Warhammer: Don't Call Me the God of All Machines

Chapter 897 Wilderness Survival 30k Limited Edition

Fabius Bellklon's Forgrim is in the final stages before his fall.

It can be said that his pride and complacency had reached their peak at this point, to the point of looking down on everyone.

The Phoenix Lord holds himself and the Third Legion to the most stringent standards, striving for perfection in every aspect.

And these aspects naturally include loyalty.

Although Forgrim didn't say it, he always believed in his heart that he was the most loyal son of the emperor.

Otherwise, why would the Emperor only allow the Third Legion to wear the Eagle Emblem and allow the Third Legion to be named after "the Emperor's Son"?

The Third Legion enjoyed unique treatment because they were the most perfect, and the Emperor favored them greatly.

However, Lemanrus had experienced the Great Crusade and the Great Rebellion, and witnessed the various choices made by his Primarch brothers, and had long since seen through Forgrim's hypocritical nature.

He considered himself the most loyal Primarch, simply because he believed himself to be the best in every way, including loyalty.

He believed that all of this was perfectly reasonable and required no explanation.

Forgrim's loyalty is like a superficial and ornate decoration; it looks exceptionally beautiful, but when tested, it turns out to be nothing but empty show.

In essence, it was simply that Forgrim's arrogance was so outrageous that it blinded him to his true nature.

At this moment, as Lemanrus whispered those terrible truths in Forgrim's ear, a crack began to appear in the proud phoenix's heart.

Fugrim knew that his chief apothecary, Fabius, was secretly researching the genes and technology of the Xenomorphs and attempting to integrate them into the genes of the Emperor's Sons to make them even more perfect.

But Fogreum didn't care.

He felt that compared to achieving perfection, the minor risks were a bearable price, and he believed he could control everything and nip any danger in the bud before it erupted.

From the bodies of the dead sons of the Emperor on the laboratory floor, Forgrim saw not only the distorted traces of warp corruption, but also a few features related to "Stabs".

This means that these sons of emperors had actually been modified by Fabius, and by tracing back to the cause, Forgrim deduced that he must have messed things up and brought down the entire Third Legion.

But knowing this was one thing; Fugrim's pride and dignity wouldn't allow him to accept it.

Lemanrus chuckled dismissively, patted Fugrim on the shoulder, and then ignored him.

He knew how much Forgrim cared about his reputation, and if he provoked him any further, Forgrim might challenge him to a duel on the spot.

Although the wolf king was not afraid, he did not want to waste time on internal strife.

Their time is precious now; not a single second is wasted.

"Brothers, let's put aside our differences for now and discuss our next course of action."

"We need a goal, we need a well-thought-out plan, instead of running around aimlessly like headless flies."

The wolf king stood directly on the laboratory equipment operating table, gaining a commanding advantage.

"If you want to stand higher, I can carry you," the all-black giant said kindly.

Lehman Ruston was speechless. His physique was only average among the Primarchs, and he couldn't compare to a monster like Vulcan at all.

"Thank you for your kindness, but thank you, Vulcan," the Wolf King politely declined his brother's hospitality.

The Lord of Fire Dragons wasn't annoyed at all; in fact, he considerately stood at the very back of his brothers to avoid blocking their view.

"Why is this Fenris barbarian in charge of the overall situation?"

"If he can do it, then I certainly can."

Magnus used his psionic powers to enlarge his size, so that even when the Wolf King stood on the platform, he still couldn't look down at him.

The Crimson King's memories were stuck on Prospero; he would never forget how Lemanrus ordered the bombing of his homeworld and the slaughter of his offspring.

"Why should I? Because the cutoff point of my memories is the latest among all of us," the Wolf King retorted without backing down.

"The situation is now very clear. We really are the Primarch clones of that bastard Fabius Beyer. We are not the same person as those 'Primarchs' in our memories!"

"Like that big idiot Magnus, his original self destroyed the entire Father's artificial network with a psionic phone call, which ultimately led to the outbreak and defeat of the network war, but that was his original self's mistake. His clone did not do such stupid things."

Lemanrus was far more shrewd than Magnus, a “literary type”. He had no inhibitions whatsoever, since he was seen as a barbarian by all his brothers anyway.

"you you you!"

