Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 112 The Council of Sages (Part 1)

Four days later.

Cohen stood at the gangway of the Black Pearl, the hood of his crimson sage's robe undone, the fifth-tier sage's gear and skull insignia pinned to his collar. Marcus and Kara followed behind him, both dressed in the dark gray formal wear of the Garros fleet—a departure from their combat power armor. This was standard attire for formal occasions, double-breasted, with Garros's silver gear and skull insignia on their epaulets. Kara carried a ceremonial sword at her waist, while Marcus carried no weapon.

Behind him were four elite soldiers, all in uniform, marching in unison.

Outside the spaceport, a ground-based armored shuttle was already waiting in the berth area. Its gray-black terracotta body was etched with the gear and skull emblem of the Lucis Forged World on its sides. Cohen boarded the shuttle, followed by Marcus and Kara, with the four soldiers boarding last. The hatch closed, and the shuttle's plasma thrusters emitted pale blue plumes as it sped along the dedicated driveway along the outer edge of the spaceport towards the temple.

The Lucis's hive city complex flashed past the train windows. The industrial landscape of the Foundry World transitioned gradually from the high-orbit platform of the spaceport to the dense pipe area of ​​the lower hive, and then climbed from the pipe area to the Gothic spires of the upper hive. The shuttle traveled for nearly twenty minutes on a dedicated route, passing through three identity checkpoints, each guarded by heavily armed infantry of the Guardians.

As the shuttle entered the circular plaza surrounding the temple, crowds began to appear.

It didn't begin at the spaceport. It began here—at the security checkpoint outside the temple. Third and fourth-tier tech-priests from all the Lucis hives converged, crowding the passageways of the circular plaza, their optical lenses gleaming in the dim light. The heavily armored infantry of the Apostolic Guard stood in formation at key points in the passageway, their terracotta armor plates gleaming a dark gray under the cold white lights, their explosive muskets pointing motionless at the ground. Honor guards, clad in deep red ceremonial armor and carrying halberds, stood on the steps at the temple entrance like statues cast in fine gold.

The shuttle bus came to a stop at the edge of the circular plaza. Cohen got off and walked through the passageway, and the crowd automatically parted to make way for him.

It wasn't because he knew these people. It was because the robes and gear-skull insignia of a fifth-tier sage inherently signified authority. Within the Mechanicus hierarchy, even a non-core member of a fifth-tier sage was not someone a third or fourth-tier could stop. An optical lens was pointed at him; whispers rang out, and binary pulses exchanged silently in the darkness.

No one came up to talk to them.

The twin gates of adamantite at the temple entrance stood twenty meters high, their surfaces etched with the gear and skull emblem of the Mechanicus and the Emperor's double-headed eagle. On the steps before them, the Guardians of the Faith stood in two rows, their halberds crossing in the air to form an archway. Standing at the entrance was a high-ranking deacon, his left arm a mechanical structure, his face covered by a gilded mask, with only an optical lens visible. His voice, amplified by a loudspeaker, carried the distinctive electronic resonance of the Mechanicus.

"Cohen Severus, a fifth-tier forging sage, governor of the Garros autonomous domain."

Cohen walked up the steps and past the captain's halberd.

Marcus and Kara followed behind him, but as soon as they reached the entrance to the porch, the high-ranking deacon's mechanical arm came across them.

"Vice-Captain Marcus, Commander Kara, and their entourage are waiting here. Only the Sage himself is permitted to enter the main council chamber."

Kara glanced at Marcus. Marcus nodded. The two stood in the waiting area beside the porch, four soldiers lined up behind them. Kara crossed her arms, staring at the twenty-meter-high adamantite gate, her lips pressed together. Marcus remained expressionless, the aperture of his right mechanical eye steadily expanding and contracting.

Cohen walked through the gate alone.

Beyond the door lay a wide passageway, its dome so high that the lights couldn't reach the top. Along both sides of the passageway stood rows of exquisitely gilded statues of sages from past dynasties, each over ten meters tall, casting deep shadows in the cold white light. Inside the passageway, dozens of servo skulls floated in mid-air, their silver-gray shells embedded with red optical lenses. Anti-gravity thrusters emitted faint streams of ions, leaving long streaks of light in the air. They moved and hovered through the passageway, emitting fragmented binary pulses that transmitted images and data back in real time to the Thinker array within the temple.

