[Zaelum: There is a poll in P@tr3on to decide the fandom of the next fanfics! It is free for everyone!]

Vmmm—

Under Eden's direction, the sacred idol of Edork—an avatar born of Ork belief and that peculiar Orky "I fink, therefore it works" power—swelled even larger.

(Zael: Edork is the name of the Ork God version of Eden. I don't remember what I translated before so... new name I guess. And it fits as it is Gork, Mork and now Edork xD)

Cruel, crafty light flared in his eyes; the greenish scraps wedged between his fangs looked even more terrifying—enough to make Greenskins uneasy.

That god-shape, condensed from Ork faith, roused further. Ripples rolled through the Immaterium, brushing across ever more Orks who'd heard the legend of Edork.

Over the years, the Steel-Jaw Ork Empire forces Eden had dispatched roamed about challenging other Orks—some wins, some losses.

That wasn't what mattered.

What mattered was spreading the legend. By fighting this way, story by story, belief in Edork took root and grew.

Any Ork who believed in Edork was constantly feeding and hardening his Orky thought-field—his I-fink power, his Greenskin might.

Now Eden deliberately pressed outward in Edork's image.

Borrowing the Warp's reach to ignore both time and distance, he cast that influence to every Ork in the galaxy—whether they'd heard of Edork or not—drawing in still more strength.

—

Meanwhile…

Pax Sector, a feral world.

One Ork tribe had just finished its noon nap. They'd planned to raid the neighboring tribe in the morning—

But they overslept.

Luckily, so did the neighbors. Both sides bumped the fight to tomorrow morning.

With a clatter of scrap and a rising racket, the Orks woke and tucked into a grot-served lunch.

Lunch also included a few unlucky grots themselves. The yoofs ate so fast they'd often bite off a grot's hand along with the tray—or swallow the entire little wretch in one gulp.

Bellies full, most Orks sprawled out again for round two of resting.

But a few "clever boyz" kicked off the daily wise debate, tackling an eternal topic—who's stronger, Gork or Mork?

"WAAAGH— I knows it—Gork is brutal and cunning, proppa at krumpin'!"

A red-daubed hard boy thumped his chest—wearing the look of I'm absolutely right; disagree and I'll smash ya.

"No, ya git—Mork is cunning and brutal—even more killy!"

A yellow-splashed sling-lad shot back without giving an inch.

They stared each other down, mean grins widening—one heartbeat from an all-in rumble.

Right then, a bleary one-eyed Ork Nob nearby twitched—like he'd felt something.

He rolled that lone beady eye and, as if dragged up from nowhere, a new word burst out:

"E… Edork!"

…Huh?

Silence fell. Arguing Orks, brawling Orks, lounging Orks—all looked his way, confused.

"Edork?"

Gradually, more Orks felt that same tug. In their heads, a new name and a blurry image settled into place: Edork.

Facing the tribe, the one-eyed Nob suddenly grew fervent:

"Edork's da strongest! Edork's brutal and sneaky… and dead killy!"

His description ran longer than either god's. To Ork ears, that meant more dakka—more impressive.

The Gork-and-Mork crowd scowled harder. Not convinced.

The red hard-boy waved his club: "Gork's brutal! When ya see 'im, 'e smashes yer face wiv a big choppa!"

"Mork's da sneakiest! When ya don't see 'im, 'e clobbers the back o' yer skull!"

The yellow lad grinned and hissed the line, savoring the menace. (The classic Ork saying goes: Gork is brutal but cunning; Mork is cunning but brutal.)

Hearing that, a few Orks shuffled back, rubbing their napes—just in case Mork popped outta nowhere.

The Gork/Mork fans turned to the one-eyed Nob, a little smug. Let's see what this Edork can do.

One-Eye stalled, chewing for tricks. He refused to let his god lose face—and he refused to lose this debate.

His hemming got the Gork/Mork fans snickering.

Maybe Edork doesn't deserve a place in Ork legend at all…

Right then—because Eden was pushing—Edork's god-shape swelled again, muscles corded and gleaming.

In the Nob's head, Edork's savage, feral image snapped into focus. Deeds he'd never heard before unspooled like memories.

"Edork does both."

He shivered and declared to every Ork present:

"When ya see 'im, Edork smashes yer face in wiv a hammer… an' when ya don't, Edork taps the back o' yer head—wiv the same hammer!"

A low hum of fear swept the camp.

Edork was brutal and sneaky—both. He did everything Gork and Mork did—at once. That sounded worse. Stronger. Scarier.

Hands hesitated—face or nape?

Against either god, you had a counter: see Gork, guard the face; fear Mork, cover the skull.

But against Edork… no matter what you covered, you'd still get bonked!

Orks pondered hard. Edork was terrifying—more terrifying than Gork or Mork.

Fear curdled into awe—and awe turned into a wider stream of belief to feed that new god's power.

Then One-Eye added, voice dropping:

"Edork's so brutal 'e'll eat any Ork what don't listen."

