Two days later, the Ork fleet arrived at planet Dorido.
Ragnar rode a landing pod down, touching down on a massive drop zone configured like a grand gladiator arena. He had expected to be greeted by the roaring cheers of his boyz and massive, steaming pots of savory stuffing. Yet the moment he stepped out of the pod and took in the sight before him, the grin instantly vanished from his green face.
The endless mushroom fields spreading beyond the arena perimeter were in absolute ruins. The massive fungus crops, which usually grew half a man tall, were either trampled into a gelatinous green sludge or had rotted black, emitting a foul, suffocating stench. The once-orderly trenches and ridges were dug up into a chaotic maze of craters, littered everywhere with decaying fungal fragments and messy footprints.
Even the distant Squig ranches had failed to escape the carnage. The wooden barricades were smashed wide open with gaping holes, and countless Squigs had bolted without a trace, leaving behind only a scattering of half-chewed carcasses.
The mushroom fields were the very foundation of Ragnar's domain. In an era where almost all Orks relied solely on raiding to survive, Ragnar alone had utilized advanced fungal cultivation and Squig-breeding techniques to sustain an immense population of five billion Orks on Dorido. Without these fields, the Weizhen Clan would never have reached its current heights. This was also the fundamental reason he had possessed the confidence to abandon Karl II and retreat; as long as his fields remained intact, he had infinite chances to rebuild his strength.
But now, his foundation had been thoroughly desecrated.
"WAAAAAAAUGH!!!"
Ragnar let out a sky-rending roar of pure fury. The Waaagh! field around his frame instantly spiked, its vibrant green energy painting the heavens above in a deep, dark emerald hue.
Blazing with wrath, he stormed back to his capital city and forcefully summoned all the Warbosses who had been left behind to garrison the planet. These Bosses were trembling with fear, each keeping their heads lowered, not daring to utter a single sound.
"Who did dis?!" Ragnar slammed his fist into a massive ornamental tusk flanking his throne, snapping the half-meter-thick bone clean in half. "Who trampled my mushroom fields into a total mess?! If ya gits don't start talkin', I'm stewin' every single one of ya into savory stuffing!"
The garrisoned Bosses looked at each other in confusion, stammering and hesitating to speak. After a long silence, a heavily scarred Boss belonging to the Weizhen Clan finally gathered enough courage to step forward.
"B... Boss, it wasn't us gits what did it. It was dem rot-walkers."
"Rot-walkers?" Ragnar narrowed his eyes. He had initially assumed that some blind fool had tried to launch a mutiny while he was away from the system.
"Yeah, Boss," the scarred Boss blurted out quickly. "A week after ya left, dem buried humie corpses under da ground suddenly woke up. Dey crawled right out of dere graves and started bitin' everythin'."
"Everywhere dey walked, da humies buried under da dirt would wake up too, turnin' into brand-new rot-walkers. Dey said it was only a few dozen of 'em at first, so none of us gits gave a squig's tail about it. But everywhere dey went, more of 'em crawled out of da dirt, get'n more numerous da more we chopped 'em down."
"In less dan two days, dere was hundreds of millions of 'em running all over da place, tramplin' da mushroom fields and bashin' through da Squig pens. We put together a few proper counter-attacks, but dese fings just wouldn't stop comin'. Dey keep movin' even when dere heads are chopped off, and dey piece themselves back together when we hack 'em up. But da good fing is, dey couldn't turn our dead boyz into rot-walkers."
Ragnar's face grew increasingly grim. He instantly recalled the three space hulks they had intercepted on their return voyage, the identical plague zombies infesting those ships, and the distinct three-circle, three-arrow icon plastered all over the bulkheads.
"Looks like dem three broken ships were up to sumfin' sneaky," he growled through gritted teeth. "From now on, whenever ya see anythin' with three circles and three arrows drawn on it, I don't care wot it is—chop it to bits and burn it to ash!"
His anger cooling slightly, Ragnar looked back at the scarred Boss. "So wot happened next? How'd ya gits wipe dem rot-walkers out?"
A wave of embarrassment washed over the scarred Boss's face. "Dat... well, it wasn't us big gits what figured it out. It was a Gretchin."
"A Grott?" Ragnar froze.
Gretchin were the lowest tier of the Ork social hierarchy—puny, cowardly creatures who were typically relegated to menial chores and whose deaths carried absolutely no weight. What kind of tactical solution could a mere Grot possibly devise?
"It's dat Yadodo chap, da one what ran back from Karl II to bring da warning," the scarred Boss explained. "Dat little git took a bunch of Grots and hid behind a rock, watchin' dem rot-walkers for a whole day and night. He figured out dat dey only get stronger by 'catchin' ' it from dead bodies."
"He said as long as dere ain't no new bodies to catch it, dey won't get any more numerous. So he said we should dig up every single corpse under da ground and burn 'em to ash, and den dig a proper deep trench to trap da rot-walkers inside."
"No one believed his talk at first, thinkin' wot does a puny Grot know? Until a big Bad Moons Boss decided to give it a go in his territory, and it actually wiped out all da rot-walkers in his zone. Den everyone else started copyin' it."