As Cohen walked by, several servo skulls swooped down from above, hovering beside him. Optical lenses scanned his face, recorded his identity, and then quickly dispersed, flying back into the shadows deep within the corridor. At the end of the corridor was another door, this time ajar, with a cacophony of electronic sounds and mechanical resonances emanating from the crack. Cohen pushed the door open and went inside.

The main council chamber was larger than he had imagined.

The dome was so high it was almost invisible, its curved surface, supported by a mithril framework, was inlaid with arrays of lights, casting a cool white light that poured down like a thin layer of icy mist. The hall was laid out in a semi-circular, tiered fashion, with hundreds of seats rising gradually from the lower levels. Each seat was equipped with an independent Thinker terminal and psionic interface, the control panel's numerous buttons glowing a faint green light in standby mode. The seats were spaced far enough apart that even highly mechanically-replaced sages could move their limbs comfortably.

Nearly a hundred sages were already seated.

They hailed from the Lucis Forging World and its surrounding autonomous territories, affiliated worlds, and field fleets. Some had over 90% mechanical replacements, their facial lenses zooming and focusing under the lights; others had only undergone replacements in critical areas, retaining most of their biological bodies, but their exposed skin was covered in scars from implants. Their robes ranged in color from deep red to dark purple, and the number of gears on their badges indicated their rank and faction. Binary pulses pulsed silently between the seats, and occasionally someone would whisper, their voices becoming dry and monotonous after being filtered through electronic microphones.

In the hall's upper atmosphere, swarms of servo skulls danced in the air. They emerged from hidden channels in the dome, forming neat rows that patrolled the outer edge of the circular seating area. Some skulls had miniature projectors hanging beneath them, projecting the binary code of the council's agenda onto pillars; others had built-in psionic resonators that emitted a deep hum as the sages voted. They were integral parts of the Mechanicus rituals, the eyes of the god of machines, recording every word, every vote, every subtle change in expression. As Cohen entered the hall, the nearest servo skulls quickly turned towards him, their red optical lenses locking onto his face. The miniature thinkers inside the skulls emitted short confirmation pulses, then scattered, making way for him.

All the optical lenses were pointed at Cohen. Not for scrutiny, but for data collection. The sages of the Mechanicus didn't waste their time—they were using sensors to collect every detail of this stranger's face: gait, breathing rate, pupil dilation, even changes in skin temperature. Some were rapidly recording on data tablets, others were directly outputting pulses through the Thinker's interface inside his skull. No one stood up, no one greeted him. Dozens of optical lenses stared at him like dozens of silent eyes. A servo skull hovered above his head, faithfully recording everything.

But in the high-level audience section on the left side of the hall, other eyes were also on him.

In the center of the first row of the audience seats sat a middle-aged man in a long black trench coat. He had a stern face, neatly styled short dark gray hair, and a dark red optical lens embedded in his left eye socket, its focus slowly shifting.

He was Inquisitor Stratford—a senior inquisitor of the Inquisition, Caius's superior, and the person in charge of the entire investigation. He had planned the interrogation of Cohen, which Caius had carried out, but he was the one truly in control. Stratford's fingers were crossed over his lower abdomen, his gray eyes fixed intently on Cohen's figure, as if waiting for his prey to step into a trap. The data tablets in the hands of his two black-robed henchmen behind him remained lit, their fingers swiping lightly across the screens, constantly recording something.

To Strabo's right sat an elderly man in a deep purple robe trimmed with gold. He was thin, his white hair neatly combed, and a large, inscribed amulet hung around his neck, its body cast in fine gold and edged with tiny rubies. He was Cardinal Agrippina, the chief representative of the State Church in the eastern diocese of the Sun Sector, and the highest-ranking official sent by the State Church at this meeting. Behind him, his attendants were perusing a thick parchment document, its edges embossed with gold prayers—archives of the donations made by Garros to the cathedral and a list of relics donated by Cohen to the State Church.

To Strabo's left sat a woman clad in grey and white power armor, none other than Sister Valeria, the Great Sister of the Silver Shrouds of the Battle Sisters. Her face was resolute, her short, grey hair cut extremely short, and her skin covered in fine scars. A deep, old knife scar ran from her cheekbone to her jaw on her left cheek. She had served among the Battle Sisters for over two centuries, experiencing hundreds of battles, large and small. Her deep blue eyes, as they surveyed the hall, held the calm of a veteran—not indifference, but a chilling sharpness born from a sublimation of killing into faith, surpassing the raw edge of younger nuns. Her right hand remained permanently resting on the hilt of her chainsword at her waist, a symbol of her status. Behind her sat two other Battle Sisters, equally fully armed, motionless.

