Chapter 31-35

Chapter 31: Secrets of the Old Ones

What exactly the Old Ones left within the Greenskins is a mystery that perhaps no one in the universe truly understands. The War of Heaven concluded eons ago; perhaps only the most precious archives of the Aeldari contain a fragmented trace of the truth.

Within Darrius’s Mekboy workshop, having returned from the mushroom patches, he had cordoned off a specific area to serve as his private laboratory.

In this isolated, strictly sterilized lab, under the lens of a high-precision microscope, the secrets of the Old Ones finally began to lift a corner of their veil for Darrius.

Before his displacement to this universe, Darrius’s understanding of Orks was that of a hyper-prolific "Green Tide," a formidable species capable of rivaling the Tyranids in sheer numbers.

He had long harbored a doubt. The birth of intelligent life is an arduous process with stringent environmental requirements. How could a race as obsessed with war and as self-destructive as the Greenskins actually increase their numbers the more they fought?

Even with spore reproduction, the hostility of the cosmic environment is common knowledge. How did Ork remains maintain their biological viability?

Furthermore, most life-sustaining planets possess atmospheres. Even if an Ork limb remained viable, the friction of atmospheric entry would incinerate it. The temperatures reached during such a descent are far higher than those of the promethean fires used by the Imperium in M41 to purge and sanctify Ork-infested soil.

Compounding this, the majority of planets are barren and dead, utterly unfit for life.

In the legends of the Prophet of Gork and Mork, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka, there is a tale where he and his Boyz found a Space Hulk within the Warp. During their transit, they fought daemons continuously, growing stronger and more numerous with every battle until the Boyz literally packed the corridors of the vessel.

Without soil, spores were able to grow amidst the cold steel of a derelict ship to produce new Boyz. Initially, Darrius assumed this was merely a "warp-logic" anomaly or a narrative inconsistency in the lore.

Darrius swirled a test tube filled with viscous slime. Now, he realized he had been too naive; he had underestimated the legacy of the Old Ones.

The Orks were not merely biological weapons; they were, in themselves, a complete, self-contained, and near-perfect ecosystem.

This slime was the medium used to incubate Snotlings. Within it resided an ecological micro-flora consisting of thousands of distinct bacterial strains, each performing a specific role in a marvelous system of collaboration.

Some decomposed fungal filaments; others provided energy to the developing Snotlings; some could even digest rock to absorb elemental minerals from the air, converting them into the various nutrients required for the growth of a Greenskin fungus carpet.

Moreover, when subjected to extreme heat, this ecological flora would secrete a protective membrane to preserve the viability of the internal Ork spores!

A tiny tube of slime was, in reality, a sophisticated biological factory. Such substances only appeared within the fungal strains during the hatching of Snotlings.

To verify his findings, Darrius had seized a Snotling and performed a full anatomical dissection. The results confirmed his hypothesis.

The Old Ones had embedded a "contingency" within the Greenskin race, and who could have guessed that this fail-safe was hidden within the lowly Snotling?

Snotlings are a symbiotic Greenskin lifeform, much like Gretchin. The two appear similar, but Snotlings are smaller, weaker, and reside at the absolute bottom of Greenskin society because they are "dim," devoid of true sapience.

Other races aside, even the Orks themselves look down on Snotlings, treating them as food, toys, or mere entertainment.

Yet, it is these very Snotlings whose hormonal secretions are critical. They stimulate the Greenskin fungi to grow more efficiently, prompting the micro-flora to break down surrounding matter into nutrients for the mushroom patches.

With the aid of this flora and the stimulus of the Snotlings, the fungal fields can continuously terraform their environment. It is no exaggeration to say that even on a barren, airless, waterless asteroid, Greenskin fungi could grow within the rock, shielded from lethal cosmic radiation.

Given enough time, provided the asteroid is large enough and possesses trace elements, the fungi, aided by the microbial flora, could transform the interior into a self-sustaining micro-biosphere.

Orks, Squigs, Gretchin, Snotlings, Greenskin fungi, and the ecological flora. Together, they form a closed-loop ecosystem.

In practice, the corpses of fallen Greenskins become fertilizer for the fungal colonies. These colonies prioritize hatching Snotlings, who bring the necessary micro-flora, which in turn extracts elements from the environment to nourish the mushroom patches. From these patches, the various Greenskin subspecies are birthed, and the cycle repeats.

