Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 107 Titan Legion

The Ark's airtight doors were open. The corridor's lighting panels cast a cold, white glow, and the air was thick with a dry, metallic dusty smell. The floor was made of non-slip metal grating, and the bulkheads on both sides were embedded with pipes and cable trays. Every few steps, there was a fire extinguisher cabinet and an emergency communication terminal. Everything was old—not intentionally aged, but genuinely worn by time—but every scratch had been carefully repaired.

The technical priests followed behind the group, their palms pressed against the bulkhead, eyes closed, lips moving in and out. They weren't testing; they were listening. Listening to the whispers of the machine's spirit. Servo skulls floated above their heads, recording data from every corridor and every compartment. One technical priest traced binary pulses with his finger on the bulkhead, as if speaking to something within.

"The machine spirit here—it's very old," he whispered. "Older than any ship I've ever seen. Its pulse frequency is only two-thirds of the Imperial standard. But it's recovering—someone is constantly performing appeasement rituals, day after day."

The people behind him nodded; no one questioned it.

Cohen led the way, passing through a series of airtight doors and down corridors. The first Titan hangar was located at the edge of the Ark. He stopped and glanced back at Aurelius.

"The Warhound-class is here. Rapid deployment pod," he said.

The airtight door slid open. Twenty-four Warhound-class Titans, each about ten meters tall, were positioned in the rapid deployment area of ​​the hangar, their weapon arms folded to their sides. Their paint scheme was simple, their numbering system disregarded any current Imperial standards, and faded legion insignia remained on their shoulder armor. Traces of rapid-release mechanisms were visible on the hangar walls.

Every Warhound-class leg armor showed signs of repair—not refurbishment, but structural reinforcement. The welds gleamed evenly under the searchlight, the joint seals were new, and there were traces of used oil on the grease filler necks. A technical priest stepped forward, placed his palm on the nearest Warhound-class leg armor, closed his eyes, and his lips moved.

"The machine's spirit is still there," he said softly. "More stable than I thought. Someone is continuously performing maintenance rituals. Not to put it to sleep, but to keep it active."

Aurelius glanced at Cohen. "Has the Great Sage Enpu been doing this all along?"

"Yes, this is, after all, the glory of the Forging World," Cohen said. "The entire Garros is his creation, and I am his representative, the successor of this former Forging World. The Great Sage needs to transform every piece of knowledge in the database into new power."

Aurelius remained silent for a moment and did not ask any further questions.

Cohen continued forward. The second hangar was on the tactical deck level of the Ark, near the launch position. The airtight door slid open, revealing six Predator-class Titans arranged in two rows, each about twenty meters tall. The weapon platforms were already equipped with twin-barreled Laser Destroyer cannons, their barrels gleaming coldly under the searchlights. The turret's rotation mechanism was precisely calibrated, emitting a low, humming electrical current when in standby mode. This hangar was more spacious, with maintenance platforms several levels surrounding the Titans.

A Titan pilot stepped out from the crowd, looking up at the cockpit of the nearest Predator-class aircraft. His servo skull emitted a series of binary pulses. The Titan didn't respond, but his fingers trembled slightly.

"Its soul is asleep," he said. "But someone is performing an awakening ritual. I can feel it—those binary pulses are someone talking to it regularly to keep it active."

Aurelius remained silent. He turned to look at Cohen. "Where are the Warlord-class warriors?"

"The safest hangar. Follow me."

The massive, reinforced hangar at the deepest part of the Ark is the largest and safest of all the cabins in the Forged Ark. Its armored compartments are several meters thick, its independent void shield generator is always on standby, and its airtight doors were cast specifically for it. Cohen stood before the door and entered the authorization code. The airtight door slowly slid open, driven by hydraulic pushers.

Behind the door lies a space larger than any of the hangars outside. The dome, supported by a high-gold frame, is so tall that the beams of searchlights cannot reach the top. Eight reinforced berths are arranged along the central axis of the hangar, each equipped with an independent maintenance platform and weapon racks.

Eight Warlord-class Titans, each over forty meters tall. Their paint job is dark gray, and the shoulder armor is engraved with the legion's insignia from the Great Crusade era—an insignia long forgotten by the Empire, but the remaining lines are still discernible. Each Warlord-class Titan bears different battle scars on its shoulder armor: shell craters, erosion, blade marks, as if they were driven directly into this hangar from a battlefield ten thousand years ago.