"How barbaric and rude!"

Magnus was furious with the wolf king, but fortunately his skin was already a deep reddish-purple, so the change in his complexion was not noticeable.

"Gentlemen, we are now in the Eye of Fear. Although Fabius Bayer has temporarily retreated, he will certainly not give up easily. After all, he went to great lengths to clone us."

"If we start settling scores with the original entity directly, shouldn't we split into two factions, wipe out the other side, and then proceed with the next step?"

Peturabo snorted and stepped forward to testify.

“That’s right, this is indeed the Eye of Fear. I’ve been able to see this eye, which is imprinted on the real universe, since I was born. Even the name was born from my own mouth.”

"Furthermore, according to my observations, we are still deep within the Eye of Fear, quite a distance from the hazy star field outside."

Upon hearing the voices of Peturabo and Russ, Ryan Johnson, who was radiating intense hostility and whose aim was directly at Horus, temporarily restrained himself.

Among the loyal Primarchs, he was the most steadfast opponent of the traitorous Primarchs, especially towards Horus the Rebel, whom he wished he could kill on the spot.

The Wolf King didn't know whether Ryan was simply intolerant of traitors or whether the Caliban were constantly verbally attacking Horus because of the Warmaster's old grudges.

"Humph!"

“Ruth is right. What we need to do now is not to fight amongst ourselves, but to unite and escape this experimental base.”

Compared to the sharp and assertive Llane, Horus, surrounded by Angron, Loka, Forgrim, and others, appeared unusually dejected.

At first, he couldn't believe it, but after learning the truth of history from his many Primarch brothers, he had no choice but to believe that he had actually betrayed the Emperor.

He was assassinated on Devon Star, then sent to the Temple of Devon by Abaddon and others, and subsequently corrupted by the Chaos Gods.

Horus had no intention of finding a reason to explain himself.

As the Wolf Shepherd God, the war commander appointed by the emperor, no matter what reasons or excuses he may have, his betrayal is his betrayal, and there's nothing more to say.

Too much verbal explanation is nothing but weak and feeble sophistry.

Horus always wore a gentle smile in front of his brothers, shining upon them like a sun. But at this moment, his sun had dimmed completely.

He realized that no matter how much he imitated the emperor, he was just like the moon to the sun; his light was merely a reflection of the sun.

“Yes, Ryan and Ruth are right. We shouldn’t settle scores or become hostile to each other because of the mistakes of the original body,” Horus said bitterly.

“I am not suited to be the leader at this time. Since Ruth has the most complete memory among us, he should lead our next move.”

Upon hearing Horus's words, Angron, Loka, Alphareth, and Forgrim, along with the Primarchs led by him, gradually set aside their hostility.

Seeing that the conflicts among the brothers were gradually subsiding, Russ breathed a sigh of relief.

In fact, the Wolf King was not a qualified commander. During the Great Expedition and the Great Rebellion, he always played the role of a general who obeyed orders.

But at this moment, looking at the burning gazes of his many brothers, Ruth couldn't bring himself to say no.

Horus's concession and Lemanrus's rough but straightforward words temporarily suppressed the almost boiling hostile atmosphere in the laboratory.

Although the wounds of suspicion and hostility still lingered like an undercurrent, the instinct for survival and the complex feelings about the actions of the "original body" allowed these clones of the original gene to temporarily set aside their disputes.

"Okay!" Ruth jumped off the control panel, landing on his injured sternum and wincing in pain.

"The first step is to find some handy guys. Even for the Primarch, it would be a bit of a pain to fight a fully armed Space Marine with his bare hands."

He led the way to the corpses of the fallen Emperor's Sons swordsmen, and Ryan Johnson snorted but followed closely behind.

The pride of the Caliban lion made him disdain taking the traitor's weapon, but reason told him it was necessary.

Guilliman, Khan, Corax, and Magnus also took action.

On the side of the rebel Primarch, Horus glanced at Ruth with a complicated expression, then silently walked toward a relatively intact corpse of the Emperor's Son.

Luo Jia closed his eyes and prayed for a moment before picking up a chainsaw sword that had fallen to the ground, as if performing some kind of purification ritual.

Foghrim carefully examined each body and each weapon, seemingly trying to find one that met his perfect standards, but in the end he could only frown and pick up a relatively clean Shanabar saber.