Ork spores do not just hatch weapons of war; they terraform dead worlds, making them hospitable and habitable... provided, of course, the inhabitants don't mind grumpy monsters crawling out of the ground.

...Habitable, perhaps, for the powerful and mysterious Old Ones.

Darrius recalled reading race profiles of the Greenskins back on Earth. It was mentioned that besides specialized roles like Mekboyz, Weirdboyz, and other "Oddboyz," there was once a most unique caste: the Brain Boyz.

The Brain Boyz reportedly managed all Greenskins, maintaining the social structure and spearheading technological research.

However, a great plague supposedly struck the race, killing all the Brain Boyz, and no new ones were ever born.

These accounts were treated as legend; no one knew if they were true or if the existence of "Brain Boyz" was merely a distorted myth. Most Humans, Orks, and Aeldari did not believe it.

As a transmigrator, Darrius was perhaps the firmest believer in this legend. Considering that the Orks were currently in a state of devolution, noting that among the countless Orks in the galaxy, not a single Beast-level Warboss currently existed, he felt the weight of a conspiracy hidden within history.

No! Stop! Thinking further would likely cause a second brain to sprout!

There are true gods in the Warhammer 40,000 universe. He possessed too much forbidden knowledge; if he wasn't careful, some Great Power of the Warp might snatch him up.

"Gork protek me, Mork protek me, I’ze a proppa, 'ard-workin' Ork... Ya gotta watch ovva me. I’ll build ya a massive statue layta, wiv a roight shiny gold finish," Darrius prayed inwardly, still shaken.

Suddenly, an inexplicable concept seared into his mind: "YA SAID IT! WE 'EARD YA!"

This abrupt revelation left Darrius dumbfounded. He had only been reciting a colloquialism from his past life, akin to "God protect me." Who could have guessed the "Gods" would actually talk back?

The concept was already fading, blurring like a memory slipping away with time. In another moment, it felt as though it had all been an illusion.

To catch the tail of that memory, Darrius used his magnetic tools to violently gouge a sentence into the steel of a machine tool.

PRIMARY MISSION: IMMEDIATELY BUILD STATUES FER GORK AN’ MORK. MAKE 'EM BIG, MAKE 'EM SHINY, AN’ MAKE 'EM AS WAAAGH! AS POSSIBLE!

Thirty seconds later, Darrius stared at the words on the steel plate, lost in thought.

What just happened? And why are there English characters carved into my lathe?

Chapter 32: Flirtation

"Wot’z goin' on? Am I gettin' a bit uv da split-personality or sumfin'?" Darrius mused, feeling a nagging void where part of his memory used to be.

However, in this universe, he was likely the only one capable of writing English. Since it was marked with the weight of a "Primary Mission," the message had to be of dire importance.

The Warhammer 40,000 universe was nothing like the Old Earth; one could not simply disregard gods and ghosts. More critically, even if you wanted to escape Them, you couldn't. The most perilous risk of being a transmigrator in the 41st Millennium was having your soul snatched by a Chaos God for "research" because of the forbidden knowledge locked in your mind.

Setting aside his biological studies and finishing his final lab notes, Darrius summoned his Boyz. It was time to raise a statue to Gork and Mork.

…

On Oronia III, within the opulent Planetary Governor's palace, a lavish aristocratic ball was in full swing.

Ethereal music wafted through the air. Exquisite, high-grade delicacies, prepared by master chefs, were arranged on fine porcelain plates and set casually upon side tables. Nobles dressed in priceless finery clustered at the edges of the ballroom to network, while others joined hands and waists in the center of the dance floor to "deepen" their emotional connections.

Pex sat alone in a quiet corner. His data slate displayed a formal commission from the Departmento Munitorum. It was filled with flowery prose, "For the Empire," "For the Emperor," officially appointing him as the Supreme Commander of the Oronia System.

The subtext, however, was bleak: Imperial military resources were stretched to the breaking point. He was on his own, forced to muster a defense using only the local forces of the Oronia System. Provided he remained loyal unto death, the Munitorum would "overlook" the loss of the Glorious Knight and the errors in judgment that led to its sinking.

