During the day, they worked as usual—shoveling dung, pushing carts, and being chased by Squigs. Raynor shoveled the massive piles of manure into the cart one by one, sweat pouring off him like rain. With every thrust of the shovel, he told himself: this was absolutely the last time he would ever shovel dung.
Yagg worked alongside him, but he was clearly distracted, stealing frequent glances at Raynor with eyes full of both nervousness and excitement.
As the sky darkened, the day's labor came to an end. The two went to collect their pay, which amounted to another pair of broken teeth. Yagg's hands shook as he took the teeth; he was still on edge.
Raynor patted him on the shoulder. "Don't be afraid."
Yagg nodded and took a deep breath.
The two pretended to head back to their shack, but after confirming they weren't being followed, they quietly slipped out again. The ranch at night was quieter than during the day, save for the occasional low growl from a Squig and the sound of Grot snoring drifting from a distant shed.
They navigated through several paths, weaving through piles of scrap and stepping over leaking pipes until they reached the only tavern in the vicinity. It was a small shack built from discarded trash, barely capable of holding a few dozen Grots. Dim light flickered inside, accompanied by rowdy shouting and shrill laughter. Through the holes in the drafty walls, one could see the place was packed with Gretchins. They huddled together, drinking, boasting, and brawling.
The crowd far exceeded the tavern's capacity. Raynor couldn't distinguish who Arvin was, but fortunately, he had Yagg.
Raynor and Yagg crouched in the dark, watching the tavern entrance. As the minutes ticked by, Yagg remained tense, though he kept his mouth shut and his teeth gritted. Raynor was calm; for him, this task was simpler than drinking water. He wore his purple ninja suit, blending into the night like a true shinobi.
After waiting for what felt like an eternity, the door curtain was finally pushed aside. A bloated figure wobbled out.
Arvin.
He was a size larger than the average Grot, his belly bulging like a leather ball, his flesh wobbling with every step. He wore leather armor reinforced with iron plates, with a rusted las-pistol and a choppa tucked into his belt. Because he had been drinking heavily, he wasn't wearing his scavenged steel helmet, exposing his bald head and a pair of fan-like ears. His face was flushed red, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he mumbled incoherently as he swayed.
About a dozen Grots followed him, all clad in tattered armor, carrying sticks or scrap-metal choppas. They had also been drinking but were more sober than Arvin, at least capable of watching where they were going.
Yagg took a deep breath and stood up. His legs were shaking and his palms were slick with sweat, but he still stepped forward.
"Arvin!"
The group of Grots stopped, staring at the scrawny figure that had suddenly appeared. Arvin squinted for a long time before recognizing him. "Yagg? You tired of livin', ya git? Dare blockin' me path?"
Yagg puffed out his chest. His voice wavered, but every word was clear: "Arvin, I'm takin' yer place!"
The scene fell silent for an instant before the group of Grots erupted into fits of laughter.
"Hahahaha! You?"
"Yagg, is ya mad?"
"Ya can't even beat a normal Squig, an' ya wanna be an officer?"
"Did dis git get kicked in da head by a Squig while shovelin'?"
Arvin laughed too, doubled over so far he almost lost his balance. He pointed at Yagg, unable to speak through his mirth. After a moment, his expression suddenly turned cold.
"Get 'im! Teach dis worthless piece of scrap a lesson!"
A dozen Grots sneered as they closed in on Yagg. Some cracked their knuckles, some tapped sticks against their palms, and others licked the edges of their blades. Yagg stood his ground, his legs shaking like a leaf, but he didn't take a single step back. He gritted his teeth, watching the approaching Grots with a panicked face.
Just as the first Grot raised a stick, a blurred figure lunged from the darkness.
Like a sudden gust of wind in the night, the movement was too fast to track. Two of Arvin's personal lackeys were taken down before they could even react. The first took a kick to the chest, flying backward and slamming into a wall, coughing up a mouthful of blood. The second was unluckier, taking an elbow to the head and falling straight back, stiff as a board.
A drunken Arvin turned his head, seeing only a purple shadow. He tried to resist, reaching for the las-pistol at his waist, but before his hand could touch the grip, a blurry, large hand seized his wrist. The strength in that hand was terrifying, clamping down like an iron vise; bones creaked and groaned under the pressure.