The Phoenix Lord even recognized several imperial sons whose names he knew, but these traitors brought him only shame.

Soon, a large number of miscellaneous weapon and armor parts were piled up in the center of the laboratory, but various problems immediately emerged.

These weapons were unusually mixed, including Shanabar sabers, chainsaw swords, power swords, poison crystal launchers, energy whips, etc. There was almost no uniform design, and most of them were melee weapons with a serious lack of long-range firepower.

The sonic weapons equipped by the sons of the emperor were tainted with extremely severe chaotic corruption, which made Vulcan shake his head in disbelief.

As for armor, the Emperor's Sons' power armor is designed for the Astartes' size; for the Primarch's massive body, it's like a child's toy.

Most of the armor was damaged beyond recognition in previous battles or when the Primarch broke free, and the remaining armor was so ill-fitting that it was impossible to wear.

Not only the armor, but all the weapons were of Astartes standard, and the handles seemed slender and fragile to the Primarchs' enormous hands.

The serrated edge of the chainsaw sword swung in Angron's hand like a child's toy windmill.

“A pile of scrap metal!” Perturabo kicked at the armor fragments on the ground, his cold voice filled with undisguised contempt. “This garbage is a joke!”

“Scrap metal? No, brother. In the hands of a true craftsman, everything can be reshaped.”

All eyes immediately focused on Vulcan.

The giant, whose body was entirely black, walked up to the pile of scrap metal.

Those warm and deep eyes, like a furnace, swept over the metal wreckage on the ground, and his thick fingers gently brushed over a twisted fragment of terracotta breastplate.

“Brother Vulcan, do you have a way?” Guilliman’s eyes flashed with anticipation.

Vulcan did not answer directly. He walked to a corner of the laboratory, where some repair equipment and scrap metal materials that the Primarchs had found at the experimental base were piled up.

He dragged out a small plasma furnace, checked the energy interface, and then moved over a heavy hydraulic forging table.

His movements were steady and powerful, with a smooth and rhythmic flow.

“We need a furnace, a forging table, and a little patience.” “But luckily, we have those now.”

Vulcan connected the portable plasma furnace to the laboratory's main power interface. A humming sound rang out, and the furnace core lit up with a dazzling blue-white light.

The Lord of Fire Dragons threw several of the largest pieces of power armor breastplate fragments and a pile of scattered metal scraps into the furnace's feed inlet.

"What is he doing? Melting up scrap?" Magnus frowned. He was neither interested in nor good at crafting equipment.

"Just you wait, Red Oglin." Ruth grinned. "Vulcan's skills are admired even by those oil enthusiasts on Mars!"

The furnace emitted a dull roar as the internal temperature soared, and the solid metals rapidly softened, melted, and mixed in the plasma flame.

Vulcan did not use a complicated control panel; he simply pressed a huge hand covered with thick calluses and shimmering with a faint molten lava sheen against the outer wall of the furnace.

He closed his eyes, as if listening to the heartbeat of the metal, guiding the fusion and purification of the molten flow.

Just a few hours and minutes later, the furnace's vent opened, and a stream of metal, shimmering with a fiery golden-red light like viscous lava, flowed out.

Vulcan opened his eyes, his furnace-like pupils reflecting the scorching flow of metal.

He grabbed a huge heat-resistant pair of pliers from the side and precisely clamped up a ball of molten metal large enough to fill a bathtub. The terrifying heat wave made several of his brothers nearby instinctively take a step back.

“Brothers Dorn and Brothers Guilliman, I need your help,” Vulcan said in a deep voice.

Dorn stepped forward as firmly as a rock, and Guilliman quickly followed.

Vulcan handed the clamps to Dorn, who steadily gripped the molten hot liquid and transferred it to the massive hydraulic forging table.

Vulcan then picked up a huge forging hammer, which was made from a thick metal beam.

"Suppress!" Vulcan hissed.

Guilliman immediately operated the hydraulic forging platform, and powerful pressure was instantly applied to the molten metal. At the same time, Vulcan raised the huge forging hammer.

boom! boom! boom!
The heavy hammering sound, like war drums, echoed throughout the entire laboratory.

Each hammer blow carried the full power of Vulcan and his unique skill.