It was a classic "carrot and stick" maneuver. Had Pex still possessed the mind of an ordinary human, he might have felt a surge of resentment toward the Munitorum after risking his life only to be treated with such cold pragmatism.

But Pex was focused on the addendum. Given the encroachment of a Tyranid Hive Fleet tendril, numerous Imperial warships might transition into the Oronia System for resupply. There was even a possibility that in a century or two, the system would become an active war zone.

Perhaps recognizing the difficulty of Pex’s task, the Munitorum was dispatching a small cadre of officers to assist, led by a Commissar named Caestor. Accompanying them was a team of Tech-Priests from the Adeptus Mechanicus, bringing with them precious industrial chain modules.

The document instructed Pex and the Planetary Governor to coordinate their reception and cooperate over the coming decades to transform the Oronia System into a Forge World, producing mighty engines of war to deliver the Emperor’s fury upon the enemies of Mankind.

The Hive Fleet and Commissar Caestor were the critical pieces of intel. Pex needed to plan carefully.

"If it isn't our System Commander? Why so morose, drinking alone?" Governor Cornwatt approached, accompanied by a beautiful young woman. "Is there something about the celebratory ball I've hosted that displeases you?"

"Certainly not, Excellency," Pex stood immediately, inclining his head with practiced humility. "The ball is both grand and elegant, attended by the finest nobility. I am merely... overwhelmed that you would spend so much on my account for a simple commission."

"No, no, Commander Pex, you are far too modest. A man from a Great House like yours deserves nothing less than grand spectacles. Besides, becoming the Supreme Commander of a system is no small feat. We must celebrate!" Judging by his demeanor, Cornwatt was clearly a few glasses deep into the amasec.

Pex’s brow twitched, a micro-expression he quickly suppressed. "Excellency, I have been on Oronia III for three months, yet the crusade to purge the Greenskins has not yet departed..."

"You are far too serious," Cornwatt interrupted. "Since you arrived, you have done nothing but work. Even if the Greenskin threat is significant, training an army and spinning up arms production takes time."

"Time is a luxury we do not have..."

"Enough, enough. This is Cybrisse, my distant niece. Since you lack a partner, perhaps you two can 'get acquainted' and enjoy the evening." Pushing the beautiful woman forward, Cornwatt made a swift excuse and vanished into the crowd.

Humans! Such arrogant, lazy creatures! They never learn! Pex felt a surge of cold irritation, realizing his warnings had only kept these nobles on edge for a few days before they reverted to decadence.

Every day they delayed, those green monsters grew more numerous and more dangerous!

"Monsieur Pex, it is a pleasure to meet you." Cybrisse, a blonde with soul-stirring eyes, gazed at him with a look so sultry it could have been spun into silk. She was young, stunning, and arguably the most beautiful woman in the hall.

"The pleasure is mine, fair lady." Pex responded with a gentle, courtly smile. He bowed slightly and took her slender hand, his lips grazing her knuckles in a gallant peck.

Cybrisse’s smile grew even more flirtatious. "Meeting you, Monsieur Pex, ensures this will be a wonderful night."

She was confident that her charms could ensnare almost any man in this room. A System Commander with a limitless future and a noble pedigree was a prize worth catching.

Pex inhaled subtly; he could clearly scent her pheromones. To her species, procreation was indeed a vital instinct.

He slowly raised a glass half-filled with red wine. Through the crimson liquid, he could see Cybrisse and the glittering starlight behind her.

There was only one moon in the sky, currently veiled by dark clouds. Those clouds looked like the reaching tentacles of a Hive Fleet, descending from the void to overlook the living things of Oronia III.

To ensure the Hive Mind received the biomass it craved, it was time to expand the Cult and light the psychic beacon for the fleet.

Pex drained his wine, set the glass down, and pulled the beauty into his arms. Cybrisse wore a backless gown, allowing Pex’s hand to wander over her marble-smooth skin.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat before they locked in a kiss. A stray drop of unswallowed wine escaped their lips, tracing a red line down Cybrisse’s milky skin, past her neck, her collarbone, and following the curve of her chest toward her abdomen.

For the Great Devourer, the Greenskins had to be eliminated. These foolish humans were merely resources to be spent.

