Chapter 50: Apex Predator
The entire planet was nearly consumed by sprawling Ork settlements. There were no "safe zones" here—only endless junkyard cities of ramshackle metal and smoke-belching war engines. It was WAAAGH incarnate.
Godzilla's radioactive breath carved a glowing scar through the industrial heart of the greenskin fortress-world, igniting multiple ammo dumps in chain reactions that echoed like continent-shattering thunderclaps. The shockwaves ripped through the lower atmosphere, rattling teeth and shattering eardrums. The ground trembled. Orks were flung from towers, turrets, and trukks alike.
A brief moment of silence followed. Then, with the dull roar of another distant detonation, came the usual chorus of greenskin confusion.
"DA DAKKA DEPOT BLEW UP AGAIN!"
Towering amidst the inferno, Godzilla crushed through a barricade of scrap metal plating, his immense foot pulverizing the twisted walls like cardboard. The radioactive trench left by his breath weapon glowed in the half-light, casting eerie shadows that danced across burning wreckage. But Godzilla knew all too well—it wasn't enough. Not yet.
He had fought greenskins before. They didn't just build cities. They bred them. They could terraform entire worlds into rolling factory-hives of smoke, steel, and bloodsport.
This planet's WAAAGH energy is off the charts…
The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Ork Boyz scrambled in panic, many of them on fire—some literally dragging their burning backsides across the dirt, or even rubbing them against Godzilla's scaly feet in a mad effort to extinguish themselves.
And yet, amid the mayhem, Godzilla searched with single-minded focus.
He was hunting their leader.
Orks were a species that thrived on hierarchy by brute strength. The bigger the ork, the higher his place in the pecking order. There were Runts. Then Gretchin. Then Boyz. Then Nobz. Then Warbosses. And at the top: the titanic, city-smashing WAAAGHbosses who could go toe-to-toe with Titans—or worse.
The Ork chain of command was as brutal and primitive as it was simple.
"Me bigga. Me boss."
The largest Orks ever recorded stood six or seven meters tall—capable of snapping Astartes like twigs and dragging Imperial tanks like toys. If not for their inherent disorder and reliance on a singular leader, the Orks might already rule the galaxy. But if the Boss died, the horde fell apart. That was the paradox of Orks: overwhelming numbers, but fragile unity.
Then he saw it.
A flare of bio-signature in the distance, glowing like a beacon in his vision.
Target acquired.
Godzilla began advancing. Scrap metal, burning corpses, and ruined war machines were kicked aside with indifference. Nothing stood in his way.
At least, almost nothing.
A deep, guttural roar rumbled through the city—a sound not of Ork voices, but of something else.
Something monstrous.
Bursting from the smoke came a towering Squiggoth—no, a Mega-Squiggoth—a gargantuan beast of muscle and tusks, a living siege engine. Its hide was armored like a fortress, and its breath reeked of half-digested fungus and crude promethium. On its back stood an Ork fortification outfitted with artillery, gun towers, and shrieking Gretchin crew.
It roared and charged.
Its thunderous limbs slammed into the ground like siege breakers, and Orks scrambled to keep it under control. But the beast was too wild, too massive, too furious. It barreled toward Godzilla with unstoppable momentum, even if it trampled its own kin in the process.
Godzilla remained still.
His tail swayed lazily, the only movement betraying his coiled anticipation.
The battlefield froze—like the last second before a gunfight at high noon.
Then the Squiggoth collided with him.
The impact could have flattened a Leman Russ. The ground cracked and split beneath Godzilla's feet. But he didn't move. Not an inch.
He absorbed the charge with pure, unyielding mass. The Squiggoth snarled in confusion, trying to push through. Around them, Orks watched in stunned disbelief.
"Oi… Did 'e just stop Big Bad-Toof dead?!"
"Last time Big Bad-Toof rammed one'a them 'Umie titans, it flipped it!"
But the titan before them was not human.
Godzilla's claws flexed. Then, with a sound like grinding tectonic plates, he lifted the Squiggoth.
Clawed fingers wrapped around the beast's bulk. Muscle and sinew strained. The Squiggoth bellowed in panic, its fortress toppling and spewing Ork gunners like confetti. Godzilla hoisted the multi-ton monstrosity into the air.
And then, he spun.
A vortex of flame and ash erupted as Godzilla rotated with the Squiggoth in a cyclonic grip, building unbearable centrifugal force. The fortress on the beast's back came apart in seconds—welded armor ripped from its bolts, cannon towers flung like toys. Orks screamed as they were thrown into the sky.
A tornado of fire surrounded them, and Godzilla stood at its eye—like a god of storms and war.
Then, with a final roar, he hurled the Squiggoth skyward.
The titanic beast soared.
And Godzilla fired.
A superheated beam of atomic breath tore through the heavens and met the airborne Squiggoth mid-arc. The explosion bloomed into a radiant mushroom cloud, casting stark shadows across the battlefield.
Godzilla turned away without watching it fall.
Flames rippled around him. Buildings toppled in the shockwave. The greenskins—stunned—watched the monster march through the carnage with a predator's grace.
A real monster doesn't look back at the explosion.
For a moment, the greenskin forces were thrown into chaos. Discipline—what little they had—broke completely. Several mobs began arguing. Some Boyz just ran.
But Godzilla didn't pause. He pressed on, deeper into the heart of the WAAAGH.
He had only just begun.
And far away—across the void between stars—something else stirred.
The Hive was coming.
The Tyranids had arrived.
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