Glug, glug, glug...
The sound of the boiling broth was exceptionally clear in the silent bridge.
Chubby, a Taste-Great Big 'Un in charge of this cruiser, was holding a choppa, preparing to lead his boys out to fight the other tribes' Orks for the Boss's seat. But when he smelled that familiar, soul-hooking aroma of Bacon, his movements stopped instantly.
His eyes became hollow and glassy, as if his soul had been snatched away.
Dropping the choppa, he walked step-by-step toward the throne-pot.
"Bacon, delicious Bacon..." Chubby muttered, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.
He completely forgot about the infighting, and forgot about the Boss's seat. Only that pot of steaming Bacon remained in his mind.
Walking up to the giant pot, he reached in with his massive hands and began frantically scooping and eating the Baconinside. He didn't even care that the boiling broth scalded his hands. He swallowed in massive gulps, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Tastes good, so great!"
He ate faster and faster, more and more. Finally, he threw his entire body into the giant pot.
With a splash, Chubby fell into the scalding broth.
He didn't make a single scream. He didn't even struggle. It was as if he dissolved into the pot. Soon, he vanished into the boiling broth.
The other Orks on the bridge watched blankly. No one dared step forward, their faces filled with awe and dread.
After Chubby completely disappeared, the broth and Bacon inside the pot began to rapidly condense. A golden light erupted from the pot. The broth violently churned and coalesced, gradually forming the silhouette of a humanoid creature.
A few minutes later, the light faded.
A brand-new Ragnar stepped out of the giant pot.
His physical build was much smaller than before, only about two meters tall, similar to an ordinary Ork Boy. But his stomach was still incredibly massive, almost hanging down to his knees. The giant mouth on it snapped open and shut, dripping dark green saliva.
His skin was no longer its former dark green, but had turned a bizarre, roast-pig-like dark red. Only after a while did it gradually cool down, turning green, while his body radiated a rich aroma of roasted meat.
Although his size had shrunk, the Waaagh! field radiating from him was purer and more condensed than ever before.
The moment Ragnar stepped out of the pot, across the entire Ork fleet, the once-shattered Waaagh! fields seemed to receive a summons, frantically gathering toward the Flatbread Meat-Roll.
In space, the green "shields" re-coalesced.
The Orks who were just slaughtering each other stopped their movements simultaneously. They looked up, gazing toward the Flatbread Meat-Roll, their eyes filled with fanaticism and awe.
"The Boss!" "It's the Boss! The Boss isn't dead!" "The Boss is back!!!"
Mountain-shaking cheers erupted from every single Ork warship. The Warbosses who had been preparing for civil war threw down their weapons. They sighed toward the Flatbread Meat-Roll and respectfully bowed their heads. A bloody civil war that was on the verge of erupting was directly suppressed by Ragnar's return.
This was Ork logic. As long as the Boss was strong enough, and as long as the Boss was alive, they would obey unconditionally.
Ragnar stood before the bridge viewport, looking at the fleet outside that had regained order. There was no joy on his face, only deep-seated terror.
He could clearly feel the resolute, absolute killing intent radiating from that single man and that insectoid monster. Even though he was back at the heart of his fleet, surrounded by hundreds of warships and tens of millions of Ork Boyz, he couldn't feel any sense of security.
That purple figure and that terrifying bug had become his absolute nightmare. He never wanted to face them again. Never.
"Boss, what do we do now?" a Taste-Great Big 'Un walked carefully to Ragnar's side and asked respectfully. "The remnants of the Goff Clan, along with the vanguards of the Evil Sunz and Deathskulls, are about to reach Karl II. Should we immediately follow up and take that space station in one go?"
"Follow up your ass!" Ragnar turned abruptly and roared at the Big 'Un. He tried his best to keep his voice steady, but his body was trembling slightly with fear.
"Retreat! The entire fleet, retreat!" "Now, immediately, right this instant!"
"Huh?" The Big 'Un froze, doubting his ears. "Boss, what did you say? Retreat? But we're about to take Karl II. If we retreat now, wouldn't all our previous fighting be for nothing?"