The officer cadre from the Munitorum would be a nuisance. Based on the wisdom instilled in him by the Hive, certain subsets of humanity were exceptionally difficult to break. To eliminate them required a staggering cost.

The Commissar was one such type. He would have to be handled with extreme prejudice.

Chapter 33: If Ya Believe It, Ya Can Do It

They say Greenskins are the happiest race in the galaxy, but Darrius felt like trouble was always knocking at his door.

His "Primary Mission," building the massive statues of Gork and Mork, was the most urgent. The engineering was simple enough; the scaffolding was already up, topped with two colossal, jagged Ork heads. The real headache was the "gold plating." This dead rock of a planet hadn't yielded a single gold vein yet!

If the quality wasn't up to snuff, Gork and Mork might actually stomp down from the Warp to give him a proppa krumping.

It wasn't just the gold plating. There weren't enough drills, and the mines were lagging. The Boyz had found one metallic ore vein, but the yield was barely enough to gear up the new lads, nowhere near enough for battle-barges or heavy armor.

At the end of the day, it was a labor shortage. He lacked the throughput, the workforce, and enough Mekboyz.

In the mushroom patches, Gretchin, Orks, and Squigs were popping out daily in increasing numbers, but the growth rate didn't satisfy Darrius. Greenskins grow fast, sure, but humans have the "stockpile." Darrius remembered clearly that this was an Imperial system. The population of that habitable world was measured in the hundreds of millions.

If the humans ever decided to empty their hives and swarm, they could drown the Greenskins in sheer numbers.

In the distance, a mob of Boyz and a mob of Gretchin were tangled in a massive brawl. The unlucky ones were getting their teeth punched out in showers of ivory.

The "New-Lads" and the "Old-Lads" didn't seem to get along. These riots were a daily occurrence; they looked violent, but the Greenskins were loving every second of it. Of course, according to the rules set by Darrius, the losers had to go work in the mines, which only made them fight harder to avoid the "un-Orky" labor.

These worries about the future seemed to be Darrius's alone. They didn't put a dent in the simple, joyous lives of the other Greenskins.

Aside from those brawling, there were the Speed Freeks racing for glory. These Orks loved anything "fasta" and "louda," leading to daily pile-ups. To pay the Mekboyz to fix their gubbinz, these speedsters never kept a full set of teeth in their heads long enough for them to grow in.

Rat-tat-tat-tat! The sound of gunfire erupted.

Behind Darrius were the Shoota Boyz. Their idea of a contest wasn't about who hit the target; it was about who had the biggest "Shoota" and who could spit lead the fastest! In the Ork mind, if you fire enough dakka, you’re bound to hit sumfin'.

A mob of Shoota Boyz in yellow gear lost their bet. They grumbled, not about their skill, but about their guns being "duff," as they trudged toward the Gretchin taskmasters to grab shovels for the mines.

Being a Boy is great. Being a Warboss, especially one who finks too much, is exhausting.

Ding-dong! It seemed Mork (or maybe Gork) had blessed Darrius with a spark of inspiration. If he didn't have enough labor, he could just upgrade the labor he had!

Wasn't this what the old textbooks called "liberating the forces of production"?

Mekboyz have great eyes and shoot straight. Shoota Boyz also love shootin', and if they fire enough, they hit plenty. Since both Mekboyz and Shoota Boyz are "dead shooty," that meant Shoota Boyz were basically Mekboyz!

Darrius stood up and marched toward the mob of yellow-clad Shoota Boyz. Following tradition, he delivered a round of sharp "clouts" to their bald heads to get their attention.

"Boss, wot'z dat for?" the yellow-clad Boyz whined. "We'ze goin' to da mines! We dunt break da rules!"

"Err, I just 'avent krumped sumfin' in a while. My hands was itchin'..." Darrius rubbed his palms guiltily. "Anyway, dunt ya fink dem shovels, pickaxes, an’ carts feel a bit... wrong in yer hands?"

The Shoota Boyz looked at each other, their eyes lighting up as if they'd found a kindred spirit. "Yeah, Boss! Ded wrong! It feels weird just holdin' 'em. Boss, ya really knows us!"

"I fink da shovel is alright..." one started.

"Shut it! I want a bigga Shoota! Talk back again an’ I'll dakka ya myself!"

"I want a Big Shoota! Or a Burna! Or a Rokkit Launcha!"