"We dug a massive isolation trench entirely encirclin' da infected zone and burned every single corpse inside. Once da trench was made, da rot-walkers really stopped gettin' more numerous, and it only took us half a day to chop da rest of 'em to bits."
Hearing this, an expression of genuine astonishment surfaced on Ragnar's face.
Burning the corpses to cut off the vector of infection, and digging an isolation perimeter to restrict their movement. These two methods were simple, practical, and struck right at the heart of the threat. Even he might not have formulated such an elegant strategy in such a short timeframe.
A mere Gretchin possessed that kind of intellect?
Ragnar's eyes ignited with interest. The one thing Orks never lacked was brawny warriors capable of a good scrap; what they desperately lacked were individuals who actually knew how to use their brains. He had achieved everything he possessed today precisely because he was smarter than the average Ork. And now, he had discovered a Grot who might be just as clever as he was.
"Good!" Ragnar bellowed loudly. "Dis Yadodo is a proper smart lad!"
"Quick, bring dat little git to me! I'm seein' him myself!"
"Right away, Boss!" A personal guard immediately spun around and sprinted toward the sector where Yadodo was stationed.
Ragnar stood his ground, looking out at the distant boyz who were slowly clearing away the ruined mushroom fields, his eyes filled with anticipation. He had a strong premonition that this Grot named Yadodo would bring him an unexpected "surprise." Perhaps, with this little fellow's assistance, he could not only rapidly rebuild his agricultural foundation but also elevate the Weizhen Clan to a level far more powerful than before.
Meanwhile, in a temporary camp a short distance away, a Gretchin who stood nearly as tall as an ordinary Ork Boy was hiding behind a massive boulder, covertly observing the scene. He held a small notebook made of compressed tree bark, its pages filled with various bizarre symbols drawn with charcoal.
Upon hearing the news that Ragnar had summoned him for an audience, a sly, cunning light flashed within his small eyes. He brushed the dust off his frame, adjusted his ramshackle armor, and then tilted his head high. Striding forward with proud, exaggerated steps, he began making his way toward the Warboss's throne.
Four days later, the Karl II space station had thoroughly shed the pungent smell of combat smoke, replacing it with a scene of structured, hyper-efficient hustle.
The orbital shipyards were brilliantly lit, with dozens of colossal Imperial bulk transports docked sequentially in their berths. Massive mechanical gantry cranes hummed, lifting crate after crate of heavy macro-shells, adamantium armor plating, and localized energy cells out of the transport holds, transferring them seamlessly down into the station's underground armories. Servitors clad in grey uniforms marched in precise, unyielding lines, transferring crates with numb, mechanical repetition. Inside a largely intact wing of Karl II, Tech-Priests chanted rhythmic litanies to the Omnissiah, forging damaged weaponry back to pristine, functional conditions.
On the bridge of the Gemstone, Dominic stood before the massive holographic tact-map, studying a sequence of green data-points tracing a line across the grid. Those icons tracked the resupply flotillas currently in transit, mapped along a beautiful blue vector running directly from the Brevis planetary port. Navigating neatly past the asteroid belt, the route terminated straight at the Karl II space station. This line had undergone three successive technical optimizations, bypassing all localized warp turbulence and gravitational anomalies, compressing the entire transit window down to a mere two and a half days.
"Report, My Lord. The seventh resupply vanguard has cleared the third asteroid belt on schedule. Estimated arrival at Karl II is six hours," a vox-operator announced respectfully.
Dominic nodded, a satisfied smile surfacing across his features. "Excellent. Notify the logistical echelons to prepare for reception. All munitions must be distributed to the combat vessels within twelve hours, and priority for mechanical replacement components will be granted to the Gemstone."
"Understood, My Lord!" The vox-operator bowed and departed, returning the bridge to its deep composure.
Dominic reached out his remaining right hand, tracing his fingers across the glowing blue supply corridor mapped on the tact-screen. As his finger spanned the physical path, an indescribable surge of adrenaline pooled in his chest. He had participated in countless planetary campaigns, from the mop-up operations of the Third War for Armageddon to containing Chaos incursions leaking from the Eye of Terror. He had witnessed theaters vastly larger than this, yet no campaign had ever yielded this distinct flavor of professional fulfillment.
This was the absolute first time he was operating as the supreme commander, independently orchestrating a comprehensive, cross-system total war. No longer acting as someone else's executive officer; no longer a chess piece executing a superior's rigid agenda. Every tactical baseline, every troop deployment, and every critical decision was fundamentally dictated by his authority alone. This sensation of standing completely at the vanguard of command made his blood boil with pride.
Of course, he had not allowed this rush of independent command to blind his strategic faculties. He was acutely aware that without Raynor von Carri, this entire theater would have collapsed into a catastrophic failure long ago. Had Raynor not arranged that devastating kill-zone at Karl II, vaporizing three million landing Orks, and had he not instantly seen through the reality of Ragnar's survival to halt a reckless pursuit, Dominic would likely be fleeing back to Brevis by now, leading a broken, humiliated vanguard.