Under the terrifying pressure of the forging hammer and hydraulic pressure, the molten metal was frantically forged, stretched, and shaped like a tamed prehistoric beast.

Sparks flew everywhere, like a golden rainstorm, as impurities inside the metal were hammered out, and the structure was optimized and reorganized under Vulcan's will.

Incredibly, Vulcan wasn't creating a single component. His insightful eyes and masterful hammering were simultaneously shaping multiple components.

As the massive metal block was stretched into a thick sheet, he precisely hammered grooves and tenons into the edges for joint connections.

In the central area of ​​the plate, he used skillful force and hammering at different angles to guide the flow of metal to form the prototype of the breastplate's curved surface.

Even scraps are skillfully hammered into rough but sturdy bolts and rivets in his hands.

His movements were devoid of any fancy moves, only refined precision and efficiency honed through countless trials.

Sweat streamed down his bronze skin, instantly evaporating into white vapor at the high temperature. The entire forging process was filled with a primal and awe-inspiring power and beauty, as if an ancient giant was hammering a divine artifact.

The Primarchs around them were stunned.

Most of them knew that Vulcan was extremely skilled at crafting equipment, but very few had actually witnessed him forging it.

Apart from Feralas, Forgrim, and Perturabo, almost no one in the original game personally forges equipment.

In less than an hour, a set of breastplate, shoulder armor, arm armor, and skirt armor components, radiating residual heat, with rough and heavy lines and covered with original hammered textures, appeared on the forging table.

Although it lacks any elaborate decorations, its solidity and the dense structure of the metal itself formed under the power of Vulcan exude a reassuring defensive power.

“These suits of armor lack a power system. The conditions here are far too rudimentary, and time is too tight. I can only build suits that are powered by physical strength,” Vulcan said apologetically.

"No, no, no, brother, you're our savior!" Lemanrus laughed heartily. He naturally couldn't refute Vulcan; at a time like this, being useful was already a blessing, so what room was there for criticism?

Now that he is the leader, he must be prepared to coordinate his brothers and unite everyone.

Without pausing, Vulcan immediately began working on the next lump of molten metal to forge armor for his other brothers.

Meanwhile, he directed Guilliman and Dorn to handle the Astartes-standard weapons.

"The weapons are too small? Then melt them down and extract their essence!" Vulcan's voice remained clear amidst the sounds of forging.

Guilliman quickly threw the collected chainsaw swords, Shanabar sabers, and other metal weapons into the furnace.

Dorn then began to recast and shape the molten weapon-grade metal using a hydraulic forging table and a few rudimentary molds hammered out of scrap metal provided by Vulcan.

In between forging the armor, Vulcan would come over and strike the massive, nascent weapon blanks with a few crucial blows.

Each precise hammer blow accompanies the gradual formation of the weapon.

Vulcan's forging did not pursue elegance, but only practicality and sturdiness.

Using the most primitive methods, he transformed a pile of "scrap metal" into rudimentary equipment that could be used by the Primarch and exuded a primal, powerful aesthetic in a very short time.

"Then I won't stand on ceremony. Let me try Vulcan's cooking."

Ruth was the first to grab a set of still-hot breastplate and skirt armor and put them on without a care.

The rough metal rubbed against his wounded skin, and a long-lost sense of security welled up within him.

He picked up the huge power sword again and tried to swing it. Although it was far less heavy and balanced than his usual weapon, it was still a good thing that Vulcan had made himself.

The other brothers also stepped forward to choose the armor and weapons that suited them.

Ryan put on the breastplate, picked up the massive Shanabal-style greatsword, tested its feel, and nodded solemnly.

Saint Gilles opted for relatively lightweight shoulder and arm armor and picked up a massive longsword.

Perturabo silently donned his armor, picked up a massive power hammer, and a rare hint of satisfaction flashed in his cold eyes.

Soon, all the Primarchs were armed, and at least they were no longer unarmed.

"The second step is that we must find a way out. Peturabo, Guilliman, this task is entrusted to you. You have the best minds. Figure out where we are and how to get out."

The two Primarchs immediately headed toward the main control panel in the laboratory.

These two Primarchs, who were most adept at multi-threaded thinking and simulation, took over the various equipment and observation devices at the experimental base, and their rational minds began to operate like the most precise gears.

