not have been the most brutal engagement, but everyone would remember the vendetta forged here between Yarrick and Ghazghkull.
And alongside this legend, two other slogans would echo through the ages to inspire the soul:
"Armageddon Stands! Long live the Emperor!"