章節 91: Primarch or Warboss?
The battlefield erupted in a Cacophony of destruction that would have made any normal Ork Warboss weep with joy. But Gorblasta was no normal Ork, and this was no normal battle. The Prime-Ork stood tall, his enhanced mind calculating trajectories and analyzing patterns even as his arsenal of weapons unleashed hell in every direction.
Then he felt it - the subtle shift in the air that preceded truly overwhelming firepower. His power fields flickered and died under a barrage that seemed to defy the laws of physics themselves. Gorblasta's enhanced senses picked up the source immediately, and his heart actually skipped a beat.
There, silhouetted against the war-torn horizon, stood the figure of legend. Da Dakkabringer. Franklin Valorian.
"Finally," Gorblasta breathed, his voice carrying both reverence and anticipation. "Time to test da theories."
Franklin's response came in the form of more firepower. The Primarch's mechsuit hummed with power as weapon after weapon discharged in perfectly calculated sequences. The air between them became a corridor of pure destruction, filled with more types of energy than most beings could name.
Gorblasta's own arsenal responded in kind. His power armor, a masterpiece of upgraded Orkish technology, bristled with guns of every conceivable type and size. Where Franklin brought quality, Gorblasta attempted to match it with quantity. Hundreds of barrels tracked and fired, turning the battlefield into a crossfire zone that would have annihilated lesser warriors instantly.
But Franklin was far from lesser. His overlapping shield systems created a spectacular light show as they absorbed and deflected the endless barrage. Ion shields sparked and flickered, conversion fields transformed deadly energy into harmless light, void shields swallowed entire streams of fire, and quantum shields bent reality itself to protect their wearer. Steam hissed from overtaxed cooling systems as the mechsuit's Zero Point Energy Core channeled infinite power into both offense and defense.
"More!" Gorblasta roared, even as he was forced to dive behind a fallen war machine for cover. "Show me more, Dakkabringer! Show me what real dakka looks like!"
Around them, the battle reached apocalyptic proportions. Liberty Eagles Astartes crashed into ranks of power-armored Orks, their traditional transhuman might enhanced by technology that would have made Mars itself jealous. Disintegration rifles turned Orks into clouds of atoms even as return fire from near-Dark Age Plasma rifles punched clean through Conversion Shields and Tyranimite plate.
The Liberty Guard, Transhuman Soldiers the in-between mortal and Astartes, engaged the Ork Nobs with tactical precision that seemed almost blasphemous against such bestial opponents. Their grav-tanks hovered across the battlefield, their weapons cutting swathes through the greenskin hordes with mathematical precision.
Above, the sky turned into a scrapyard as Ork aircraft fell from the heavens in burning hulks. Liberty Eagles fighters and interceptors danced through the chaos, their energy weapons turning ramshackle Ork planes into meteorites. Yet still the Orks came, their numbers seemingly endless, their crude but effective technology a dark mirror of humanity's own warmachine.
In the distance, Titans walked. God-machines of both sides traded apocalyptic weapons fire, each shot capable of leveling cities. The ground shook continuously under their tread.
Gorblasta's tactical systems - far more sophisticated than any Ork should possess - registered the flow of battle with crystal clarity. His forces were being systematically dismantled, not through any single overwhelming advantage, but through the relentless application of superior firepower across every level of engagement. It was beautiful, in its own terrible way.
"This," he shouted over the din of battle, "this is what I've been preparing for! But..." The Prime-Ork's enhanced mind reached a reluctant conclusion. "Still not enough dakka. Still not enough!"
Franklin's response was another wave of firepower that forced Gorblasta to abandon his position entirely. The Prime-Ork's armor, despite its advanced repair systems and reinforced construction, was beginning to show the strain of trying to match a Primarch's arsenal.
On the other side of the battlefield, Fulgrim led his Emperor's Children in a Blitzkrieg against the Iron Citadel's defensive lines. The Attack was led by the Liberty Pattern - Telemon Dreadnoughts followed by the Mastodons with the Knight Walkers keeping the breach from ever closing, the Mastodons disgorged the Emperor's Children and Liberty Eagles Astartes, Fulgrim carved through the Greenskin defenders each stroke a masterwork of martial art that would have been at home in any gallery - if galleries displayed the art of death.
Julius Kaesoron, First Captain of the Emperor's Children, followed in his Primarch's wake. His enhanced transhuman senses captured every detail of Fulgrim's combat style, noting subtle differences that might have been invisible to others. The obsessive need for perfection was still there, but it seemed... tempered somehow.
"Forward!" Fulgrim's voice carried over the din of battle. "The Iron Citadel falls today!"
As the Emperor's Children advanced, Kaesoron found his thoughts turning to the changes he'd observed in his Primarch over the recent months. The reunion with his brother Franklin seemed to have affected Fulgrim in ways that were difficult to quantify. The Phoenician's pursuit of perfection remained absolute, but there was a new pragmatism to it, a willingness to acknowledge that perfection could take different forms.