The Cardinal of the Church of England nodded to Cohen from a distance. It wasn't a formal greeting, but it was enough to show his stance. Valeria's gaze lingered on Cohen for a moment, without any change in expression. When Cohen's gaze happened to sweep across the gallery, Strabo's pupils contracted slightly, and his lips tightened—not with surprise, but with the instinctive alertness of a hunter finally seeing its prey.

Cohen did not linger in the gallery.

The high-ranking deacon's voice came from behind: "Sage Cohen Severus, please follow me."

Cohen followed the deacon through the aisle between the seats, heading towards the right-center of the hall. At every row he passed, someone looked up at him; the servo motors of his prosthetic limbs hummed softly. Some even zoomed in on their optical lenses to their maximum focal length, scrutinizing him like a precision scanner. Others whispered amongst themselves, binary pulses jumping frequently between the seats—the sages were discussing privately.

The deacon stopped in front of a row of seats and stepped aside.

Vitellius sat in the middle right seat of that row, wearing a deep red robe and the gear and skull emblem of a fifth-tier sage, his right mechanical arm resting on the armrest. Upon seeing Cohen, he tilted his head slightly, the halo around his right mechanical eye contracted, and the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly—not a smile, but the kind of "you've finally arrived" expression only found between old friends.

Cohen sat down in the seat next to Vitellius. Adjacent to him was another man flipping through a data panel; his silver-gray hair was meticulously combed, his left arm was a fine metal mechanical structure, and the data probe at the tip of his finger was slowly sliding across the screen. It was Mr. Nazari—Vera's father. A fifth-tier civilian sage, a liaison officer for the Ministry of the Interior. He saw Cohen, put down his data panel, and nodded slightly.

"Cohen." His voice was not loud, but carried the synthetic resonance unique to the Mechanicus.

"Lord Nazari," Cohen nodded.

Vitellius leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Your seat was specially arranged for me. It's near the front, but not in the inner circle. For an outer member like a sage, this is already the limit."

Cohen glanced around the hall. "How many people?"

"Over 130 have registered. More are still coming in. The final number should be around 150." Vitellius's voice was even lower. "The Temple Council doesn't meet often; the last Sage-level expanded meeting was twenty years ago. The fact that everyone has been summoned this time shows that the situation in Amegiddon is more serious than we anticipated."

Cohen glanced towards the high-ranking spectator section on his left. "Those people in the spectator section—the First Tribunal, the State Church, the Battle Sisters—you've seen them in Lucis before?"

Vitellius followed his gaze and glanced at him, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Inquisitor Strabo, a senior inquisitor of the Inquisition, and Caius's superior. He orchestrated the last interrogation; Caius was merely the executor. His personal presence this time demonstrates his high regard for Amegiddon—or rather, his high regard for you."

He paused for a moment.

"Cardinal Agrippina, the chief representative of the state church in the eastern diocese of the Sun Starfield. He has been in Lucis for several months, and he was in charge of the authentication of that imperial document last time."

"Sister Valeria, a high-ranking officer of the Silver Robe Order, has served for over two centuries. She's been living in the state cathedral of Lucis for almost a year, ostensibly to assist with the security of the relics," but who knows what's really going on.

Cohen did not speak.

Vitellius continued, "Listen in, vote if necessary. But ultimately, it is we who will take action." He then looked away.

Cohen remained silent. He leaned back in his chair, watching the hall fill with more and more people. Sages in crimson robes filed in, some leaning on mechanical canes, some moving slowly with the help of automatons, and some gliding to their seats on hover platforms. The clicking of mechanical limbs, the hum of servo motors, the intermittent voice commands from electronic speakers—all these sounds converged into a continuous low-frequency background noise under the dome. The faint glow of optical lenses blended together in the dim light, like countless stars in the night sky. Servo-controlled skulls moved silently above the crowd, like a flock of silent metal bats.

Nearly another hour passed.

When the hall was nearly full, with about 150 people in attendance, a change occurred on the platform directly in front of the hall. A massive, adamantine door slid open silently from behind the platform, and three figures emerged. The noise in the hall vanished instantly. Even the hum of the servo motors seemed to have been paused. All the servo skulls hovered in the air, their optical lenses turning sharply towards the platform.