"Boss... does dis mean we dunt 'ave to go to da mines?"

The Boyz erupted into a chaotic clamor.

Darrius used his tesla coil to snatch up a shovel with magnetic force. The intense field softened the metal, and he reshaped it before their eyes into wrenches, gears, and screws. He shoved these mechanical parts into the hands of the Shoota Boyz.

"Dunt dese feel right? Like, just holdin' 'em makes finks pop into yer brain? Like ya wanna build sumfin'?"

The Shoota Boyz stared at the tools, then at each other in awkward silence. Suddenly, one Boy bashed another over the head with a wrench. Within seconds, the whole mob was at it.

Apparently, they’d figured out the "use" for the tools: wrenches and pliers were just new ways to krump heads.

Darrius sighed, quickly using the magnetic field to yank the tools back before they broke each other. Ork brains were far too simple. This was going to be an uphill battle...

"Alright... let’z try anada way." He floated two screws in front of them with magnetism, one large, one small.

"Tell me, which wun is da big wun, an’ which wun is da small wun?"

The Boyz pointed blankly. "Dat wun’z big. Dat wun’z small."

Then Darrius brought out two nuts and asked the same thing. They weren't stupid; they got it right again.

"Roight den. Now, screw da big nut onto da big screw, an’ da small wun onto da small screw." Darrius watched, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

Surprisingly, most of the Shoota Boyz managed it.

Clap, clap, clap!

"Well dan! You’ze just finished yer furst projek. Dat means you'ze all proppa Meks now! Ready fer da real work!"

The Shoota Boyz stood there, mouths agape, looking at Darrius in total confusion.

The tesla coil flared again. Dozens of parts were shaped in an instant. Darrius's hands became a blur of motion, snapping components together. Receiver, stock, barrel, magazine, until he held a rugged, aggressive-looking Ork Shoota.

The moment they saw the gun, the Boyz' eyes went wide. An Ork’s love for a good gun far outweighs his regard for his own life.

Darrius swung the Shoota back and forth. "Ya like it? Ya want it?"

Watching their eyes follow the gun like hungry Squigs, Darrius knew his trap was set.

"Look, buildin' a Shoota like dis is eazy. Ya lot can do it just as eazy as I did. I got da blueprints, I got da bitz. Give it a go."

"But... Boss... it looks dead 'ard," one Boy muttered.

Darrius grabbed the Boy, covered his mouth, and whispered in his most stirring, manipulative tone:

"Nah, ya can do it. As long as ya believe ya can do it, ya will! Dunt ya wanna 'ave a shiny, loud Shoota dat you built wiv yer own two hands?"

Chapter 34: Oracles of Mork

Manipulation is a proppa science, and Darrius felt himself becoming increasingly adept at swaying the minds of the Greenboyz. 

The Shoota Boyz were slowly beginning to believe that their true calling was that of a Mekboy, claiming they’d only "forgotten" their crafting talent because they were too busy pulling triggers.

They finked that deep down, they actually preferred building bigga guns and complex gubbinz; they just needed to "rememba" the knowledge. All it took was a bit of finkin', finkin', and more finkin'.

For the sake of having the biggest, most Waaagh!, and most killy guns imaginable, the Shoota Boyz were more than willing to keep finkin'.

Of course, Darrius wasn't just pulling this out of thin air. The latent potential of the Greenskin race is staggering; almost every Warboss whose infamy stains the galaxy rose from the ranks of the common Boyz. It all comes down to "finkin'" and sheer, unadulterated confidence. Gork and Mork grant their favor to every Greenskin equally.

Take the most notorious legend of the current era: Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka. He started as a mere Goff Choppa Boy until a Space Marine’s bolt shattered half his skull.

A Painboy performed a series of horrific, bloody surgeries to patch his brain back together, using a slab of adamantium for a cranium. A mortal would’ve kicked the bucket, but an Ork’s constitution is a marvel; even with half a brain replaced by scrap, Ghazghkull could still "fink."

Afterward, Ghazghkull changed. Or, as Darrius saw it, he went completely mad. Ghazghkull became convinced he could hear the direct commands of Gork and Mork, that he was the Prophet of the Waaagh!, destined to unite all Orks and trample the galaxy.