The assault continued with mechanical precision, each squad moving in perfect coordination. Yet even here, Kaesoron could see the influence of their uncle's doctrine. Where before they might have spent precious time seeking the perfect angle of attack, now they simply overwhelmed their targets with concentrated firepower before moving on to the next objective.
"Adaptation without compromise," Fulgrim had called it during one of their strategy sessions. "Perfection isn't always about the most elegant solution - sometimes it's about achieving maximum effect with minimum waste."
A nearby explosion brought Kaesoron's attention back to the present. The Iron Citadel's defenders were putting up fierce resistance, but they were fighting two Primarchs today. Franklin's endless barrage kept their heaviest assets occupied, while Fulgrim's precise strikes exploited every weakness that appeared.
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Back at the main battle line, Franklin's duel with Gorblasta reached new heights of destruction. The Prime-Ork's power armor now bore the scars of dozens of direct hits, its repair systems struggling to keep up with the damage. Yet still he fought on, his enhanced mind analyzing every exchange, learning even in defeat.
Franklin Valorian stood like an immovable object in the midst of chaos, a nexus of devastating firepower that turned the battlefield into a killing field. Around him, the Secret Service maintained an impenetrable cordon, their bodies surrounded by the equipment of countless Orks who had tried and failed to flank their charge. Each attempted rush had ended the same way - in disintegrated bodies and scrap metal.
The mech suit hissed as a burst of vapor escaped its cooling vents, releasing the intense heat generated by Franklin's defensive systems. Fueled by the limitless power of its Zero-Point Energy Core, the suit's layered defenses worked in seamless tandem: ion shields crackled as they absorbed incoming fire, conversion fields transformed lethal impacts into harmless bursts of light, void shields swallowed entire barrages without a trace, and quantum shields bent reality itself to keep their wearer unscathed. It was as if Franklin was an untouchable figure on the battlefield, shielded by technology so advanced that no conventional weapon could breach its defenses.
Even Gorblasta's most powerful weapons barely registered as minor fluctuations in the energy field. Nothing short of a Titan's main gun could hope to breach such defenses, and that last hope was literally being torn in half before his eyes.
The massive Castigator-class Titan dominated the horizon, its singular red eye burning with malevolent intelligence as it ripped through Gorblasta's last Mega Gargant. The god-machine's vox casters boomed across the battlefield, its message a chilling declaration: "Embrace democracy, or you will be eradicated." The cyclopic gaze swept across the battlefield before turning its attention to the Ork hordes, its weapons transforming entire formations into ash.
Gorblasta noticed the Liberty Eagles' attack beginning to wane, a tactical shift that under normal circumstances might have presented an opportunity. His enhanced mind calculated vectors and possibilities as he ducked behind a Stompa's power field, barely avoiding another barrage from Franklin's position. He returned fire, his remaining weapons systems pushing themselves to their limits, but he knew it was a losing battle. The Dakkabringer's firepower was simply on another level entirely.
"Never enough dakka," he muttered to himself, a mix of reverence and frustration in his voice. His tactically enhanced mind began running retreat scenarios. After all, as every proper Ork knew, you never really lose in war. If you kill the enemy, you win. If you retreat, you just win later. And if you die, well, you're too dead to know you lost.
Gorblasta attempted to contact the Iron Citadel, seeking coordination for a strategic withdrawal and his last attempt to take down the Titans on the opposing side. The silence that answered him was more ominous than any battlefield noise. Looking up, he watched in horror as the Citadel's titan-killing weapons - massive defense platforms that had been their ace in the hole - erupted skyward in tremendous explosions.
The realization hit him like a power klaw to the gut. This hadn't been just a battle - it had been a carefully orchestrated trap. While he had been focused on matching dakka with Da Dakkabringer, the other Purple Space Marines and that Pretty Boy, had systematically dismantled his defensive stronghold.
With impressive speed for his massive frame, Gorblasta retreated to a hidden bunker complex, one of many escape routes he had prepared. As the reinforced doors sealed behind him, the sky literally opened up. Without the Iron Citadel's planetary shield generator, there was nothing to protect his forces from orbital bombardment.
Through armored viewports, he watched as his army was systematically erased from existence. Liberty Eagles strike cruisers in high orbit rained death upon precise coordinates, each strike eliminating key strategic positions that his enhanced mind had thought impregnable. It was, he had to admit, a perfect example of dakka used properly - overwhelming firepower applied precisely where and when it would do the most damage.
"Clever, Dakkabringer, proper clever," he murmured as emergency teleporters powered up. "You didn't just bring more dakka - you brought it exactly where it needed to be."
