832.M30, Ultima Segmentum
Tranquility is a beautiful planet. Compared to the death worlds scattered across the galaxy, it could practically be described as a dark bedtime fairy tale.
Here, you can not only watch dinosaurs bare their teeth on the grasslands alongside your trusty hound, but you can also venture into primal jungles to wrestle with trees for air. If you're looking to prove your courage, there's even a death swamp shrouded in lethal toxins, where you can grapple with randomly spawning giant mushroom men.
But in the eyes of Diedrech Torismund, such a vibrant and colorful world was far from wonderful, simply because this damned place was the Warhammer universe.
Honestly! When he realized he had ended up in the Warhammer universe, Diedrech Torismund was utterly devastated—practically as miserable as a grot with a stomped toe. It was only thanks to his resilient mental fortitude that he didn't break down and cry on the spot.
Sure, he kept muttering about loyalty, but who in their right mind would willingly dive headfirst into a cesspit and gorge on filth?
"I bloody well didn't want to come to this dungheap!!!"
"Smart-Boss, my loo's clogged! Use your world-shaking wisdom to help me out!"
The gates of the workshop at the foot of Garbage Mountain were kicked open from the outside. Even though the sun had already set, a crowd of towering figures gathered at the entrance, each pair of eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated stupidity. Combined with their massive physiques, it felt like this was an intellectual wasteland.
And the truth was, it really was.
"Shut it! I'm your chieftain, not some 'Smart-Boss' Ogryn! Can't you lot use your brains for once? Keep pestering me, and I'll decimate you all!"
The four-meter-tall, blond giant roared, as if he might punch the skull of the nearest fool clean off in the next moment. But soon, Diedrech Torismund slumped back onto his sofa. After all, expecting a bunch of Ogryns to fix a toilet was asking a bit too much.
"Rambo? Rambo, where the hell are you? Get to work already! Or do you expect your chieftain to unclog the toilet himself?"
As Diedrech's voice echoed, a massive canine head poked out from the crowd. Standing at two and a half meters tall, the hulking black beastman exuded a terrifying strength just by standing there.
At the sight of the massive hound, the Ogryns immediately burst into cheers. No one knew why they were so excited, but Diedrech knew one thing: tonight, he'd likely be left in peace.
Watching the dog being swarmed by the Ogryns as they left, Diedrech sank deeper into the sofa, resuming work on the bizarre machine in front of him. If he didn't find something to keep himself occupied, he might actually devolve into a golden-haired Ogryn himself.
Twelve years ago, Diedrech Torismund wasn't called by that name. He was just an ordinary graduate named Adam, the third child in his family, neither particularly successful nor a complete failure, working as a safety officer on a construction site.
He vaguely remembered that night, sitting on the toilet, contemplating life, when he saw a shooting star streak across the sky. He hurriedly made a wish, even clasping his hands to his chest in a rare moment of sincerity:
"I want a vibrant, colorful life. I don't want to live so lifelessly, so monotonously. If possible, transmigrating to another world wouldn't be bad—preferably a fairy-tale world with elves or beast-eared girls or something. I'm not picky; I'm easy to please!
Just don't make me work on a construction site!"
Before he could finish, Diedrech opened his eyes to see the shooting star split in two. One half soared forward, while the other half plummeted straight toward him.
And then, there was nothing. Diedrech only knew he slept for a long time, occasionally hearing screams in his ears. When he opened his eyes again, he was a baby, and a furry canine face was grinning stupidly at him.
The name Diedrech was given to him by that old beastman named Thomas. And with that, he gained a new identity—Diedrech Torismund.
Being a rather unconventional person, Diedrech wasn't afraid of these giant hounds. Instead, he quickly integrated into the beastman tribe.
But good times don't last. At the age of eight, old Thomas passed away, and overnight, Diedrech transformed into a three-meter-tall eight-year-old child.
An eight-year-old surviving in the wilderness? That's like looking for crap in a latrine. Fortunately, Diedrech was no ordinary child—he was a Primarch.
As a limited-edition figure crafted by the golden big guy with unscientific methods, even if he were tossed into the Warp to swim in a sea of filth, anyone who saw him would exclaim, "By the Throne, a Primarch!"
So, to honor the tribe entrusted to him by Thomas on his deathbed, Diedrech began his leadership.
With the immense martial prowess of a Primarch, Diedrech unified the Verdant Plains in just three years, while also taking in a group of Ogryns who could drive him to the brink of madness.
Every time he recalled that decision, Diedrech wanted to slap himself awake in the middle of the night. It wasn't that Ogryns were bad—in a world stuck in a post-apocalyptic punk aesthetic, Ogryns were undeniably useful as human-shaped beasts of burden. The problem was, they were just too stupid!
Diedrech had poured his heart and soul into teaching them, and only after five grueling years did he manage to get these big idiots to count from 1 to 100 and follow the most basic commands.
Though the teaching process was agonizing, the thought that he'd gotten Ogryns to learn how to count made Diedrech's lips curl into a smirk. After all, this was a feat even Tzeentch's Greater Daemons couldn't accomplish.
"Pfft! Why am I comparing myself to those filthy things? That's just tainting my brain."
"But speaking of which, why hasn't my biological dad come looking for me yet? Am I the second or the eleventh? Who the hell knows what those two stripes on the amniotic tank meant?"
When alone, Diedrech often muttered to himself or ranted endlessly to his trusty hound. After all, in this world, there weren't many people he could confide in, and Ogryns were clearly not ideal conversation partners.
"Damn it, why am I thinking about Ogryns again?"
At that moment, Diedrech was like a lunatic, his left brain attacking his right, as if an invisible person were standing beside him, chatting away.
As the strange device on the workbench before him was completed, Diedrech began his long-planned grand scheme.
This was a machine tool cobbled together from scrap. Don't ask why a medieval barbaric world would have something like a machine tool—after all, humanity had once been prosperous, and every place with sentient life had been colonized by spacefaring civilizations.
This machine tool, and everything around Diedrech, was scavenged and pieced together from the ruins near the grasslands.
When the plasma engine, glowing with a faint blue light, roared to life and power was transmitted through gears to the machine tool, steel plates began to be cut and shaped. Diedrech knew he had it in the bag.
Three hours later, when Rambo returned to the workshop, ready to find a spot to crash for the night, it saw its chieftain inexplicably cackling like a madman, smearing lubricant onto a lump of metal.
Recalling the chieftain's increasingly bizarre behavior, Rambo suddenly felt a chill, its dog tail instinctively tucking between its furry legs.
"Boss, did I come at a bad time?"
"Hm? No, you came at the perfect time!"
Grabbing his trusty hound, Diedrech excitedly presented his creation: "Ta-da! The 30mm Atlas-Pattern Bolt Pistol!!"
"Do you know what this means?"
As a beastman, Rambo had a body structure roughly similar to a human's, complete with hands capable of grasping objects. It took the wildly designed weapon from Diedrech.
"What does it mean?"
"Heh heh, it means our Atlas Clan can blow the whole damn world to smithereens!"
"I'm sick of all these tedious formalities."