But every single General-class aircraft was being maintained. The hydraulic lines had new seals at their interfaces, the joint transmission gears had a fresh film of lubricating oil, the weapon platforms' energy conduits had been rewired, and the insulation was tightly wrapped with silver wire. Even the cockpit hatch gasket had been replaced—although not to Imperial standard specifications, its dimensions were precise, and the sealing effect was impeccable.

The Tech Priests stood at the hangar entrance, but no one went in. Their servo skulls spun above their heads, emitting a low, binary hum. One Tech Priest slowly bent one knee, pressed his right fist against the gear-skull emblem on his chest, and bowed his head. The others followed suit. No one prostrated themselves, no one chanted aloud. Only the low, restrained binary pulses traveled between the servo skulls, like an ancient form of greeting passed down through generations of high-ranking Mechanicus monks.

Aurelius stood in the center of the hangar, looking up at the silent Titans. He didn't kneel; he just stood there. After a long while, he turned and looked at Cohen.

"This is a complete Titan strike group. Generals, raiders, warhounds—all ranks are present. This isn't the kind of force an ordinary Ark can carry." His voice was low. "This is an expeditionary-level configuration."

Cohen looked at him. "There's another Emperor-class wreckage deeper inside. Want to see it?"

Orelius's mechanical eye suddenly contracted. He turned his head and stared at Cohen.

"Emperor-level?" His voice held an barely suppressed urgency. "Where?"

"The deepest part. Come with me."

Deep within the Ark, beyond the massive reinforced hangar, lies another door. Forged of adamantite, half a meter thick, its hydraulic actuators thicker than any of the previous doors. Above the doorframe is an inscription in High Gothic script: "Pnoris will never forget." Below the inscription, the standby indicator light for the independent void shield generator flashes on the ceiling.

Cohen entered the authorization code, and the door slowly slid open.

The space behind the door was even larger than a Warrior-class hangar. The dome was higher, the lights brighter, and the independent life support system and gravity generator emitted a low-frequency hum in standby mode. The entire cabin was designed as a massive temple.

A nearly 100-meter-tall Imperial-class Titan was firmly secured to the center of the cabin by an adamantite frame. It was approximately 70% intact.

The volcanic cannon penetration wound on the torso has been repaired, and the weld marks on the edges of the newly cast adamantite armor plates form a stark contrast with the surrounding dark purple corrosion layer formed over millennia. The left arm weapon platform is completely gone, replaced by a makeshift plasma cannon, with exposed cables at the interface. On the reactor chamber's outer shell, old and new adamantite armor plates are interspersed, the new plates being a cool gray adamantite, while the old plates are dark purple subspace sedimentary crystals. The locomotion mechanism and most of the weapon systems are largely intact, with only a few core components missing.

Above the main structure, the iconic cathedral stands majestically. The faces of the saints atop the spires are clearly visible, gleaming with a golden sheen under the searchlights; the stained glass windows of the viewing platform are pristine, depicting Proserpina's great expedition to forge the world. Several diagonal braces have been added to the building's framework, their weld lines neat and precise, contrasting sharply with the coarse welds of the old structure.

The restoration work has reached its limit. The old parts are the original wreckage brought out by the Ark, and the new parts are pieced together bit by bit according to the technical backup left by Pronoris. But too much core data is missing, and it can't be pushed any further at this point. The torque transmission of the remaining structural walking mechanisms, the energy matching between the void shield and the reactor, and the neural connection between the cockpit and the cathedral—no matter how hard we try, we can't connect them.

Aurelius strode to the feet of the Emperor-class Titan, looked up at the cathedral, the aura of his mechanical eye shrank to its smallest size, and the biological pupil of his left eye dilated slightly.

A tech-priest emerged from the crowd, his steps steady. He walked to the feet of the Emperor-class Titan, looked up at the cathedral, and then slowly bent his knees, kneeling on one knee. His right fist pressed against his chest, and he bowed his head. A low, almost inaudible binary pulse escaped from the mechanical voice transmitter. The tech-priests behind him followed suit. No one prostrated themselves, no one chanted aloud; only their crimson robes spread out at the Emperor-class Titan's feet, like a silent tide.