The one at the very front was over ten meters tall. It could no longer be considered "human." It was the embodiment of the highest will of the Mechanicus, the mortal agent of the God of Machines. Its lower limbs were bipedal with reverse joints, its adamantite skeleton exposed, and the hydraulic push rods hissed sharply with each step. Its torso was robust, with multiple layers of armor plating covering the core hull. The gear and skull insignia on its chest was magnified several times, embedded in the center of the armor plating, gleaming with a dark gold luster under the cold white light. Its arms were ceremonial armament platforms integrating multi-barrel laser arrays and heavy explosive cannons, each barrel pointing in a different direction. Its head was replaced by a huge dome-shaped sensor array, with dozens of optical lenses protruding from various angles, like compound eyes. Its sound source was not a loudspeaker, but an amplifying resonant array embedded in its "chest cavity," each vibration causing the entire metal floor of the platform to tremble slightly.

The other two great sages stood on either side of it. The one on the left was relatively smaller, but still about ten meters tall. He was covered entirely in crimson terracotta armor, and his head was a cluster of inverted triangle-shaped sensors. He had no vocal apparatus—his voice was projected directly into the hall through a psionic amplifier. The one on the right was the most human-like, but had replaced eighty percent of his parts. His face was covered by a gilded mask, with only a single golden optical lens visible. His vocal apparatus was a hybrid of human vocal cords and an electronic synthesizer, producing a deep, even voice with the hum of an ancient vacuum tube warming up.

The three great sages walked towards the three thrones at the center of the platform. These were no ordinary seats—they were mobile mechanical thrones, their bases forged from fine gold and inlaid with energy conduits and data cables, directly connected to the life support systems of the three great sages via interfaces on their backs. The ground-mounted locking mechanism of the thrones locked with a dull metallic clang.

The hall was completely silent.

In the gallery, Strabo stopped using his data tablet, his gray eyes fixed on the colossal statue on the platform, his face expressionless. Cardinal Agrippina clasped her hands together, bowed slightly, and her lips moved slightly—even though it wasn't the state church's sanctuary, he still showed respect to the great sage of the Mechanicus. Sister Valeria didn't move; she sat upright like a sword, her deep blue eyes lingering on the colossal statue for a moment before returning to the direction of Cohen in the hall.

Then, the singing began.

It wasn't a human voice. It was the binary chanting of a Mechanic hymn. A low-frequency pulse was output from a loudspeaker array embedded in the dome, the rhythm of the binary code being stretched, repeated, and superimposed, creating an ancient and solemn echo beneath the dome. It wasn't music; it was a prayer—the Mechanic's worship of the God of Machines, a hymn of code. The binary pulse pulsed on every thinker's terminal in the hall, green indicator lights flashing in rhythm, like a silent starry sky breathing. The guards of honor of the ecclesiastical army stood in formation outside the hall, the sound of their halberds striking the ground like war drums, carrying far from the entrance, each strike perfectly timed with the binary hymn. The servo skulls in mid-air adjusted their postures, red optical lenses aimed at the platform, and the recording chips inside the skulls began high-speed operation, permanently sealing this moment.

Cohen sat in his seat with a blank expression.

This was his first time experiencing the High Council of the Mechanicus. He knew from his past life that the Mechanicus operated this way, but experiencing it firsthand was another matter entirely. Those binary hymns sounded like noise to him, and the towering Titan-like Great Sage appeared to him as nothing more than an extreme example of mechanical replacement. But he knew what these things meant to the 150 sages present—not a performance, but faith. In the world of the Mechanicus, binary prayers were closer to truth than language, and the degree of mechanical replacement was a measure of piety. He remained calm, showing no discomfort, simply sitting quietly beside Vitellius, watching the three Great Sages on the platform, his expression unchanged. In fact, his current Enpu avatar wasn't much better; you hate it, but you have to get used to it.

The hymn gradually subsided after nearly ten minutes. The rhythm of the binary pulses slowed, softened, and then receded like the tide. Only the white noise of the circulation system and the low-frequency hum of energy conduits flowing on the mechanical throne remained in the hall.

The Titan-like Great Sage in the center raised his right arm. The ceremonial weapon platform, integrated with a multi-laser array, paused in mid-air before slamming heavily onto the armrest of the throne. A dull metallic clang echoed through the hall.

"The Council of Sages, begin."