Arvin couldn't break free. He screamed for help, but the hand released his wrist only to grab the edge of his armor. With sheer brute force, Raynor hoisted him into the air and slammed him violently into the ground. Arvin's back hit the hard earth, and his vision went dark from the pain. He struggled to crawl up, but a foot was already planted on his chest, pinning him down and crushing the breath out of him.
Without a proper weapon, Raynor couldn't kill him instantly. However, the disparity in strength was too vast. Arvin was pinned to the ground like a beetle being flipped over and over—unable to die, yet unable to escape.
The lackeys finally reacted, abandoning their assault on Yagg to rescue their boss.
"Hurry! Wuh—" Arvin opened his mouth to urge them on.
Suddenly, two large hands thrust directly into his mouth. The right hand jammed against his upper jaw, the left hooked into his lower jaw, ten fingers digging into his gums like iron hooks. Then, the hands wrenched outward with immense force.
Arvin thrashed in agony, his nails leaving scratches on the dark figure. But the shadow didn't stop. The jawbone emitted an overburdened crack under the titanic pressure. The corners of his mouth tore open, and teeth snapped.
Finally, the upper part of the head was ripped clean off.
Blood sprayed across the ground. The headless corpse twitched a few times and then went completely still. The upper skull of Arvin dangled from the hand of the purple figure. His eyes were still open, his face frozen in a final expression of agony.
The remaining Grots stared at the scene. Their brains had little capacity for thought; once the first Grot dropped his weapon and turned to bolt, the others followed in a chain reaction, scrambling to get away from the terrifying monster.
In less than three seconds, only Raynor and Yagg remained outside the tavern.
Raynor stood beside the corpse, holding the dripping upper skull. His purple ninja suit was splattered with blood, though its color was hard to discern in the night; only his purple eyes glowed in the darkness.
Yagg stood there, looking at the headless body and the dripping trophy in Raynor's hand. Facing this bloody scene, his legs actually stopped shaking. Raynor's violence and cruelty didn't frighten him; instead, they provided a strange sense of security.
The fear and confusion in his eyes were gradually replaced by another emotion: a rapidly swelling ambition.
He looked at Raynor, and Raynor looked back at him. Neither spoke.
In the distance, the muffled sounds of revelry still drifted from the tavern. The occupants inside remained oblivious to what had just occurred outside.
Raynor wrapped Arvin's head in a piece of cloth and tucked it into his belt before stooping to pick up a discarded scrap-metal choppa. "What's next?" he asked.
Yagg swallowed hard. His voice was still trembling, but his tone had shifted. "T-take... take Arvin's head to Tiny."
Raynor nodded. Yagg took a deep breath, turned, and began walking toward Tiny's territory. Raynor followed behind him, carrying the grizzly trophy through the night. After a few steps, Yagg suddenly stopped and looked back at him.
"Itachi," he said.
"Hmm?"
"Then... you..." He trailed off, seemingly weighing his words carefully. "Do ya want to be da officer yerself?"
Raynor let out a near-imperceptible smile. "My boss will always be you."
After saying that, he continued walking forward, leaving Yagg standing there, utterly dazed in the wind. In the corner of Raynor's vision, the system interface flashed with a series of notifications as the Grot's loyalty and favorability surged.
The two made their way toward Tiny's territory with Arvin's head in tow. As Yagg walked in front, he felt as if even the stench of Squig dung had become sweet and fragrant. Suddenly, he stopped again.
"Can't go just like dis," he said, his eyes darting around rapidly. "If we go empty-handed, Tiny won't give us da time of day."
Raynor stopped as well, waiting for him to elaborate. Yagg stood there thinking for a moment, then slapped his thigh. "First, we go to Arvin's hideout! Dat git was an officer fer nearly free months; 'e must've hoarded a mountain of teef!"
Raynor nodded. This Grot was proving to be sharper than he had initially imagined.
Arvin's hideout was located on the edge of the Muscle Squig sector, very close to the pens, making it convenient for distributing pay. It was a two-story structure built from scrap metal and wooden planks. Though it was dilapidated, it was dozens of times larger than Yagg's shack. Several strings of dried Squig tails hung above the entrance—Arvin's personal "signboard."
A few lackeys were standing guard at the door on night watch, clutching sticks and broken blades, leaning against the wall and dozing off. Hearing footsteps, they snapped awake and grabbed their gear. "Who's dere? Halt!"
