Chapter 51: The Soul Forge
Many might wonder: why is Godzilla's mission target only the WAAAGHboss—why not exterminate all Orks on the planet?
The answer is both simple and terrifying.
You can't kill all the Orks. Not really.
Orks aren't like other xenos. They're a genetic cocktail of fungus, beast, and brute—living bioweapons spawned by the ancient Brain Boyz of the War in Heaven. They don't reproduce through birth. They spread like mold. Wherever they fight, they shed spores. Those spores grow into mushrooms, which grow into Gretchin, Snotlings, and eventually full-grown Orks. You could purge a continent today and return next month to find it teeming with fresh mobs.
To truly cleanse an Ork-infested planet, you'd have to reduce the entire biosphere to ash. Planetary exterminatus.
Even the Tyranids—renowned galaxy-wide for their endless biomass and exponential reproduction—struggle to outbreed Orks in local warzones. Tyranids. Let that sink in.
So no, Godzilla's mission was never about wiping out every greenskin on this rust-world. That would be like asking the Monkey King to slay every demon in creation. He could kill millions—but not all.
Some monsters are just too prolific.
On the surface, far from Godzilla's rampage, a disciplined Aeldari strike force moved with eerie precision through the wreckage of a greenskin scrap-city. Guardians and Howling Banshees advanced in formation, covering each other at every angle. From the shadows, Rangers picked off high-value targets with pinpoint accuracy, thinning the mobs before they ever saw the enemy.
For how long they had been fighting here, no one could say. Time bent and blurred amid the psychic haze of the battlefield. But with superior coordination, tight corridors, and kill-zone tactics, the kill-to-loss ratio had become laughably lopsided—at least tactically.
Strategically, the Eldar were still losing.
Because no matter how many Orks they cut down, more kept coming. Like waves upon waves of green crashing against white stone.
A banshee mask shrieked, unleashing a psychic wail that stunned a charging Nob. In that half-second opening, white-armored figures burst forward, their power swords humming with eldritch energy. The Ork was dead before he hit the ground.
"We can't hold this meat grinder forever!" one Howling Banshee snapped. "By Kaela Mensha Khaine, there's no end to them!"
Behind her, a Farseer strode calmly beneath the protective canopy of Warlocks and Guardians. His voice was calm but commanding.
"Hold your mind steady. We are not here for extermination. Our destination lies ahead."
The strike team was heading for a specific Ork warehouse buried deep in the sprawl. Their target: soul stones.
The soul stones of dead Aeldari warriors—sacred artifacts that house the souls of the departed, shielding them from the hunger of Slaanesh. Without them, the spirits of the slain would be torn from the Warp, devoured by the god of excess.
They were more than relics. They were people. And power.
The Aeldari needed them—for mourning, for battle, for survival.
At last, the door was breached.
Inside, hundreds of soul stones lay scattered among scrap metal and greasy bolts—carelessly dumped like shiny baubles in a WAAAGHboy's toy chest.
Rage rippled through the strike force. Even the normally stoic Rangers clenched their fists.
But the Farseer's tone remained level. "Collect every stone that resonates with the souls of our kind. We don't have much time."
This wasn't the only cache they'd found. It wouldn't be the last. Across the planet, other Aeldari teams hunted down their heritage, reclaiming what they could.
Meanwhile, in the caldera of an extinct volcano, the main Aeldari warhost held firm.
It was the perfect defensive position: high elevation, limited chokepoints, natural stone walls reinforced by wraithbone. Still, they were vastly outnumbered.
Endless tides of Orks swarmed the outer rim, shrieking as they died in droves to overlapping fields of fire. A pair of Aeldari Titans stood sentinel over the fortress like silent gods—phantom giants who answered each WAAAGH cry with void-lances and plasma fusillades.
But even genius has limits.
Aeldari were not built for attrition.
At the center of the crater, surrounded by a crystalline battle-node, sat Farseer Tyrese—seer, commander, and soul-anchor. His psychic threads wove command and precision across the army like silk through steel.
He opened a mind-link to orbit.
"Alanna. Why have the orbital strikes ceased?"
The air support had thinned. Too thin. Without it, the fortress risked encirclement.
"I'm sorry, Tyrese," came the soft voice of Warlock Alanna. "There's… been an intervention. You've seen it, haven't you?"
Tyrese had.
He closed his eyes, letting the skeins of fate flow through him.
But the future was blocked. A wall of flame. A storm of wrath.
And in the center of it—a shadow.
A beast.
It wasn't like any behemoth Tyrese had encountered in all his centuries. Not even the war machines of the Mon-Keigh, or the god-beasts of the Necrontyr. The thing in the vision had claws like cities and a tail that cracked mountains. Its roar was the end of prophecy.
Only one name echoed in his mind.
Godzilla.
"I see nothing but fire and storms," Tyrese murmured. "That name… What does it mean?"
"In the language of the Mon-Keigh," said Alanna, "it's something like… 'god.'"
That sent a chill even through Tyrese's warded soul.
"'God.' That word has never brought us peace."
"Slaanesh was once a god too."
"Exactly."
Suddenly, a Guardian sprinted into the command post, panting beneath his helm.
"Lord Tyrese! You must come!"
"What is it?" the Farseer asked. "This had better not be another WAAAGHbeast charging the walls. Even the biggest Ork monstrosities die under twin Titan fire."
The Guardian shook his head. "It's not an Ork, my lord. The beast… is fighting the Orks."
Tyrese raised an eyebrow. "You're joking."
"I swear on the Laughing God, I'm not!"
Even through the Guardian's mask, his fear was palpable.
And then, the ground trembled.
A roar split the sky.
Tyrese turned his head—and saw it.
Emerging from the haze below the volcano crater, a creature unlike anything the Eldar had faced lumbered into view. Towering, covered in jagged plates of armor-like hide, its tail sweeping aside Orks like insects.
Godzilla.
For a brief moment, every Eldar on the crater rim—soldiers, Warlocks, even the Titans—stared in stunned silence.
Godzilla's gaze swept up the slope. His eyes locked onto the glowing energy signatures of Aeldari weapons, the light of the Titans, and the green sea of Orks rushing up to meet them all.
The battlefield stretched beneath him like a living tapestry of war.
So many greenskins. They covered the hills and valleys in all directions.
And above them… the Eldar.
A large Aeldari warhost, Godzilla mused, tail lashing slowly.
His instincts stirred.
The apex predator had found his next battlefield.
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