You can always trust steel and gears, because they are the ones that structure human history.
The pursuit of technology and truth has allowed humans, a mammal, to embark on an expedition into the vast sea of stars. Although the lower classes of the hive city will never understand the perfect products of technology and industry, their lives so far are completely built of steel and gears, whether it is the dirty machines spitting out protein blocks in front of them, or the first steam engine coughing out steam at the end of the long river of time.
So machines are perfect. Without machines, humans, carbon-based creatures made of flesh and blood, would accomplish nothing.
Steel cast the skeleton and gears filled the internal organs. Perturabo looked at the machine in front of him and thought of the figures of the undead warriors.
If they were stronger individually, they would be the perfect warriors in Perturabo's mind.
Humans, flesh and blood, are too fragile.
Even the most powerful Trident will have problems in the face of continuous high-pressure battlefields. They will become unstable, irritable, and fragile.
Perturabo needs strong warriors who won't back down, won't be weak.
The sound of screwing was dull, but Perturabo felt comfortable with it. This was a rare moment of peace for him, allowing him to temporarily hide everything in the reflection of the metal, the Emperor's deliberate neglect, the sneers between brothers, and the gaze from the great crack.
They were always watching him, but Perturabo knew that only he could see the blasphemous, evil and ridiculous rift. None of his other brothers could see it, and they would only pretend to comfort him not to think too much about it.
It was watching him now, as it were, and it gave Perturabo a constant, excruciating pressure, the spikes scratching slowly but surely across the glass.
Perturabo devoted himself to research and development. He originally just wanted to construct his warriors according to reasonable engineering and mechanics, but the figures of the Necrons appeared in his mind from time to time, interfering with his original ideas.
Perturabo lowered the laser, staring at his work in progress—
He didn't know how to continue.
This was rare, or, for Perturabo, it shouldn't have happened.
Ever since he was a child, standing alone on the top of the mountain, staring at the source of fear, and fear also staring at Perturabo with its eyes, Perturabo lost his "ignorance".
He knows everything, he can understand it at a glance, knowledge is like air to him, he breathes, that's all.
But now, he won't.
Perturabo knew that his thoughts had slipped to a very dangerous cliff. He certainly knew what he was thinking. The figures of those aliens were still flashing. Although they were not powerful, some of the qualities they possessed still deeply, deeply fascinated Perturabo.
But he couldn't do it. His knowledge was stuck, and the mathematical models he had became pale. What Perturabo didn't know was that even he would not be able to understand the technology developed by the Necrons with the help of the Star Gods.
"Maybe. I need a little innovation.?"
Innovation, this word crossed Perturabo's soul like thunder. This word was his opposite, a ghost that he could never touch. He, who knew everything, had been deprived of the power to innovate.
Perturabo shuddered, and he suddenly realized that he might have regained some human emotions, so the Primarch quickly lowered his head, fearing that he would miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
However, since he had never experienced innovation in his life before, Perturabo's first attempt was bound to end in failure.
I just wonder if Perturabo, who is pursuing success, will try a second time after facing the first failure. Such behavior seems to be somewhat insulting to the irritable Primarch.
But Perturabo didn't know all this at the moment. He was immersed in his own attempts and for the first time he managed to ignore everything that made him unhappy.
So he failed to notice the look from the Eye of Terror.
The gears are still turning.
Steel grows in the wilderness, the flames in the furnace roar, and its war machine has been running non-stop for tens of millions of years.
Time is the ore that pours out of the riot mine, complicated and chaotic. Most of them are useless stones, but some contain the luster of gold.
It is powerful, but it is not the most powerful.
Vashtor wanted to become a god.
In this cold and cruel world, that means being careful.
Vashtor carefully concealed himself, trying not to expose himself in the long river of time. Only when it was necessary could he -
A flash of time caught its attention.
Innovation, machinery, and the tiny black holes it can't touch.
It narrowed its eyes dangerously.
Vashtor is an inventor, a scientist, a craftsman, a caster. He is the roar when all machines are running, and he is the flash of inspiration when all scientific madmen are conducting experiments.
It has no morals, logic or order in it.
No one can tell how many souls provided Vashtor with power from those who boldly innovated and did not follow the teachings of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Innovation and creative ideas may fall into Tzeentch's trap, but the Lord of Change prefers philosophers with humanistic thinking, and does not like these seemingly rigid craftsmen who follow the laws of physics.
Vashtor welcomed them.
But not all craftsmen and sages would give Vashtor power. Their faith in the Mechanicus was strong enough to prevent the Lord of the Forge from getting involved.
Perhaps this is why the Mechanicus, a rigid, stubborn religion that mortals do not understand and find disgusting, can still continue to exist.
The oil incense slowly rose, the red cloth servants shouted hymns, the gears rotated, the machinery roared, and in the Mechanical Holy Court, the statue of the God of All Machines was looking at His believers without any expression.
The cooperation agreement between the Graeae Forge World and the 14th Legion Death Guard came into effect here. The servo skeletons wearing red robes and gold threads slowly descended, and the words carried by the sacred parchment were full of power.
The contract was written in three copies in gold by the sages who were most familiar with the doctrine. The Death Guard and the Graeae will each hold one copy, and the final copy will be sent to the Regent Malcador of Terra under the escort of the Death Guard and the Graeae. The Empire will review and file this cooperation.
The cooperation ceremony ended successfully. Even the mechanical sages were willing to hold a "small" celebration afterwards. Hymns poured out like catharsis. Mortarion couldn't stand these noisy and chaotic scenes, so he found an excuse to retreat in advance, leaving Hades to continue to be responsible for the personal relationship with the Graeae.
"Praise Om Messiah!"
Hades calmly stopped the third caster who was flying towards him, then put the fanatical guy on the ground. The great sage who was chatting with him next to him smiled apologetically at him and asked the robot servant to pull the stunned caster away.
Fortunately, the great sage who was talking to me was a normal person.
Hades thought numbly.
What Hades didn't know was that although the sage was suppressing Hades and not God, this did not affect his ability to edit the video footage of his close conversation with Hades and then sell it at a high price when he returned to Graeae.
Amid the clinking of glasses in the mechanical jungle, the mechanical servants sang praises to the glory of their mechanical bodies.
"Praise the great and holy machine!"
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(End of this chapter)