Yagg puffed out his chest and held Arvin's head high. Under the moonlight, the dripping skull was clearly visible; the lower half of the face was missing, and the eyes were bulged wide in a permanent stare.
The lackeys recognized Yagg's face and the looming, faint purple silhouette behind him. The underlings who had fled from the tavern earlier had already spread the news far and wide: Arvin had been killed by a purple monster working for Yagg—his head ripped off by hand, blood spraying everywhere.
Their faces turned deathly pale. They dropped their weapons and bolted. In less than ten seconds, every Grot in the hideout had vanished, not even bothering to close the door.
Raynor and Yagg sauntered into the hideout. Arvin's office was on the second floor, cluttered with junk: rags, bones, rusted parts, and broken blades. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and fermented ethanol, enough to make one's eyes sting.
Yagg began rummaging through everything. He first found a metal box containing dozens of common teeth. "Dis is da leftovers fer da workers' pay," he noted, casually dumping the teeth into his own pocket.
Under the desk, beneath the bedboards, and inside cracked jars in the corner—teeth were hidden everywhere. But they were all scattered common teeth; added together, they didn't amount to much.
Raynor frowned. A guy who had been an officer for this long only had this much to show for it? It didn't make sense. Yagg wasn't giving up either; he dropped to all fours and began tapping on the floorboards. When he hit one specific plank, the sound was noticeably different. It was hollow.
The two pried up the board to reveal a narrow staircase leading down to a cellar. The cellar wasn't large, but inside sat three wooden crates arranged neatly. The crates were repurposed ammunition boxes, still bearing the faded and worn emblems of the Imperium of Man.
Yagg opened the first box and froze instantly. Inside was a crate full of teeth. These weren't common trash; they were high-quality "Premium Teeth." Each one was intact, gleaming with a golden luster like tiny nuggets of gold. One such tooth was worth at least three common ones.
He opened the second and third crates; both were filled to the brim with Premium Teeth. Three crates—at least fifteen hundred Premium Teeth.
Yagg stood before the crates, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. He looked down at the necklace of fake stone teeth around his neck and then back at the genuine treasure in the boxes. The fake necklace compared to the Premium Teeth was like a firefly trying to compete with the moon.
Then, he jumped into one of the crates, burying himself in the pile of teeth and began to cry. It wasn't a loud wail, but a silent flow of tears. The tears dripped onto the teeth, washing them even brighter. His shoulders shook as his scrawny body curled into a ball amidst the wealth.
"I never fought..." his voice came in broken intervals. "I never fought I'd ever 'ave dis many teef..."
Raynor stood at the entrance of the cellar, watching him quietly. He wanted to see what this Grot would do after coming into such sudden wealth. Would he hide them away like a miser, squander them recklessly, or... have other plans?
Yagg stayed huddled in the teeth for a long time. He held them, counting them one by one. A total of one thousand five hundred and thirty-one Premium Teeth. His eyes shone through a face smeared with snot and tears.
But he didn't stay immersed in euphoria forever. After a long while, he closed the crates one by one, dusted off his hands, and took a deep breath. Raynor noticed that the Grot's gaze had changed. Like a man who had been poor his whole life suddenly winning the lottery, he hadn't gone mad or stupid. Instead, he was thinking about how to turn this money into even more money.
Raynor nodded with satisfaction.
After climbing out of the cellar, Yagg pulled out a handful of common teeth he had swiped earlier. He walked outside the hideout and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"I need some gits to 'elp me carry boxes! Pay is two common teef!"
The voice carried through the night, echoing between the scrap heaps and dilapidated sheds. The Grots who had been hiding poked their heads out and looked at each other. Two teeth? Just for carrying a box? That was a bargain!
Soon, six of the bolder Grots came running over, crowding around Yagg with obsequious bows. Yagg picked the two sturdiest ones to guard the hideout and assigned the other four to carry the crates.
The four Grots hoisted two wooden crates—one thousand Premium Teeth—and followed behind Yagg. Raynor walked further back, his purple silhouette blending into the night like a non-existent mist.
Yagg led the way with a steady stride. He hummed a little tune, wildly off-key, but sang with pure joy:
"Teef are a hero's guts~"
He didn't take all three crates; he left one in the hideout's cellar. Raynor watched his back, thinking that he hadn't chosen the wrong person. In the world of the Greenskins, greed is an instinct, but restraint... that is a skill.
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Why post twice, when I can combine it into one, big brain time