Whether he truly heard the gods or just had a short-circuit in his metal head mattered little; Ghazghkull believed it with every fiber of his being. And so, he became a legend, krumpin' bigger and meaner bosses, growin' stronger with every victory.

Because more and more Boyz believed Ghazghkull was the Chosen of Gork, they followed him.

It was a purely "faith-based" phenomenon, but it proved a point: if an Ork’s belief is strong enough, his genetic coding responds. The Waaagh! field and the power of "I finks" make the impossible real.

Bamboozling is just a way to sharpen their belief, Darrius thought, stroking his chin. But personally recruiting every Mek like this was a waste of time. He needed someone to do the preaching for him.

A name popped into his head.

Kukka, the Weirdboy.

…

After dispatching his newly "awakened" Meks to the workshop to turn screws, Darrius calibrated his armor’s targeting system and engaged the Kustom Tellyporta.

Yellow arcs of electricity surged from the generator on his back, enveloping him in an instant before compressing into a single point and vanishing.

Kukka was dancing before a bonfire. Ever since his talk with Darrius, he was utterly convinced he was the herald of Gork and Mork. He viewed his frenetic dancing as a sacred ritual to better commune with the divine.

His erratic behavior was no longer mocked by the other Greenskins. In fact, a few other Boyz with psychic potential had begun to follow him, treating the dancing as a form of "meditation" to bolster their own Warp-energy.

Seeing a dozen Orks flailing wildly around a fire was... a sight. Darrius, arriving in a flash of light, almost worried he’d stumbled into a Chaos cult ritual or that some Warp-entity had possessed the lot of them.

He waited patiently for Kukka to finish. He waited for an hour. It was a sensory assault of the highest order.

"Kukka, 'ere'z da deal..." Darrius explained his plan to turn the Shoota Boyz and the Warbikers into Mekboyz.

"Dat'z it. Tell 'em dat in da eyes of Gork and Mork, shootin' and ridin' are just hobbies. Dere real talent iz for buildin' gubbinz."

Darrius grew more excited as he spoke. "See? If dey join da workshop, we get more gear, betta gear. Everyfink goes up! Wot ya fink?"

"I fink," Kukka said, his face hidden behind a mask, "dat you'ze a sneaky git wiv a belly full of bad ideas."

Fury flared in Darrius. He raised a massive hand to deliver a legendary clout... but then gently patted Kukka’s bald head instead.

Weirdboyz were rare; he couldn't afford to break this one. Besides, he needed a partner, not an enemy. Technical talent was precious, and Kukka was stubborn. Force wouldn't work here.

Darrius’s small red eyes whirled. As Kukka said, he was indeed full of "bad ideas."

"Kukka, ya know I'ze da Chosen of Mork, so it’z only natural I hear da divine orakles," Darrius began to weave his tale.

Kukka recalled the battle on the Glorious Knight against the human Commissar. At the time, he hadn't been so sure. But after everything that had happened, Darrius’s cunning, his brutality, and his sheer success, almost every Ork now accepted Darrius as the Prophet of Mork. Kukka didn't doubt it anymore either.

"Yeah, Sneaky Boss. You'ze da Chosen," Kukka nodded.

"Mork taught me a sakred tongue. It'z for talkin' to da gods. I can teach it to ya. It’z powerful, anyfink ya say in dis tongue can come true. We call dis powa Language’s Power," Darrius said, using the English name for the concept.

"O' course, dere'z a catch. If da speaker ain't sincere, or if da Boy he's talkin' to ain't sincere, it dunt work. We call dat Sincerity Brings Results." Again, Darrius used the English name for the concept.

"Iz... iz dat true? Dat'z unbelievvable!" Kukka was floored. He desperately wanted to believe Darrius. Despite Darrius being a "sneaky git," he was undeniably a Prophet.

Darrius kept a straight face, but he was howling with laughter inside. Back when he was a human, he never knew he had such a talent for "multi-level marketing" schemes. Now, the ideas just flowed. Maybe Mork really was watching over him.

The lie was foolproof. If a miracle happened, it was because of "sincerity." If it didn't, someone wasn't "sincere" enough.

"Da sacred tongue iz called English," Darrius continued solemnly. "Mork’z orakle is carved right on my workbench. I'll take ya dere."