The other Big 'Uns on the bridge also showed confused expressions. They didn't understand why the Boss ordered a retreat the moment he returned.
"I said retreat!!!" Ragnar slammed his hand onto the console, his massive strength denting the metal rim. "I don't care about any of that! Retreat first!"
Naturally, he couldn't reveal his true, terrified thoughts.
"All ships, turn around immediately and return to Dorito!" "Anyone who disobeys my orders gets thrown into the pot and stewed!"
Ragnar's eyes were bloodshot. He didn't care about anything now—not Karl II, not the Calixis sector, not even the Supreme Bacon. Nothing was more important than his life. For now, the further away from those two death gods, the better. He would wait until he recovered enough power to protect himself.
Seeing Ragnar truly enraged, none of the Warbosses dared speak up. Though confused, they obediently executed the command.
"Yes, Boss!"
Soon, the order to retreat spread throughout the Ork fleet. The massive Ork main fleet began to slowly turn around. Warship after warship adjusted their direction, heading back toward the planet Dorito.
Only those few vanguard ships that had charged far ahead failed to receive the retreat order due to communication delays. Or perhaps they received it but were too blood-drunk to care. They continued their original plan, charging toward the Karl II space station and beginning to drop boarding pods.
Ragnar stood before the viewport, watching those few distant ships. His eyes were cold. He didn't care about those Orks' lives. As long as he could make it back alive, and as long as he could hide on Dorito, one day, he would return with even more Orks to take his revenge.
He would throw that purple shrimp and that bug into his pot and stew them into the most delicious Bacon.
"Just wait..." Ragnar muttered under his breath, the giant mouth on his stomach making a wet, rasping sound. "I will be back!"
The silver shuttle drifted through the vacuum of space, finally coming to a halt at the edge of an asteroid belt.
Raynor's gaze was fixed intently on the iron fleet in the distance, which was currently performing a complete 180-degree turn.
The massive Greenskin warships turned their colossal hulls like a herd of clumsy beasts. The plumes of fire spewing from their engines merged in the pitch-black space, forming a spectacular river of color that flowed slowly back toward the planet Dorito.
Only the dozen or so vanguard ships at the very front continued to hurtle toward the Karl II space station like runaway horses, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the main fleet had abandoned them.
"It has to be," Raynor's voice carried a faint trace of bone-chilling cold. "Ragnar is absolutely still alive."
There was no other possibility.
If a new Warboss had simply taken over, the Greenskin fleet would never have retreated at a time like this. Those unruly Warbosses would have seized this opportunity to wage frantic war, using a massive Waaagh! to prove they were stronger than Ragnar.
Only Ragnar himself—the warlord who had ruled the Greenskins of Dorito for years—could make these Orks willingly abandon a grand campaign and turn back.
"He runs fast," Sarah's figure appeared silently beside Raynor.
Today, she did not manifest her massive form as Sarah of the Bitter Cold, instead taking the shape of a young girl clad in a flowing purple gown. Her silvery-white hair cascaded down to her waist, and her violet eyes shimmered like the purest amethyst.
If one didn't know her true identity, they would easily mistake her for an ordinary noble girl.
From her reading, she had learned that men's hearts were fickle. Although she knew Raynor was absolutely loyal to her, her considerate nature led her to constantly switch forms—and even species—to accompany him.
Leaning gently against Raynor's shoulder, she said with a trace of regret in her voice, "Our shuttle isn't fast enough; we can't catch up to their main cruisers."
"Even though those Greenskin engines are ramshackle junk, under the reinforcement of the Waaagh! field, they move faster than this little shuttle."
Raynor glanced at the girl and nodded.
Truth be told, he still preferred her as a Norn Emissary. Still, compared to those grotesque xenos forms, her human shape was rather endearing.
"It seems we have no choice but to let him go for now," Raynor said, his tone laced with frustration.
They had finally cornered Ragnar, only to have him slip away. Moreover, his resurrection through some bizarre, unknown method filled Raynor with unease. What exactly was this "Bacon God"? Was it some obscure Chaos deity, or something far more ancient and chaotic? Raynor's mind was plagued with questions.