Like supercomputers, they rapidly analyzed the massive amounts of data left by Bayer and the external environmental information collected by the laboratory itself.

"Coordinates confirmed. We are on a planet called K-7-451 deep within the Eye of Fear, with a gravity of 1.8G and a thin, toxic atmosphere. This place was probably swallowed up shortly after the Eye of Fear tore open."

Peturabo announced the results in a cold voice, his fingers rapidly tapping across the holographic star map.

Guilliman retrieved subspace signals passively received by the laboratory, as well as weak data from long-range detectors.

“The nearest stable subspace route node to us,” he quickly calculated, “would probably take about thirteen days to traverse if we had warships.”

“We need a vehicle, a ship capable of subspace travel!” Khan said urgently, driven only by a thirst for speed. “Then let me drive the ship.”

"Sanguielles, Magnus!" Russ immediately ordered, "You two search this planet for anything that can fly, even a small boat!"

"That damn Fabius will definitely take the vehicle away or destroy it; he won't be that kind."

The winged archangel and the powerful psychic red king immediately took action.

Saint Gilles spread his pure white wings, transformed into a streak of light, and flew directly out through a damaged vent in the laboratory dome.

Magnus sat cross-legged, his remaining single eye emitting a powerful psychic glow, and invisible spiritual tendrils, like a giant radar network, instantly swept across the entire planet's surface and near-Earth orbit.

Half an hour later, Saint Gilles returned like a streak of light, the air currents from his wings dispersing the smoke.

His handsome face showed a hint of solemnity: "I have already checked. This planet is inherently a dead world. Fabius simply built a laboratory here in secrecy."

I found several sites resembling hangars, but inside were only twisted metal and decaying debris; no intact aircraft were found.

Almost simultaneously, Magnus also opened his eyes, his face showing exhaustion and disappointment.

"The orbit is unusually clean, with only some warship wreckage drifting around. There are no ships anchored in near-Earth orbit, etc..."

His brows suddenly furrowed, and his single eye lit up again.

"In a deep valley on the far side of the planet, there seems to be a faint signal from a spacecraft, very faint, with low energy."

“Lead the way!” Russ said without hesitation.

Guided by Sanguis in the air and Magnus with precise psionic positioning, the Primarchs swiftly traversed the labyrinthine laboratory area filled with abandoned pipes and the remains of massive biochemical incubation tanks, bursting out of the steel tomb through a huge, blasted-open side door.

The outside world is a true world of death.

The dark red sky resembled congealed blood, exuding the stench of sulfur and ionized ozone.

The twisted and grotesque black rocky mountains resembled the skeleton of a rotting behemoth, and the ground was covered with a thick layer of ash that emitted radioactive dust.

This world was once home to a considerable number of humans, but since the planet was devoured by the Eye of Terror, everyone has perished tragically.

They soon arrived at the deep valley on the other side of the planet, hidden by huge rock walls.

At the bottom of the valley, the wreckage of an aircraft covered in thick dust and rust lay half-buried in the ruins.

Its shape is somewhat similar to the Thunderhawk gunships used by the Empire, but it is in extremely poor condition. One wing is broken, the engine casing is cracked, the landing gear is twisted, and the paint has long since peeled off, revealing the battered metal skeleton underneath.

“This is a Thunderhawk.” Guilliman crouched down, examining the damaged engine connector. “No, it’s not the standard Imperial model. It seems to be a special model that we’ve never seen before.”

"This is a Thunderhawk gunboat produced during the Age of Conflict, it's an antique!"

"The engine is severely damaged, the navigation array is missing, the life support system is offline, and the weapon system is only a twin-barreled heavy explosive gun turret that looks barely usable."

He shook his head: "This... can only be considered a pile of scrap metal that can barely be identified as having a shape."

"Scrap metal?" Vulcan's deep voice rang out again.

He walked to the wreckage of the Thunder Eagle, his huge hand stroking the cold, rough armor plates as if caressing a wounded old friend.

"As long as there is fire, materials, and faith, scrap metal can be reborn."

This time, even Peturabo didn't utter a word of mockery, because Vulcan had already demonstrated incredible forging skills once.

(End of this chapter)