Pain.
A lot of pain.
The first thing Gragoth felt after regaining consciousness was that every heartbeat seemed to drive a blunt hammer into his temples.
He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as though they had been welded shut.
His nose was filled with the mixed stench of blood, engine oil, gunpowder, rotting fungus, and burnt rubber.
It was so strong it made him want to vomit.
Gragoth nearly passed out again.
He forced his eyelids open, and his blurred vision gradually cleared.
The first thing he saw was a lead-grey sky, broken into fragments by billowing black smoke.
Several crude war machines were burning not far away.
One looked as though it had just exploded, half of its track dangling from a twisted steel beam while muffled secondary detonations from its ammunition continued to sound inside the vehicle.
The ground was covered in green corpses.
Thick.
Huge.
Tusks jutting from their mouths.
Some wore heavy iron armour, while others were dressed in nothing but leather and scraps of metal.
Blood flowed through cracks in the ground, gathering into dark red pools.
More living green creatures ran back and forth among the corpses.
“Let go!
I saw that gun first!” “So what if you saw it first?
I’m holding it now!” “Then I’ll take da hand holding it too!” Thud.
The sound of a heavy fist smashing into a face was exceptionally clear.
Gragoth stared at the fighting green creatures, his mind going blank for a moment.
Greenskins.
Orks.
War machines.
Weapons so crude they seemed to violate basic mechanical principles.
For someone who ordered miniatures the moment his paycheck arrived and had half the shelves at home stuffed with lore novels, almost nothing in front of him needed identifying.
Gragoth came to a very unpleasant conclusion.
He tried to raise a hand and rub his eyes.
A huge, rough, bright green palm entered his field of view.
The hand was bigger than a human head.
Its thick fingers were stained with dark red blood, and its nails resembled black animal claws.
Gragoth froze halfway through the motion.
He stared at the hand and tried curling his fingers.
The green palm clenched along with them.
He fell silent.
Looking down at his body, he saw an absurdly broad chest covered in damaged iron armour.
A broken blade was still lodged in his shoulder, while a huge gash split open his abdomen, the green muscles around the wound slowly writhing.
Even while sitting on the ground, his eye level was higher than that of most of the nearby greenskins.
“I must be dreaming.” Gragoth tried to reassure himself.
“Or maybe I inhaled too much model glue yesterday.” A flood of unfamiliar memories suddenly surged into his mind.
Broken images flashed past like a slideshow gone out of control.
A burning city.
A deafening roar of WAAAGH!
A massive chainaxe coming down.
An even larger Ork stood atop the ruins, announcing to all his underlings that he was the strongest Warboss on Saint Hecate.
Then came the duel.
Fists.
Teeth.
Blood.
Metal crashing against metal.
He?
No, the original owner of this body had grabbed his opponent by the throat and shoved him into the engine of a burning war machine.
His opponent, just before dying, had split open his chest with a battle axe.
The final memory was of flames filling the sky and the excited roars of the surrounding Orks.
A name surfaced from deep within those memories.
Gragoth Starbreaker.
That was the name of this body.
An Ork Nob from the largest tribe in the northern ruins of Saint Hecate.
Or rather, after the duel that had just ended, he was already the new Warboss.
The corner of Gragoth’s eye twitched slightly.
He wanted to wake up immediately.
He was willing to accept oversleeping, being late for work, having his computer’s hard drive die, or even having a discontinued miniature smashed to pieces during delivery.
Anything but this.
A huge shadow blocked out the light.
A massive green face leaned toward him.
Its left eye was covered by a metal plate, and two crooked tusks jutted from the sides of its mouth.
The Ork stared at him for a long time before asking in a thunderous voice: “Boss, you dead?” A wave of foul breath hit him in the face.
Gragoth instinctively held his breath.
Apparently, this wasn’t a dream.
A dream couldn’t simulate bad breath this realistically.
“You…” Gragoth startled himself the moment he spoke.
His voice was deep and hoarse, like two rocks grinding together.
“Get away from me.” The Ork froze for a moment, then looked delighted.
“Not dead!” He turned and shouted toward the distance, “Gragoth ain’t dead!” The camp erupted into noise.
Some Orks cheered, while others were obviously disappointed.
“How’s he still alive?” “He wasn’t even moving just now.” “I already took his gun.” “Then put it back quick, or he’ll take your arm too.” Gragoth remained seated, slowly processing the reality in front of him.
He really had transmigrated.
Into the world of Warhammer 40,000.
For a Warhammer fan, entering this world should have been exciting, provided one ignored the endless wars, Chaos, xenos, plagues, famine, psychic disasters, and the countless absurd ways an ordinary person could die at any moment.
More importantly, the identity he’d transmigrated into was nothing like what he’d imagined.
Gragoth had fantasized about situations like this countless times.
If he ended up during the Great Crusade, maybe he could become one of the lost Primarchs.
If he became an Astartes, a Loyalist Chapter would be preferable.
If his luck was a little worse, being an Inquisitor, an Adeptus Mechanicus Magos, or an Imperial Navy officer would still be acceptable.
Even an ordinary Imperial Guardsman could find some way to survive, as long as he wasn’t in the front rank.
Instead, he’d become an Ork.
And not just any Ork, but a badly wounded Warboss who had only just seized power through a duel.
Gragoth looked up at the gloomy sky and fell silent for a full ten seconds.
“Everyone else transmigrates as some secret son of the Emperor.
Why did I have to become a walking mushroom?” “What mushroom?” The one-eyed Ork from before leaned over again.
Gragoth turned and glared at him.
“Wasn’t talking about you.” “Oh.” The one-eyed Ork didn’t understand, but obediently took two steps back.
Gragoth tried to stand.
The instant his legs exerted force, he felt a level of strength far beyond anything a human could imagine.
Despite being badly wounded, this body was still astonishingly powerful.
When he pressed a hand against the ground, the loose stones beneath his palm were pushed straight into the dirt.
He slowly rose, his viewpoint climbing higher and higher.
One metre.
Two metres.
Three metres.
Only after fully straightening up did he realize just how enormous this body truly was.
The ordinary Orks around him barely reached his chest.
Even the Nobz were at least a head shorter than him.
Thick muscles bulged beneath his iron armour.
His wounds looked horrific, yet they were no longer bleeding heavily.
The Orks’ astonishing regenerative ability was already taking effect.
“At least I’m not a Gretchin,” Gragoth muttered, trying to console himself.
Becoming an Ork was unlucky enough.
If he’d become a Gretchin, the first thing he’d have to think about after arriving would be how to avoid getting stepped on.
A Warboss might not fit human standards of beauty, but at least he had status, strength, and a considerable number of subordinates.
As far as starting points for survival went, this was actually much better than being an ordinary Imperial civilian.
Gragoth began examining his surroundings.
It looked like an Ork camp built inside an abandoned industrial district.
Large numbers of metal plates had been haphazardly welded together into walls, while weapons, ammunition, broken machinery, and parts of unknown purpose were scattered across the ground.
Farther away stood the ruins of several human buildings, with defaced Imperial Aquilas still visible on their outer walls.
According to Gragoth’s lingering memories, this planet was called Saint Hecate.
The Orks had occupied it for many years, and human resistance had almost completely disappeared.
Today’s duel had been fought for control of the entire tribe.
Gragoth had won, and then Gragoth arrived, inheriting the fruits of his victory for free.
It really helps the fic grow!