That did it. Even the Gork-and-Mork diehards straightened up.

Gork and Mork didn't eat Orks.

But Edork… might.

Orks worship the strongest. And nothing says "strongest" like a god who might eat you.

Bad-mouthing Edork suddenly felt dangerous. What if he showed up and, because you'd been cheeky, ate you alive?

Debates shifted. Edork's partisans started winning most arguments about who's boss among the three.

Soon this tribe had a lot of Edork fans. They outnumbered—and outfrowled—the faithful of Gork and Mork.

And it wasn't just here. Across other camps, more Edork stories spread—and with them, more fights and wars.

Gork and Mork's worship is deeply rooted among Greenskins. A new god has to be hammered into their kulture through fights and blood before it truly sets and passes on.

Only then does a god become a proper Ork god.

—

Umbral Sector.

A fallen Tomb World.

Steel wreckage and forested ravines scarred its face—and everywhere, green smears.

A green tide had once crashed here.

An Ork empire had been born on this world. The Orks smashed every awakening Necron, gutted the tomb complex, and looted its grim tech to fuel their rise.

"WAAAGH—!"

A hulking Warlord howled at the sky, mustering every Ork.

Days ago, a Big Mek's gargantuan space fortress had been completed. Now they could carry their war to the stars—like the Ork Roks, those asteroid-fortresses the Greenskins love.

More importantly, the Warlord had felt a summons from a great being—ordering him to launch a war worthy of the name WAAAGH!

"Edork!"

He bellowed the name with the whole planet of Orks behind him.

In Edork's name, this Ork empire would launch a sector-spanning war, spreading belief in Him to other Ork empires.

Any Ork who refused to bend the knee to Edork would be krumped—maybe even eaten.

Rrrrrmmmbll—

A mountain range split as a jagged corner of the space fortress punched up through bedrock.

Normally, a hulk that huge can only be built in orbit. Otherwise you risk gravity shearing it apart—and tearing half a continent when it lifts.

But these Orks built it inside a mountain.

They figured it'd be easier to take off that way.

At the Warlord's order, Bosses drove mob after mob into the fortress.

They were abandoning the planet for endless war—and nothing made Orks happier.

Vmmmm—

Then the sky above the Tomb World wavered.

A titanic fortress-monastery thundered out of the Warp and into realspace, smashing through the veil.

The Rock—also called the Tower of Angels—home and fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels, carved from the largest surviving fragment of Caliban after its destruction. Its guns are fearsome enough to have annihilated even powerful Aeldari fleets in battle.

On one of The Rock's fortress terraces—

"The Ork xenos are on the move. Prepare orbital bombardment—immediately."

A warrior in green ceramite—wearing the Lion Helm, true scion of the Lion—gazed down at the Tomb World and gave the order.

Azrael.

Azrael—Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, one of the most secretive of the already-secretive Inner Circle; bearer of the Sword of Secrets and the Lion Helm—guardian of the countless hidden truths of the Chapter and of this colossal fortress-monastery. (Lexicanum)

Not long ago, the Dark Angels had detected disturbances here: an Ork empire rising upon a Tomb World—a looming threat to the safety of many Imperial worlds.

Azrael did not hesitate. After obliterating one Fallen hideout, he brought The Rock straight to the Tomb World.

He intended to run a high-intensity orbital bombardment—to erase the Tomb World and the burgeoning Ork empire along with it.

However, as The Rock's many macro-batteries were still spinning up, the Tomb World's horizon changed—a colossal, xenos space fortress rose slowly into view.

Scraps of machinery and a rain of Orks tumbled from the sky.

"What… is that?!"

Azrael's pupils tightened. So did the eyes of the other warriors of the Inner Circle—all struck dumb for a heartbeat.

Because the fortress's silhouette was bizarre—and disturbingly familiar.

They had seen that shape… somewhere.

As the fortress drew closer, that familiarity sharpened. The thing was the half-length statue of some giant brute—bristling with guns big enough to shame defense lasers.

What they did not know: this Ork empire were Edork-devotees. They had built their fortress in the likeness of the Edork Colossus—

—to wage war and spread the faith.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM—

The Rock's batteries hadn't fully reached firing parameters; only a handful of guns got shots off, and they barely scratched the alien fortress.

RRRRRRMMMBLL—

The Ork hulk flashed past The Rock at frightening speed—then slipped into the Warp.

Gone.

"By the Emperor… we're a step late."

The bridge relayed ugly news: the Ork fortress had performed a random jump. There would be no tracking.

Azrael's jaw tightened. Regret edged his voice.

Then he turned to the Inner Circle warrior at his side. "Well? Did you recover a clean image profile of that xenos fortress?"

The Supreme Grand Master wanted to know what that shape truly was.

The warrior looked up, incredulous. "My Lord… the silhouette on that fortress matches an Imperial figure with very high confidence."

"Who?"

Azrael frowned slightly—then heard the answer:

The Hope Primarch—the Savior. Eden.