The tellyporta hummed. Soon, Darrius watched as a trembling Kukka traced the English characters carved into the steel. The Weirdboy was so overwhelmed he almost lost the ability to speak, running his fingers over the marks again and again, oblivious even when a sharp edge sliced his finger.

"Gork an’ Mork abavv... I'ze aktually touchin' da real words of da gods!" It took a long time for Kukka to calm down.

Chapter 35: The Under-Grot Spora-Caves

"Sneaky Boss! You’ze da zoggin' best Greenskin I evva seen! I can see da gaze of Gork on yer left shoulda, an’ Mork's big old grin on yer roight!" Kukka’s voice vibrated with a wild, fanatic devotion.

"I can see Gork an’ Mork bof blessin' ya, keepin' dere eyes roight on ya! Sneaky Boss, I wanna learn dat Inglis. I wanna be da bridge between you'ze an’ Gork an’ Mork!"

Sss... Darrius felt a cold chill run down his spine at Kukka’s vivid descriptions. It felt less like a divine blessing and more like having two massive, rowdy ghosts looming over his shoulder. Sure, I’m a Greenskin Ork now, but our cultural backgrounds are completely different. Don’t go making it weird, mate.

Fortunately, his bluff had worked perfectly. From here on out, things would be much easier.

"I can teach ya English, but dis tongue iz bound ta da unchangin’ lawz uv reality itself. A talkin’ uv suj reality-warping powa kannot be towt in a rush; ya gotta lern it bit by bit. If I dump too much uv it in yer noggin all at wuns, I'm worried yer brain wunt be 'ard enuff ta carry da weight," Darrius said, looking down at Kukka with the heavy, paternal gravitas of a grand mentor. 

"Yer furst phrase is dis: 'Primary Mission: Immediately build statues of Gork an’ Mork. Make ‘em big, make ‘em shiny, an’ make ‘em as Waaagh! as possible!' In Ork talkin’, it translates to..."

Kukka repeated the strange syllables a few times. As it was his first time encountering the intricate phonetics of English, his pronunciation was a mangled mess, but he gripped the raw intent perfectly.

Darrius hadn’t actually pinned his true hopes on that first sentence anyway, so he offered a comforting grunt. "Lernin’ a command like dat on yer furst go is a ‘ard ask. Let’z try a simpla wun fer yer second lesson."

This second phrase was the absolute core of Darrius’s plan, so he articulated each syllable slowly, with deliberate precision: "Aside from being a Boy born for a proper scrap, Gork and Mork say you've got a real knack for machine-crafting."

This time, Kukka focused with terrifying intensity. He channeled his erratic psychic energy to imprint Darrius’s words directly into his mind, reciting them over and over like a mantra.

"Practice dese two phrases all da time. Wen da Boyz wrap up der fightin' matches, find da losin’ mobs an’ say da second phrase ta dem. Dunt just use English, say it in a Orky tongue too. If dey dunt understand da wurdz, da belief won't take root, an’ da effect’ll be lost."

Finally, Darrius had let his true colors show. But at this point, Kukka didn't care about his boss's hidden motives. The budding weird-git was entirely consumed by the desire to master this mystical dialect, desperate to commune directly with Gork and Mork.

Seeing his scheme succeed so flawlessly, Darrius was practically ecstatic. He clapped Kukka on the shoulder, offering constant encouragement. "Keep practicin’ wiv da lads. Dunt matta if ya mess up at furst. As long as ya dunt kwit, you'll masta da divine words."

Ultimately, Darrius knew the reality-bending power of the 'I Fink, Derefore It Iz' field. As long as a fraction of the Boyz genuinely believed Kukka’s ramblings, they would subconsciously manifest their own latent biological knowledge, awakening as fully fledged Mekboys. Darrius’s lie would never be exposed because the Orks' own psychic echo would make it real.

With their current workforce stretched thin, spawning even one extra Mekboy was a massive win.

With that piece of engineering settled, Darrius left the rest to destiny. As the Warboss, he had other critical matters to attend to, specifically, agriculture.

Ever since he realized the terrifying adaptability of Orkoid fungus, Darrius realized his past assumptions had completely blinded him. He could be scaling up and cultivating these spore-beds with far greater efficiency.

