2nd Primarch

It was a week later when the Primarch met the Ork warlord again. The moment Dukel walked into the interrogation room, he was shocked by the scene inside. The skull of Bonebreaker Saraka was completely opened, with thin iron tubes connected to the remnants of its biological brain. Several micro-pumps were injecting drugs into it, while needles pierced the Ork's body. Orc blood covered both Saraka's skin and every surface of the room.

Gris stood beside the torture instruments, reverent as he praised the machine spirit.

Looking at the devastated scene, it was hard to imagine what the great sage had done to the poor Ork warlord during this time.

"Saraka?" Dukel called out.

"Guuu," came a meaningless groan squeezed from its throat.

"I still preferred your rebellious spirit back then. Waaagh!"

The Primarch attempted to provoke the Ork, but the response was just a vacant, silly smile.

As a greenskin, Saraka didn't even react to the Waaagh. Dukel was nearly certain it had been completely broken. Still, he needed to test it with his psychic powers.

The Primarch began reshaping the Ork warlord's consciousness with psychic energy. To his surprise, the process went smoothly.

This unexpectedly good result made Dukel re-evaluate the great sage standing beside him.

Gris, in the Primarch's presence, always carried himself as a humble and unassuming scholar, occasionally revealing a melancholy air as if burdened by the fate of the Imperium. He fit Dukel's stereotype of a bookish intellectual so well that, initially, the Primarch hardly noticed him.

But now—Dukel had to admit that every seemingly modest figure in the Warhammer universe often hid skills far beyond ordinary comprehension.

"Well done, Gris," the Primarch said generously.

"I have fulfilled my duty, Your Highness," Gris replied humbly. This time, though, with the ruined interrogation room and the shattered Ork warlord as a backdrop, the great sage seemed more formidable in Dukel's eyes.

The Primarch's psychic power delved deeper into the Ork warlord's consciousness, reshaping it in line with his vision. He performed this delicate process as carefully as a surgeon performing a complex operation.

Far away in the depths of the Warp, a colossal entity—a mass of interlocking wheels—shed an essence of flame. The flame morphed as it descended, forming fiery wheels that connected to the Ork warlord's consciousness through Dukel's mental channel.

For the monstrous being of the Warp, this essence was insignificant. But for the Ork, the psychic intrusion caused excruciating pain. Saraka writhed under the force, unable to resist.

The Primarch, indifferent to its suffering, continued. Even if the Ork warlord were to explode from the strain, it would be nothing more than a failed experiment.

Using a question-and-answer method, Dukel gauged the progress of his experiment.

"Saraka, during your previous raid, did you see Gork or Mork?"

"Yes."

"What did He look like?"

"A massive, crazy ball of energy. I saw Him claw his way back from certain death."

"Was He Gork or Mork?"

"I… I don't know. No Ork can tell the difference. We fight over this all the time."

"Could it be that He is neither Gork nor Mork?"

"Who, then?"

"He is Dorko, the third god of the Orks."

"This…" Saraka hesitated. Through the Waaagh network, Orks can naturally sense their gods as easily as they breathe. Yet, Saraka paused, his mind fumbling. Finally, he muttered, "I don't remember this god."

"How could you forget? Gork is cunningly brutal, Mork is brutally cunning, and Dorko is both. Think, Saraka—He watches you."

As Dukel spoke, he fine-tuned the psychic essence he had placed within the Waaagh network. It was like inserting a spider into another's web, ensuring the intruder remained unnoticed while stealing prey.

"Think, Saraka—search your soul. He is watching."

Saraka's brow furrowed, his body trembling. Even in his trance, he showed intense emotion. After a long silence, he gasped, "I see Him! Yes, it's Him!"

In Saraka's mind, a massive, frenzied energy body became clear.

"It's Him! Dorko, the third god of the Orks! I've seen Him! How could I forget?"

Dukel increased his psychic output to stabilize Saraka's frantic mind, preventing a disconnection.

"Yes, that's right. Gork is cunningly brutal, Mork is brutally cunning, and Dorko is both."

Saraka repeated this mantra unconsciously.

"Relax, lad," Dukel said, pressing a hand on Saraka's shoulder. The Ork warlord's green skin cracked, wheel-shaped fissures spreading as if it might break apart.

In Saraka's mind, the energy body radiated a warmth that calmed him.

"Well done, lad," Dukel said softly. "One last question."

Dukel paused before asking, "What is 1000 minus 7?"

"Twenty-two!" Saraka replied instantly, as if it were a universal truth.

"Very good. Sleep now."

Dukel withdrew his hand, and the Ork warlord collapsed into a deep, peaceful slumber.

"Incredible, Your Highness! You succeeded!" Gris exclaimed. Though he inhabited a robotic form, his excitement burst forth. Sparks flew from servitor circuits, and smoke rose from his mechanical frame.

Dukel's solemn face softened into a rare, heartfelt smile.

"It's done."