The iron ball came whistling toward Gragoth’s face.
Gragoth stepped aside.
The iron ball scraped past the iron armour on his left shoulder, sending a shower of sparks flying from the impact.
A deep gouge was carved into the edge of the armour, but Gragoth didn’t feel any pain.
The instant Stikk started pulling the chain back, Gragoth stepped forward.
That single step carried him nearly two metres.
His right fist swung out from his waist, driving toward Stikk’s chest with the full weight of his body behind it.
Stikk raised the iron chain horizontally with both hands to block.
Gragoth’s fist slammed into the chain.
Metal shrieked as it bent, and the middle section of the chain was punched inward into the shape of a fist.
Stikk’s arms jolted violently, and his entire body was forced backward three steps, his feet ploughing two furrows through the rubble-strewn ground.
Gragoth took the opportunity to move forward and kicked Stikk to the ground.
Then he grabbed the red plate armour across Stikk’s chest and lifted him bodily into the air.
Stikk’s feet left the ground, and the chain slipped from his hands and crashed down.
Gragoth raised him until they were eye to eye.
Stikk kicked his legs twice in midair and realized he couldn’t reach the ground.
“What was it you said just now?” Gragoth asked.
The corner of Stikk’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
“You said you’d make a better Boss than me?” Stikk looked away, his throat bobbing once.
Every Ork around them was staring at Stikk hanging in midair.
Stikk remained silent for three seconds.
“…Fine.
You win.” Gragoth lowered Stikk back down.
Once his feet touched the ground, Stikk bent over, picked up his chain, and backed away two steps with his head lowered.
The surrounding Orks were quiet for a moment before they began shouting one after another: “Gragoth won!” “He’s still da Boss!” “He’s even bigger than before!” Gragoth turned around to face all the watching Orks.
There were dozens of them in total, along with the scattered Boyz farther away who were still searching through the loot.
He raised his right hand, signalling for silence.
The Orks gradually quieted down and looked at him.
Gragoth took a deep breath.
His chance had come!
He needed to make these Orks understand what a “Primarch” was, and after they understood, he needed them to be willing to follow that identity of “Primarch.” “You all saw me get bigger just now,” Gragoth said.
The Orks nodded.
“You saw my wounds healing faster than before.” More nodding.
“You heard me say a word.” The Orks looked at one another.
Someone quietly repeated, “Primarch…?” “Right.” Gragoth lowered his hand.
“Primarch.” He clenched his fist and held it up for everyone to see.
“A Primarch ain’t an ordinary Warboss.” One Ork asked, “Then what’s a Primarch?” Gragoth opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to explain “the twenty genetically engineered Primarchs created by the Emperor.” But then he immediately realized that these greenskins might not even know what the Emperor was, let alone genetic engineering.
So he put it another way.
“A Primarch is da fightiest Warboss there is.” The Orks fell silent for a moment.
An Ork carrying a hammer raised his hand.
“How fighty?” “An ordinary Warboss is just a Gretchin next to a Primarch,” Gragoth said.
The Orks began to react.
Some stroked their chins and nodded, some bared their tusks in grins, while others turned to exchange looks with the Orks beside them.
One-Eye squeezed his way to the front and looked up.
“Does a Primarch have lots of Boyz?” “Lots,” Gragoth said.
“A whole lot.
“A Primarch’s got an entire—” He paused, swallowing the word “Legion” and replacing it with something the greenskins could understand.
“A whole bunch of tribes, all full of Boyz who can fight.” One-Eye’s eye lit up.
“More than we got now?” “More than you could count.” Gragoth said, “A Primarch’s Boyz could fill this camp a hundred times over.” The Orks began stirring.
More Boyz meant more loot, more territory, and more things to steal.
A young Ork shouted, “Then if we’re following a Primarch now, does that mean we’re Primarch Boyz too?” Gragoth looked at him.
“Do you fink it does?” “Well, I fink…” The young Ork scratched his head.
“I fink it does!” The instant he shouted those words, the string inside Gragoth’s chest trembled again.
Although the vibration was much weaker than before, Gragoth could clearly tell that this power had come from outside him—from the young Ork who had said, “I fink it does.” Collective belief.
He’d guessed right.
“It does!” Gragoth raised his voice.
“You’re Primarch Boyz now!” One-Eye was the first to shout, “Primarch!” Then came the young Ork.
“Primarch!” More Orks joined in.
A few scattered voices became more than a dozen, and then dozens of them were shouting together.
“Primarch!” “Primarch!” “Primarch!” Gragoth stood in place, feeling those shouts surge toward him from every direction.
Each shout made the string inside him tremble slightly.
The power of a single Ork was very weak, but once dozens of voices came together, the vibration became noticeably stronger than before.
His wounds began healing faster.
His muscles swelled slightly again, and the heat inside his body started surging once more.
Stikk stood at the edge of the crowd.
His lips moved without making a sound, but Gragoth could see that he too was quietly repeating the word.
“Primarch.” Gragoth looked at the crowd of green heads before him, with tusks jutting from their mouths and battered iron armour hanging from their bodies.
They looked nothing like the Astartes who served under actual Primarchs, but at least now they all understood what the word “Primarch” meant: A bigger, stronger Warboss.
A Boss with even more Boyz under him.
That was enough.
The chanting continued for nearly half a minute before gradually dying down.
One-Eye walked over to Gragoth’s feet and looked up at him.
The metal plate over his left eye gleamed in the firelight.
“Boss.” He immediately corrected himself.
“No, Primarch.” “What?” One-Eye scratched his chin, looking confused.
“What do a Primarch’s Boyz get called?” Gragoth looked down at him.
One-Eye continued, “An ordinary Warboss has Boyz.
A Primarch’s bigger than an ordinary Warboss, so his Boyz ought to have some special name, right?” One-Eye’s question made its way around the middle of the camp until every Ork had heard it.
“What are a Primarch’s Boyz called?” An Ork carrying a hammer lowered it and joined in.
“They gotta have a name, right?” Another Ork squatting on a pile of scrap metal added, “How about ‘Primarch Boyz’?
Doesn’t sound loud enough.” “Big Primarch Boyz.” “What’s the difference between that and ‘Primarch Boyz’?” “It’s got ‘Big’ in it.” “I fink you got hit in da head with a metal plate.” Gragoth stopped moving.
He opened his mouth, and a word automatically surfaced in his mind.
“Astartes,” Gragoth said.
Silence.
One Ork tilted his head and asked the one beside him, “What’d he say?” “A…
A what?” “Startes.” “Astartes.” “What’s that mean?” Gragoth cleared his throat.
This body’s voice already sounded like rocks grinding together, but when he deliberately raised it, the entire camp could hear him clearly.
“Astartes.
Some of da fightiest warriors in the galaxy.
They wear da thickest armour, carry da biggest guns, and go around fighting da strongest enemies.”
It really helps the fic grow!