The servo-bone clusters circled around the Titan's head, their pupils glowing with a dark red light, maintaining a quiet distance.

On either side of the Ark's central hangar, two heavy-duty elevators stood silently in their designated berths. Their armored hulls bore the marks of subspace travel corrosion, but their lifting clamps and cargo hold restraints had been meticulously repaired and were ready for immediate use.

The knights had their own focus. They walked at the back of the column, silently watching the mechs.

An elector walked up to the nearest Paladin-type mech and reached out to touch its leg armor. His fingertips scraped across the subspace corrosion marks on the armor plate, feeling the roughness of millennia. He paused, then slowly withdrew his hand.

"These are relics from the ancestors of the Punoris vassal knight family." He spoke in a low voice.

"Yes," Cohen said. "The knight families that retreated with the Ark are gone. The mechs are still here. The Great Sage has been maintaining them—the core of each one can still turn, and the soul of each one is still alive. He's just waiting for someone to come and take that seat again."

The chosen one remained silent for a long time. He walked around to the side of the mech and looked up at the cockpit canopy. The canopy was tightly closed, the sealing gasket was worn out, and there was a ring of dark purple subspace crystal residue around the edge. He reached out and pressed his hand on the emergency opening device of the canopy.

The hydraulic push rod made a dry hissing sound as the hatch slowly flipped open.

The cockpit interior was bathed in the cold white light of the searchlights. The chair core remained fixed in the center of the cockpit, its surface covered with a thin layer of dark purple crystalline powder. The interface cables for the chair core extended from the chair back to the cabin wall, their insulation already cracked.

A desiccated corpse lay curled up in the seat core, the seatbelt binding its sternum and pelvis to the seat. Its skin had shriveled into a dark brown, hard shell, clinging tightly to the bones. Its skull was tilted to one side, its jaw agape. Its right hand still gripped the control stick, the bones of its fingers fused to the handle. The floor around the seat core was covered with dense, scratch marks from fingernails, stretching from the edge of the seat down to the bulkhead.

A new data cable was attached to the back of the chair core, looping around the withered arm and connecting to a temporary diagnostic terminal on the bulkhead. It was left by the Great Sage—he had connected the monitoring lines from the back and hadn't touched the pilot's remains when checking the machine spirit's status.

The chosen one stood below the cockpit, looking up at the desiccated corpse. His hand hovered in mid-air, not touching it.

“The chair core is still spinning,” another tech priest said, his servo skull aligned with the chair core’s interface, emitting a series of rapid binary pulses. “The machine spirit—it’s still there. Someone is periodically performing awakening rituals, checking its status, and then returning it to quiescence. It knows the pilot is gone—but it hasn’t rejected the repair protocol.”

The elector remained silent for a long time. Then he stepped back, clenched his right fist against his left chest, and performed a standard knightly salute.

The people behind him bowed as well. No one spoke.

Aurelius stood at the feet of the Emperor-class Titan for a long time before turning around. He walked up to Cohen, the beam of his mechanical eye fixed in one spot.

"I'll write the report to Lucis. The Ark is real, the Titan is real. There won't be any problems with the Council." He paused. "But this Emperor-class vessel needs repairs. Not now. We'll wait for the Martian approval, and for the Titan Legion to be officially registered. Lucis will send people. The people from Garros will follow."

Cohen nodded.

Aurelius glanced at the time. "Will I be able to see the Great Sage Enpu today?"

Cohen paused for a moment. "He's in the foundry. The inspection team has come from afar; he'll see you. A ceremonial servant will lead the way shortly. I have other matters to attend to, so please excuse me."

Aurelius's gaze lingered on his face for a second. He didn't press further, nor was he surprised. High-ranking cultivators who forged worlds had an unspoken understanding that some information didn't need to be obtained from Cohen.

"Alright," he said, "we'll wait for the Great Sage."

Cohen turned and walked toward the airlock. Behind him, the Tech Priests remained kneeling, their servo skulls swirling around the Emperor-class Titan's head, crimson light tracing thin streaks beneath the hangar dome. He didn't look back.

The shuttle detached from its berth and headed towards where the Black Pearl was docked. The armored hull of the Wangshu slowly receded outside the portholes, thousands of ion thrusters operating steadily on the back of the star, a faint blue light flickering evenly along the edges of the armored hull.

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