Previously, he had assumed that plant life strictly required sunlight, meaning that aside from a few patches nestled in the natural shelter of the canyon, most of his fungus fields were left completely exposed to the elements.

But surface farming on a barren rock carried too many risks. Without native vegetation to break the wind, violent storms frequently tore across the surface, choking the sky with dust storms massive enough to swallow the horizon.

Lately, the surface spore-fields had taken a severe beating, drastically lowering the reproduction rate of his growing horde. The only silver lining was that the howling gales carried the Orkoid spores further across the planet, though it would take far longer for those distant patches to bear fruit.

Given that the fungus sustained itself by siphoning nutrients directly from the barren crust via localized ecosystem flora, simultaneously terraforming the wasteland as it spread, underground cultivation was obviously the superior choice.

Subterranean farming would completely eliminate the threat of surface storms. Even if sunlight gave surface fields a marginal growth advantage, it couldn't compete with the absolute stability of a subterranean cavern.

The only issue was that large-scale excavation was incredibly difficult. Digging a network of tunnels and curing them into proper spora-caves required an immense amount of labor.

How do I speed up the digging process? Tools. A blueprint suddenly flashed across Darrius’s mind: a massive, mechanized tunnel-boring machine designed for wide-scale excavation.

Each tunnel could become a bottomless spora-cave. Once the squigs, Gretchin, and Boyz matured within the depths, an endless green tide would crawl out from the dark.

The problem, however, was that a machine of this scale was incredibly complex to build. The current roster of Boyz, who were already being worked like grots, wouldn't cut it, and waiting for a mass awakening of Mekboys would take too long.

That left only one option: Darrius would have to build it himself. Equipped with his custom Big Mek Mega-Armour, he was effectively a walking fabrication plant.

With a sudden flash of a personal teleportation matrix, he raided their sole mining shaft for construction materials and immediately threw himself into the work. He estimated he could forge a functional heavy-duty boring machine within two weeks.

By utilizing the machine to dig out agricultural tunnels, he could simultaneously prospect for mineral veins, especially gold, which he desperately needed to plate the grand statues of Gork and Mork.

The crude metal sheets smelted by the Boyz were piled haphazardly across his workshop. Their purity, composition, and dimensions varied wildly; there was absolutely no standardization, each piece forged purely based on the individual smith's mood.

When building heavy machinery, a lack of standardization was fatal. Even the psychic error-correction of the 'I Fink' field had to operate within some semblance of mechanical logic.

Activating the trio of Tesla coils mounted on his power pack, Darrius used one coil to generate a magnetic clamp, locking the raw scrap in place. A second coil unleashed a highly concentrated magnetic field, liquefying the metal to filter out the impurities and isolate the exact elements he needed. Finally, the third coil reshaped the refined alloys into perfectly uniform ingots.

Darrius gripped a fresh ingot with his massive power claw. His armored gauntlets were retrofitted with heavy drills, arc-welders, and plasma cutters. Pulling down his heavy welding visor, he began the grueling process of hand-crafting individual components.

Greenskin quality. Hand-forged. Built to last.

As his mechanical instincts flared to life, Darrius became entirely lost in the rhythm of production, completely losing track of time. By the time his consciousness snapped back to reality, the vast majority of the boring machine's core chassis and internal gears lay completed on the floor.

However, his scrap piles were entirely depleted. Darrius needed to head back to the mine for a resupply.

The teleportation matrix flared, but when the flash cleared to reveal a completely hollowed-out cavern, Darrius froze. For a moment, he thought his coordinates were off. After double-checking his armor's cogitators, he confirmed he was in the right place.

How long has it been? This entire mining vein is picked clean? Is my perception of time that warped?

Baffled, Darrius activated his tellyporta again, shifting to the mouth of the mine. He emerged in the canyon where the Boyz usually congregated. The valley had already transformed into a ramshackle Greenskin settlement, cluttered with crude Ork graffiti, scrap-metal barricades, and shanties that looked structurally impossible yet remained stubbornly standing.

But unlike the usual daily routine, the settlement was eerily devoid of the sounds of internal bickering and casual violence. Most of the scrap-houses stood entirely empty, a phenomenon that only heightened Darrius's confusion.

Suddenly, a deafening blast of heavy, industrial scrap-metal music erupted from the very heart of the settlement.