"Oh, I have an idea! Why don't we find one of the straggling Greenskin ships, slip inside, and hitch a ride with them back to Dorito?" Raynor's eyes lit up as a thought struck him.
"Once we infiltrate Dorito, we'll eventually find an opportunity to track down Ragnar. This time, I'll make sure to obliterate him completely, leaving not even a scrap of his soul." A dense surge of killing intent bled into his words.
Ragnar's functional immortality posed a severe threat. If they didn't eliminate him while he was vulnerable, his recovery would only bring greater catastrophes down the line.
But the moment the words left his mouth, Sarah shook her head and grabbed his arm. Her eyes filled with concern, and her tone turned serious.
"No, it's far too dangerous."
"Ragnar's abilities are too bizarre; we don't even know how he resurrected."
"Dorito is his main stronghold, teeming with billions of Orks, unknown Warbosses, and unpredictable Greenskin technology."
"On top of that, he will definitely be on high alert against you now."
"Even if we managed to slip onto Dorito, our movements would be severely restricted."
"The risks far outweigh the rewards."
Sarah spoke rapidly, analyzing the pros and cons with clear logic. Her hand gripped Raynor's arm tightly, terrified he might act on impulse and do something reckless.
Looking at Sarah's worried eyes, Raynor felt a warm current in his chest. He took a deep breath, suppressing his volatile urge to kill.
"You're right," Raynor sighed, reaching out to gently ruffle her hair. "I let my impulses get the better of me."
Ever since he had impersonated an Ork and experienced the mindless battle-lust of the Waaagh! field, he had noticed a subtle shift in his personality. At times, he grew hot-tempered, craved violence, and harboured reckless thoughts. Fortunately, Sarah was always by his side, keeping him anchored.
Raynor couldn't help but chuckle mockingly at himself. "It's quite ironic, really. The Tyranids—the cold, unfeeling slaughter engines of the galaxy—are advising a human to suppress his bloodlust."
Sarah looked up, locking her gaze with Raynor's. "I'm not telling you to stop killing; I just don't want you to throw your life away in vain."
"There is nothing wrong with slaughter—as Tyranids, consumption and destruction are our core instincts."
"But our slaughter is always driven by pragmatic gain, never by emotional impulse."
"Ragnar will die eventually, but not today. We have plenty of time and opportunities."
Her eyes were bright and unwavering, holding his reflection within them.
Staring into her eyes, the restlessness in Raynor's heart slowly receded. He nodded, squeezing her hand. "You're right. We have all the time in the world."
Just then, Sarah's brow furrowed.
"Actually, there is one more thing."
"The half-orcs accompanying Yadodo on the outskirts of Dorito just transmitted some highly unusual data."
"Oh? What is it?" Raynor's expression hardened instantly. If Sarah found something concerning, it was bound to be significant.
"A bizarre plague has erupted on Dorito," Sarah's voice grew heavy.
"According to the footage sent by the half-orcs, countless human corpses are rising from their graves, walking as mindless, animated husks."
"Their skin is putrefying, weeping a sickening green pus. Though slow, they possess a terrifying resilience, walking tirelessly to attack any living thing they cross."
"What's worse, the contagion spreads with alarming speed."
"In just a few days, it has already swept across three of Dorito's continents."
She added several other details Yadodo had observed.
Listening to the description, Raynor swallowed hard.
Undead plague. Supernatural resilience. Green pus.
The characteristics were far too familiar. A sickening name practically leaped to the tip of his tongue, but he choked it back just in time.
In the Warhammer 40k universe, uttering the true name of the Ruinous Powers was an act of extreme foolishness. No one could ever be sure if the eyes and ears of a dark god were listening in from the shadows.
Raynor immediately opened his secure mental link with Sarah. As a system-granted communication method, it was absolutely untraceable by any external entities.
Why is Nurgle here?
Raynor spoke the forbidden name within the silence of their telepathic bond.