Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 590 Relearning to Feel
The hand, strengthened countless times yet miraculously retaining and enhancing its original tactile nerve perception, grasped the cold, rough, and worn metal wrench with its bare hands.

boom--!
It didn't feel like a data stream; it was a pure, overwhelming experience.

The cold, metallic touch is no longer just a temperature reading, but a tangible feeling with physical weight and historical significance.

The intricate lattice structure of the alloy, the stories told by each wear mark, the biostatic residue and oil mixture left on the handle by Morey... all this information, without any logical preprocessing, directly, savagely, and panoramically flooded into his sea of ​​consciousness.

Thermal conductivity: 0.12 joules per second.

His voice carried a physiological tremor from the reconnection of nerve endings.

Reporting data is a habit he has maintained for over a century; it is the inertia of his thinking.

But this time, every piece of data seemed to possess temperature, texture, and weight.

His logical thinking futilely tried to label this tsunami-like new experience with familiar tags, only to find it ridiculously barren.

An emotion he could neither recognize nor suppress—perhaps pure amazement—was trying to breach the dam of his rational thinking.

Just then, the imposing figure of Primarch Feralus Manus approached like a mobile fortress, and the genetic pressure emanating from his very existence caused all the invisible data streams in the air to fall silent.

In her right hand, covered by the slowly flowing "Gorgon skin," she held a newly forged prosthetic hand that gleamed with a dark, refined gold luster.

Its design surpasses any of the Steel Hands' previous standard equipment. The streamlined surface is not only engraved with the ancient Legion pattern of Medusa's serpent coiled with lightning, but also incorporates a complex energy conduit structure and a micro-servo system.

She did not rely on any servo machinery or technical slave labor.

With a steady and precise motion, Kyle's right hand, covered in liquid metal, lifted Kyle's left forearm and aligned the cold, adamantite prosthetic hand precisely with the specially designed mechanical interface on his wrist, which shimmered with bio-blue light.

“This hand,” Felus’s voice was as deep as thunder in the Earth’s core, yet it struck the very core of every listener’s soul with the force of a hammer, “not for the slaughter of the innocent, not for the creation of idols for self-worship.”

Before the words were even finished, the liquid metal interface instantly activated, perfectly merging with the receiver inside the adamantite prosthetic hand, emitting a powerful, deep hum, as if some sleeping behemoth had been awakened.

“Just for,” her gaze, like a tangible probe, swept across Kyle’s trembling pupils and over all the warriors around her who had fallen into a deathly silence, “to protect those lives that are worthy and need to be protected.”

guard.

This word, like a universal genetic key, suddenly pierced the core of his consciousness, which was in disarray due to his newfound perceptions.

Logic could not unravel its full weight, but his heart—the organ he thought had long been removed or permanently frozen—suddenly and violently throbbed, pumping out not cold hydraulic fluid, but scalding hot blood.

He lowered his head and gazed at the newborn hand—a weapon of destruction, yet miraculously, it had learned to feel again.

Then, his gaze pierced through the cold air and landed on the old slave worker, Morey.

The focus is on those raw, calloused hands worn down by service to the front lines, covered in deep crevices and grime that cannot be washed away.

In the past, this hand, according to his logic-optimized visual sensor analysis, was just an inefficient, fragile biological component that required regular maintenance or was best replaced entirely.

But now, under the dual impact of the new, rampant tsunami of perception and the discourse of the Primarch, Kyle sees something completely different.

He saw life. He saw the marks etched by three hundred years of silent dedication, he saw a vitality that transcended mechanical resilience, he saw... something worth protecting with this newborn hand.

He once again made a move that could overload and burn out the core of any traditional Iron Father logic of the Iron Hand.

He extended his adamantite prosthetic hand—a weapon born solely for destruction and slaughter—that was a fusion of the Empire’s advanced technology and the Primarch’s immortal will—and gently, with remarkable stability, grasped Morey’s calloused right hand, which trembled slightly with awe and the Primarch’s pressure.

warmth.

A warmth that is vibrant, dynamic, and incredibly complex.

The rough texture of the skin, the faint pulse of life brought about by the flow of blood under the skin, the strength of muscles hardened by long hours of labor... all these sensations were completely different from the feeling he had just experienced when touching the cold metal, yet they were equally powerful, even more... important.

This is a connection that cannot be defined by any data.

Temperature: 36.7 degrees Celsius.

He spoke softly, as if stating a universal truth.

This time, his voice no longer contained the previous nervous tremor, but only a deep and surging compassion that even he himself found unfamiliar.

This reading is no longer a simple physiological parameter; it is the temperature of a soul, proof of the tenacious existence he has just sworn to protect.

Elder Morey abruptly raised his head, his cloudy old eyes peering through thick goggles at the powerful yet delicate metal prosthetic hand that encased his rough palm in disbelief.

The immense, recognized impact caused the old man's withered lips to tremble uncontrollably. For the first time, three hundred years of loyalty and dedication were "perceived" and "acknowledged" in a form that transcended language and directly touched the soul.

There was dead silence.

Only the surgical instruments hummed monotonously in the background.

Those Iron Hand warriors, their sensors still numbly recording everything, but the internal data flow had fallen into complete chaos and stagnation.

The core of logic cannot handle this vision that transcends all dogma.

Original limbs...sensory perception...temperature...protection...the value of mortals...

Some soldiers subconsciously looked at their cold mechanical prosthetic arms, or involuntarily touched the only remaining original arm parts that were covered by thick terracotta armor.

An ancient resonance, buried deep within the genetic seed and deliberately suppressed and excised for a long time, is growing and spreading wildly in this deathly silence.

Ferrus Manus watched all this silently. Her cold, metallic face was as expressionless as Medusa's frozen ground, but in her deep, star-like eyes, it seemed as if a furnace fire was burning quietly, reflecting the first glimmer of light in this reforging.

The path to reinvention begins with perception.

The first crack has quietly begun to appear in the soul of this sergeant named Kyle, and also in the cold, unbreakable traditions of the entire Steel Hand Chapter.

The seeds of change have been planted deep within the heart of steel through this touch that transcends logic and is imbued with emotion.

(End of this chapter)