Dominic's gaze drifted involuntarily toward the viewscreen, looking out at the distant orbital docks. He couldn't physically resolve specific individuals from this distance, but he knew that somewhere within a secluded pocket of the orbital grid, two figures were likely seated together. One was a man in a black coat, and the other was a young woman with long, silver-white hair. They would either be standing side-by-side, their backs turned away from the bridge, or quietly observing the magnificent, dark sea of stars together. They remained in close proximity, the girl's head resting faintly against Raynor's shoulder in a posture of seamless intimacy.
Thinking of this, Dominic's brow furrowed slightly.
That white-haired girl. Ever since Raynor had arrived at Karl II, this young woman had remained tethered to his side, practically inseparable. She claimed to operate as Raynor's personal administrative assistant under the name "Elle." Yet Dominic consistently sensed that this girl was anything but ordinary. Her gaze was far too cold, far too deep, lacking the baseline emotions of a standard human teenager. Furthermore, her physical reflexes were terrifyingly swift; just the other day, a crazed Ork captive had broken its constraints and lunged directly toward Raynor. Before the elite personal guards could even chamber a round, the girl had casually stepped inside its guard and snapped its massive neck with a single fluid twist.
What fixated Dominic's attention even more, however, was the precise nature of the relationship between Raynor and this girl. They were practically a singular entity—eating together, attending war councils together, and even turning in to the exact same quarters at night. Any perceptive observer could deduce that their dynamic stretched far beyond standard professional boundaries.
Dominic pulled up the data-terminal on his wrist, scrolling through the intelligence dossiers compiled on Raynor's background. The text stated clearly:
Raynor von Carri, Planetary Governor of Brevis. Spouse: Isolde Kraast, eldest daughter of a High Lord belonging to the ancient, sector-established House Kraast.
Raynor had precisely leveraged his marriage to Isolde to secure the political backing of House Kraast, successfully leveraging that leverage to secure his election as Governor of Brevis. According to the intelligence operatives' assessments, the marital relationship between Raynor and Isolde was exceptionally harmonious. Isolde was described as gentle, refined, and hyper-competent, managing the internal logistics of the Governor's estate with absolute precision while offering unyielding public support for Raynor's policies. Raynor, in turn, treated Isolde with immense institutional respect, with zero negative reports or domestic discord ever leaking to the public.
Yet looking at the current reality, those intelligence reports were glaringly incomplete.
Dominic shook his head faintly, powering down the data-slate. He didn't harbor any real prejudice against this behavior. After all, within the aristocratic circles of the Imperium, such arrangements were common currency. Which high lord lacked a collection of mistresses, and which noble matriarch didn't retain a few favored consorts? It was a system of mutual, unexpressed understanding; as long as the optics weren't brazenly paraded before the public eye, no authority would waste resources investigating it.
Granted, on an official level, the Imperium strictly enforced a monogamous marital framework. The localized Orders Famulous of the Adepta Sororitas kept a hyper-vigilant watch over the genetic and marital status of major aristocratic bloodlines. To the Lex Imperialis, a marriage wasn't merely a union between two individuals, but a binding political alliance between two great houses. A stable, unbroken marriage efficiently prevented the fracturing of planetary authority and internal civil strife, while building a cleaner psychological bulwark against the subtle corruptions of Chaos. After all, a chaotic, unhinged private life was precisely the crack through which the Archenemy loved to anchor its viral influence.
Nevertheless, Dominic had zero intention of inserting himself into Raynor's domestic affairs. First and foremost, Raynor was currently his premier military ally, and the absolute linchpin upon which the success of this entire war rested. He had no desire to compromise their operational synergy over a minor domestic detail. Secondly, according to the deep background checks, the foundational bond between Raynor and Isolde wasn't fractured; by all accounts, they were intensely devoted to one another. If the primary stakeholders involved saw no reason to complain, why should an outside commander play the moralist?
"As long as he can assist me in winning this war and cleansing the Ork presence from this sector, what does a minor personal indulgence like this even matter?" Dominic murmured under his breath. Shifting his thoughts away from the topic, he refocused his gaze onto the glowing holographic starchart, an eager, anticipatory smile reforming across his face.
"Three more days, and the final logistical echelons will be integrated into our grid. When that hour strikes, we launch our grand offensive against Dorido."
"Ragnar... this time, I will personally claim your head, balancing the scales for Ralph and every single guardsman who fell under your axes!"
Meanwhile, within a secluded, unmonitored corner of the orbital shipyard.
Exactly as Dominic had calculated, Raynor and "Elle" were seated side-by-side atop a discarded, heavy cargo container, quietly observing the magnificent, shimmering sea of stars spanning the void.
He was completely oblivious to the fact that his moral profile had undergone a highly colorful, aristocratic reinterpretation within Dominic's mind. Yet, if Raynor had been privy to the Admiral's exact thoughts, he would have found the irony deeply amusing. After all, before he had assumed the identity, the original, long-dead owner of the name Raynor von Carri had been precisely that kind of high-born playboy.