He pondered only a moment, then reached a decision: they would go to the Hope Primarch himself.

This secret would be untangled at the source.

While the Dark Angels puzzled over the Orks' absurd fortress, the Greenskins had already poured enough Waaagh 'I-fink' into Edork.

There was an old Ork boast: when Gork and Mork combine, no Chaos God can stand.

Edork's might… was edging closer to theirs.

—

Right now, at the Black Throne.

"Faster—just a bit faster…"

Eden stared at the two Chaos assassins streaking in, heart hammering hard enough to crack iron.

He could make out the twisted limbs, the questing tendrils, the crushing force in their frames.

These were clone-vessels piloted by two Ruinous Powers. To strike the Emperor, They had invested a terrible price.

Each body outmuscled a Primarch—and they dampened Eden's psychic might.

Without fresh benedictions, he would be crushed. Then nothing would stop them carving up the Emperor's clone-body, perhaps even shattering the Black Throne itself!

In the Warp, the Prince of Pleasure and the Changer of Ways wore eager smiles.

They had poured so much into this moment.

But it would be worth it. Today They would not only kill the Savior—They would maim the Emperor.

The greatest Chaos victory since the Horus Heresy.

WAAAGH!

Just as the assassins closed on the Throne, the void howled—and a phantom of a musclebound brute flickered through.

The I-fink field had arrived.

Greenskin might, gathered into a single punch.

In Ork minds, Edork was the most sly, savage, and brutal being of all.

No one was stronger!

In an instant, Eden felt power slam into his body—warping and reforging him from the marrow out.

Raw strength. Rage. And shameless, weaponized sneakiness.

Muscles surged. His gaze turned vicious, hungry—still climbing higher—his frame swelling by the heartbeat.

His already-damaged power armor groaned.

"—hah!"

Eden clenched both fists. Power erupted—a shockwave rippled outward—

KRACK—!

His auric power armor burst, plates rocketing off in a storm of sparks.

The Hope Primarch—the Savior—had blown his armor clean off!

"By the Emperor…"

The Custodians rushing in froze, stunned.

What power is this?!

"Brother Eden… how in Terra's name—?"

The White Scars Primarch had just clawed out of the rubble. He saw, swallowed hard, disbelieving.

Even when the Emperor walked among men, had He ever burst his armor by force alone?

And those metal-bright, deeply cut muscles rolling over Eden's frame—enough to make even gene-forged warriors jealous.

That layered, razor-defined physique… beyond human limits.

Eden now stood bare-torsoed where his cuirass had been, every contour shining—his aura crushing.

As if every other fighter present simply didn't count.

He let the power settle, eyes locking onto the Chaos assassins.

At the same time, the Blood God's assassin smashed through the Custodians and the White Scars Primarch's broken line, slamming down before the Throne.

Which meant Eden faced three Chaos assassins at once—each above Primarch-class.

A lineup to make any Imperial heart fail.

Eden felt no fear. He even lifted a hand to hold back the battered White Scars Primarch and the Custodian captain.

No need to see them die.

He stood alone before three god-driven killers—clone avatars of the Dark Gods.

A fierce grin crooked his mouth. "I'm thinkin'… these gits ain't all that, yeah?"

The Blood God's puppet—an overbuilt slab of meat—rasped a laugh. Impressive as the Savior looked, he was not enough for their chosen tools.

"Arrogant Savior, you—"

THUNK!

Before the Blood God could finish, Eden vanished—and the assassin's face met a hammer.

The body flew.

The suddenness made the three Dark Gods blink. They had no idea how he'd done it.

That was Edork's trick.

When you see Edork—he smashes your face with a hammer.

Eden snatched a hammer-like alloy spar from the mechanized wreckage and pasted the Blood God's assassin across the jaw—

Sent it skidding.

The other two reacted fast, driving their assassin-bodies past the Savior toward the Throne.

The Emperor was the target; tangling with the Savior was meaningless.

But the Changer of Ways' assassin had just slipped out of Eden's line of sight—

When the back of its skull exploded in pain. It crumpled.

"How—?!"

The Changer of Ways raged. The Savior was too fast—his path through causality too slippery to grasp.

As if whenever he moved, he would always strike from the nastiest angle.

Understanding dawned:

"That field—like the Ork gestalt—skews causality!"

Eden switched targets.

One punch folded the pink grotesque; in midair he stitched a flurry of jabs—every one a critical.

Wild, unchained.

The Prince of Pleasure screamed—again and again.

Through the clone vessel, the Dark Prince could feel that feral, piston strength—and the pain bled back to the god's true self.

Not enough. Eden mounted the Slaaneshi assassin and let the hammers fly.

Sweat flashed. The blows came down like a storm. Peak ferocity.

The most explosive physique in the galaxy—bar none.

In the Immaterium's Palace of Pleasure, the impossibly exquisite figure—every curve a trap—shuddered without end.

(End of Chapter)

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