Chapter 63: The Third God of the Orks

A week had passed before the Primarch met the Ork Warlord again. When Dukel stepped into the interrogation chamber, he was momentarily stunned by the grotesque scene before him.

The skull of Bonebreaker Saraka had been surgically opened, revealing a partially intact biological brain connected to several thin iron tubes. Micro-pumps steadily injected unknown substances, and numerous needles pierced its hulking green body. Blood—green and viscous—coated the walls and floor of the chamber, painting the room in Ork ichor.

Beside the torture apparatus stood Gris, the great sage of the Mechanicus, murmuring reverently as he praised the machine spirit.

The devastation was undeniable, and it was impossible not to wonder what unholy techniques the sage had employed during the week-long "interrogation."

"Saraka?" Dukel called, his voice steady, testing the Ork's response.

"Guuu…" came the meaningless, guttural reply, more a reflex than actual speech.

"I preferred your defiant sneers," Dukel muttered, hoping to provoke some semblance of resistance. He even invoked the Waaagh cry, "Waaagh!"—but the once-proud Bonebreaker merely giggled, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Saraka's lack of response to Waaagh energy confirmed it: the warlord was utterly broken. Dukel's mental probe would be the final test.

Reaching out with his psychic power, Dukel invaded the shattered remnants of Saraka's mind, reshaping it with ease. The process, surprisingly smooth, spoke volumes about the thoroughness of Gris' methods.

The Primarch glanced at Gris, his gaze appraising. The sage's usual demeanor was that of a humble, unassuming scholar, occasionally wearing the weight of the Imperium's plight on his shoulders. But now, faced with the sight of Saraka's broken will and the room reeking of mechanized torment, Dukel reassessed. The Mechanicus adept was clearly far more formidable than appearances suggested.

"Well done, Gris," Dukel said, his tone genuinely approving.

"I serve, Your Highness," Gris replied, humility intact, though the scene around him was a testament to his ingenuity. The great sage had proven his value in a way Dukel would not soon forget.

Dukel turned his focus back to Saraka, whose mind he was methodically reshaping. Every action was performed with surgical precision, each adjustment as delicate as the finest operation.

Far across the Immaterium, deep within the Warp, a massive entity composed of interlocking wheels erupted with a fiery flare of essence. The energy spilled forth, cascading into Dukel's psychic channel and latching onto Saraka's battered consciousness.

The Ork Warlord writhed in torment, the alien flame overwhelming his already shattered psyche. But Dukel pressed on, indifferent to Saraka's fate. If the Ork perished, it would be no more than a failed experiment.

"Tell me, Saraka," Dukel began, speaking in a measured tone. "You saw Gork and Mork in your Waaagh network, didn't you?"

"Yes…" came the sluggish reply.

"What do they look like?"

"Massive… a seething storm of energy… chaotic and relentless."

"And do you know if it was Gork or Mork?"

"I don't know. No Ork knows. We fight over it all the time."

Dukel smirked faintly. "And what if it was neither Gork nor Mork? What if there is another?"

"Another?" Saraka's brow furrowed. Even under hypnosis, the idea of a third Ork god gave him pause. "Who is he?"

"He is Dugork, the Third God of Orks," Dukel said with conviction.

Saraka hesitated, his crude mind struggling to comprehend. "I… I don't remember him."

"How could you forget?" Dukel pressed. "Gork is cunning and brutal. Mork is brutal and cunning. And Dugork? He is both brutal and cunning… as well as cunning and brutal. Think, Saraka! He is watching you now."

Saraka's hypnotized state deepened. His brow furrowed further as he attempted to grasp the Primarch's fabricated truth. Slowly, his face lit with realization, and even in his ravaged state, excitement bubbled to the surface.

"I see him! Dugork! Yes, I see him now!" Saraka's voice, though ragged, was filled with fervor. "He is Dugork! He has always been there! How could I have forgotten?!"

The Ork's excitement began to spiral dangerously. His body trembled violently, and the cracks in his green skin began to glow faintly with an unnatural light. Dukel immediately intensified his psychic grip, stabilizing the connection before it could snap.

"Good. Very good," Dukel said, his voice steady as he pressed Saraka's shoulder, forcing the Warlord's erratic energy to settle. "You've done well, Saraka."

The Ork's body sagged, his trembling subsiding. In his consciousness, the fiery, chaotic visage of Dugork loomed, filling him with a twisted warmth that only reinforced the Primarch's fabricated truth.

"One last question, Saraka," Dukel said, his voice soft but commanding. "What is one thousand minus seven?"

"Twenty-two!" Saraka bellowed, without hesitation, as if the number was a fundamental truth etched into his very being.

Satisfied, Dukel released the psychic tether. Saraka slumped forward, unconscious, his tortured form finally at peace—if only temporarily.

Gris, still occupying the servitor, was overcome with excitement. "Incredible, Your Highness! You've done it! This is a monumental breakthrough for humanity! The Imperium should honor you for tearing through the darkness of this age!"

The servitor's circuits began to spark as Gris' enthusiasm overloaded its systems. Smoke hissed from the automaton's joints as Gris continued his effusive praise.

Dukel's stony expression softened into a rare smile. The corners of his lips curled upward as he surveyed his work and the crumpled Ork before him.

"It's done," Dukel declared, his voice carrying a weight of satisfaction.

...

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