As his forces were decimated above, Gorblasta's enhanced mind was already planning, adapting, learning. He had lost this battle, yes, but he had gained something perhaps more valuable - new insights into the true nature of dakka. It wasn't just about having the most guns or the biggest explosions. It was about having the right amount of firepower in the right place at the right time.
The bunker's reinforced walls trembled with the distant sounds of battle. Gorblasta stood before the teleporter, his massive frame casting long shadows in the emergency lighting. His augmented senses detected the presence before his armor's systems did – that peculiar combination of transhuman power and technological sophistication that could only mean one thing.
When he turned, the sight nearly made his enhanced heart stop. There stood Franklin Valorian – Da Dakkabringer himself – with enough firepower trained on him to reduce a small continent to ash. The disparity in their size seemed almost comedic; Gorblasta's seven-meter frame towered over the Primarch's mere fifteen feet. Yet in that moment, it was the smaller figure that seemed to fill the room with his presence.
Multiple weapon systems bristled from the Dakka Bringer's armor, each one perfectly aligned to ensure maximum destructive coverage. The Prime-Ork's tactical systems confirmed what he already knew – his power field was down, and he was seconds away from being turned into a fine green mist.
"Good fight," Franklin said simply, his voice carrying the weight of genuine respect.
Gorblasta's metallic teeth formed into a knowing smirk. "Proper dakka, it was. Da kind dat makes Gork and Mork smile." He spread his arms wide, power klaw gleaming under the bunker's harsh lighting. "Well, what are you waiting for? You won fair and proper. Time to finish it, eh?"
Franklin's chuckle echoed through the chamber, catching the Prime-Ork off guard. "Your empire's in pieces, Gorblasta. Your forces scattered. Your technologies – impressive as they are – broken." He gestured toward the teleporter with one of his many weapon systems. "Activate it."
Gorblasta's cybernetically enhanced brain took a moment to process the command. His hand moved to the control panel, but confusion was evident in his unnaturally intelligent eyes. "You want me to..."
"Power it up," Franklin confirmed. "Then use it. Get yourself to safety."
The Prime-Ork's hand hesitated over the controls. "I don't understand. Why don't you umies ever finish off da leaders? Seems right un-orky, if you ask me."
Franklin's response came in perfect Orkish, the guttural language rolling off his tongue as naturally as Gothic: "GOOD ENEMIES ARE HARD TO FIND."
The sound that erupted from Gorblasta started as a chuckle, grew into a laugh, and finally exploded into a full-bellied roar that shook dust from the bunker's ceiling. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was talking to the biggest, baddest Ork Warboss in the galaxy rather than a human Primarch.
"You know," Gorblasta said, taking a step toward the portal, "if you let me go now, I'll come back stronger. Better dakka. Better tech. Proper challenge next time."
Franklin's weapons never wavered, but there was amusement in his voice. "All the better."
Gorblasta stepped onto the teleporter platform, his tactical systems still trying to process the situation. Here he was, facing the legendary Dakkabringer himself, and instead of ending him, Franklin was letting him go. Not out of weakness or mercy, but because he recognized the value of a worthy opponent. It was, Gorblasta realized, perhaps the most Orky thing he'd ever encountered.
"You know what's funny?" Gorblasta said, pausing at the threshold of the portal. "All these years, we thought we had to teach da universe about proper dakka. But you..." He shook his head in admiration. "You already get it. Maybe better than some of us do."
"Maybe that's why Gork and Mork showed you to us," he continued, his voice taking on a philosophical tone that would have shocked any normal Ork. "Not just because of da dakka, but because you understand. War ain't just about winning. It's about da fight itself. About getting stronger, better, more dakka every time."
The portal's energy field began to intensify around him. "Next time, Dakkabringer. Next time I'll have something special for you. Something worthy of this moment."
"Looking forward to it," Franklin replied, still in perfect Orkish.
As the teleporter's field enveloped him, Gorblasta's last sight was of Franklin Valorian, surrounded by enough firepower to end him a thousand times over, choosing instead to let him live – not out of weakness, but out of an understanding that transcended the normal boundaries between their species. It was, the Prime-Ork realized, exactly what he should have expected from Da Dakkabringer.
The last sound in the bunker was Gorblasta's booming laugh as he uttered the last few words before disappeared into the portal, You know what the other Orks say about you, Dakkabringer? They say you're what happens when Gork and Mork decide to make a human instead of an Ork. After today..." His grin widened. "I think they might be right."
Behind his helmet, Franklin made a mental note to start developing countermeasures for whatever new forms of dakka Gorblasta would bring to their next encounter. After all, it wouldn't do to disappoint such an enthusiastic opponent.
The bunker's trembling intensified as his Liberty Eagles continued their systematic destruction of the facility. But Franklin knew that somewhere out there, Gorblasta was already planning, already theorizing new ways to achieve that impossible dream of 'enuff dakka.' And truthfully, he was looking forward to seeing what the Prime-Ork would come up with next.
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