Shipping goods from the game to the World of Warhammer

The moment the Thinker's main display panel lit up again, everyone stopped what they were doing.

On the nearly ten-meter-wide screen, the previously rampant dark red gibberish had completely disappeared, replaced by rows of neat green data streams that scrolled steadily and orderly from top to bottom, with each line of data running smoothly.

The servo skull attached to Casal rotated almost simultaneously, the camera focused, scanned, transmitted data, and then sent the analysis results to Casal's neural interface via an encrypted channel.

The Thinker has been fully restored to operation, and the overall operational efficiency of the Forged City has returned to standard levels.

No, it's not just recovery. Data from the servo skull shows that several production lines that had previously stopped due to the Thinker's rampage are restarting at a faster-than-expected speed, with operating efficiency even a few percentage points higher than before the Code Demon invasion.

Logically, this means that the machine's brutal ritual to appease the machine spirit not only cleared away the useless code demons entrenched deep within the code, but also incidentally optimized some of the Thinker's redundant computational paths.

Even without a report from the servo skull, every blacksmith present could detect this change through their own mechanical senses.

They were connected to the data network of the forged city, and every pulse of the thinkers was transmitted to their consciousness through neural interfaces. The previous low, oppressive feeling, the stinging sensation like being repeatedly rubbed with sandpaper, completely disappeared, replaced by a long-lost smoothness and tranquility, like a river channel blocked by silt for decades suddenly being dredged, and clear water flowing back in.

The contemplative soul is no longer in pain.

Rod breathed a long sigh of relief, his back already soaked with cold sweat.

He had just watched as the leading blacksmith raised the power hammer above his head, the blue energy field on the hammer's surface less than half a meter from the SCV's cockpit canopy.

If the Thinker's screen had lit up three to five seconds later, this engineering vehicle, renowned among StarCraft players as "the strongest melee unit of the Terran race," would have been scrapped on the spot.

Although the title comes from the fact that, excluding special units in the campaign, they are the only melee units of the Terran race in the entire game, when faced with a group of enraged mechanical priests wielding power hammers, even though the SCVs are quite large, their five points of attack power are probably not even enough to tickle them.

Moreover, Rhodes couldn't guarantee that after these rage-driven geeks smashed the SCV, they wouldn't also take the opportunity to smash him, the "traitorous ronin who provides heretical creations and blasphemous thinker machine souls," on the head as well. The power hammer, having lost its mind, didn't recognize the identity of any roninous ronin.

The SCV's cockpit slowly turned, and the operator saw the power hammers in the hands of the blacksmiths through the alloy casing. The SCV's robotic arm instinctively retracted, and a muffled groan came from inside the cockpit, clearly quite frightened.

But the blacksmiths were no longer concerned with the mechanical creation they had almost dismantled. The lead blacksmith slung the power hammer back behind him and rushed to the Thinker's main display panel, extending a trembling hand covered in mechanical joints and pressing it against the screen. Green data flowed between his fingers, reflecting a warm glow onto his mechanical face.

"Hail Ohm Messiah...Hail Ohm Messiah!" A series of almost vibrato-like binary hymns emanated from his throat speaker, his voice rising rapidly from a low pitch to a high crescendo, "God of Machines, have mercy on Mordax! The Thinker's machine soul has been redeemed!"

The other blacksmiths rushed forward, some placing the mechanical interfaces on their foreheads onto the Thinker's shell to feel the steady data pulses, while others knelt down and began to loudly chant prayers of thanksgiving, looking like a group of Chinese national football players celebrating a victory.

Amid the chaos, the SCV cautiously turned around. The external speaker in the cockpit translated his words into a string of somewhat broken gothic whispers, essentially asking the technicians present if they could provide some ceramic steel sheets made of the same material as the Thinker's shell to repair the hole that had just been drilled.

The blacksmiths who had wanted to dismantle it into scrap metal just a minute ago exchanged glances. Without saying a word, they turned and jogged toward the nearest materials warehouse. Soon after, the servants responsible for moving the materials carried several spare ceramic steel plates to the SCV's feet, along with a can of sealant made by Mordax.

Casal stood there in silence for a long time. His two crimson optical prosthetic eyes remained fixed on the Thinker's main display panel, while the heat dissipation grilles on either side of his metal cheeks slowly opened and closed, as if performing some kind of deep data analysis and logical deduction. Only after the SCV, with the assistance of the blacksmiths, had finished repairing its outer shell did he slowly turn around to face Rhodes.

"Lord Rod Vandreich." His synthesized voice had an added layer of solemnity that Rod had never heard from a mechanical priest before. If one had to describe it in human terms, it would probably be called seriousness.

"In the name of the God of Machines, on behalf of the Mordax Forging Complex, I acknowledge that the STC product you provided has demonstrated efficacy far exceeding our expectations in the field of purifying the Thinker's Machine Soul."

He paused, and the servo skull on his shoulder stopped rotating for a moment, as if even this floating mechanical head was listening intently to what was to come.

"I have just reported this matter to the Director of Foundry. My question is, do you have enough time to stay in Mordax and assist us in cleaning up the remaining Code Demons, Electronic Ghosts, and Mutant Data Spectre among the remaining Thinkers on this planet? These problems have plagued us for two hundred years. If your STC truly has the ability to eradicate them, then Mordax will reward you with the highest level of cooperation terms."

Upon hearing the words "the highest level of cooperation terms," ​​Rhodes's mind began to race, but he maintained the composure and reserve befitting a wandering merchant. He pretended to ponder for two seconds, then scratched his head, revealing a somewhat embarrassed expression.

"Well, it's not that complicated, Father Casal."

He gestured with his chin toward the SCV, which had just finished its exterior repairs and was tidying up its tools.

"Given enough materials, they can also manufacture another multi-functional STC that can be mass-produced."

The hymns of praise from the group of blacksmiths behind them also came to an abrupt halt.

This statement was like a bombshell dropped in the room. Casal froze on the spot, like an overloaded logic engine struggling to process information beyond its computational limits.