The sound didn't originate from its speaker; it exploded from the entire "chest" of the colossus. The amplified resonance array compressed the electronic sound into a low-frequency shockwave, causing Cohen's armrests to tremble slightly.

The 150 sages in the hall simultaneously ceased all activity—shutting down their Thinker terminals, retracting their data panels, and ceasing the unconscious tapping of their mechanical fingers. Hundreds of optical lenses were aimed at the platform. The binary pulses vanished completely from the air, leaving only primal silence. The servo skull also stopped moving, hovering in mid-air like a frozen star.

In the gallery, Strabo finally put down his data panel, his gray eyes shifting from the platform towards Cohen without any change in expression, but the focus of his dark red lens narrowed slightly. Cardinal Agrippina clasped her hands together, head bowed in silence. Sister Valeria sat upright like a sword, her deep blue eyes moving from the colossus to Cohen, then back, then again, as if making some kind of assessment.

The armored sage on the right side of the platform took a step forward, his voice projected throughout the hall through the psionic amplifier, devoid of any emotion.

"First item on the agenda. Armageddon."

The suspended holographic projector in the center of the hall activated. A giant star map unfolded above the hall—

A real-time strategic map of the Amegidodton system on the northeastern frontier of the Solar Region. Red-marked Orc fleets are pouring out from the warp rifts, countless arrows pointing towards Amegidodton's main star.

A sage from the Solar System rose from his seat. His entire body was heavily repurposed mechanically, leaving only an optical lens and a vocal grille on his face; his voice, amplified through a megaphone, carried a harsh, metallic quality. "Gentlemen," he declared, "Lucis must go all out. The Astral Titan Legion must march. The entire field fleet must be mobilized. The Faith Guardians must launch a full-scale attack. Armageddon is the industrial hub of the Solar System, a strategic passage for the Empire's northeastern frontier. Losing Armageddon will sever half the system's supply lines. The ore transport from the Forge World, the resource allocation from the Nest World, the resupply of Imperial Navy ships—all will have to be detoured. The cost of this detour is a time delay measured in years and a consumption of billions of tons of resources. The Solar System cannot afford this loss. The Empire cannot afford this loss."

His voice grew louder and louder, the vocal grille almost screaming. The mechanical prosthetic limbs swung in the air, the hydraulically driven robotic arms tracing sharp arcs through the air.

Another sage stood up immediately, his electronic voice dry and urgent. "Holy War! Destroy those damned greenskins! The Steel Legion of Armageddon is fighting a bloody battle, and Commissar Arek has sent out a distress signal. We cannot stand idly by!" His mechanical body trembled slightly, not from fear, but from excitement—the aperture of the optical lens was frantically expanding and contracting, and the servo motor emitted a sharp hum. The third and fourth sages stood up almost simultaneously, binary pulses colliding in the air, and electronic sounds superimposed to form a chaotic wave of sound. A sage with a mechanical replacement rate of over ninety percent directly turned the power of his voice generator to maximum, and the synthesized voice exploded under the dome: "The Astral Legion must march! Lucis cannot leave Armageddon isolated and helpless!" His mechanical arm waved in the air, the tool interfaces at the tips of his fingers reflecting a blinding light under the lamplight.

On the high platform, the Titan-like Great Sage in the center raised his left arm. The ceremonial weapon platform, integrated with a multi-laser array, pointed towards the dome. No fire was released, but the preheating arcs of the beam generator crackled at the muzzle, casting flickering shadows of blinding white light across the dome. The hall fell silent instantly. The voices of all one hundred and fifty sages were silenced simultaneously, even the binary pulses vanished.

"Enough." A deep, electronic voice boomed from the colossus's chest, causing the armrests of the chair to tremble again. "Everyone here knows the importance of Armageddon. Lucius will provide support. But the warp storm has already engulfed the Armageddon system. Whether we can get in, and whether we can get out, are all questions."

No one speaks.

The Titan-like Great Sage lowered his head, and the sensor array swept across every face in the hall. The compound eye lingered in Cohen's direction for a fleeting moment—less than half a second—but Cohen sensed it.

In the gallery, Strabo tapped his fingers lightly on the data panel, his gray eyes fixed on Cohen's retreating figure, a slight pursing of his lips. Cardinal Agrippina looked up in Cohen's direction, her expression serene. Sister Valeria sat upright, her gaze shifting from Cohen to the colossal statue on the platform, but her fingers tapped lightly on her knee—a subconscious gesture when assessing troop deployments on the battlefield.

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