Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 134 Shadows

941.M41, Galos System. The psionic pulses of the Wangshu Forging World Star Language Relay Station silently spread through the void. The domes of Galos's main star gleamed with a cold white halo in the starlight, and nearly a hundred million people awoke, slept, and lived beneath those transparent armors. The dome clusters had become dense, and the production lines in the underground industrial zone continued day and night. But now, the true heart was not on the surface of the main star—it was in its orbit, a small asteroid encased in steel slowly rotating.

Wang Shu.

Thousands of ion thrusters left long, thin blue trails on the star's back, maintaining its orbital inclination relative to the main planet of Galos. Ceramics armor plates covered its surface, and dozens of macro-cannon pedestals were already installed, their barrels pointing into deep space. The cooling grates of the light spear turrets glowed with a dark red standby light through the gaps in the armor plates. Interfaces for point defense arrays lined the armor seams, and power and data ports for rapid-fire turrets were pre-installed. More firepower platforms were under construction, and the arcs of the engineering servitors flickered across the star's surface. It didn't resemble a satellite; it was like a steel fortress growing out of the void.

The Fireseed was no longer at its berth. The twenty-kilometer-long casting ark, which had set sail for Armageddon with the Combined Fleet months earlier, was now on a delivery mission over the planet besieged by the Greenskins. As a result, a large area of ​​the dock in Wangshu was empty, and the beams of searchlights shone much farther in the darkness without the shield of the giant ship, illuminating the dense array of gantry crane tracks and engineering platforms on the dome.

The vacant berths are not being left idle. New keels are being laid.

Behind the armored glass of the dock observation platform, dozens of figures stood. They watched the steel skeletons taking shape in the dock's cavities, the transport ships shuttling back and forth, and the busy ranks of servitors. Phyllis stood at the front of the group, her long, dark brown hair tied in a neat low ponytail, wearing the dark uniform of the captain of the Valiant, with the Garros gear and skull insignia pinned to her chest.

The hundreds of thousands of people behind them have been settled in batches over the past few days. Technicians have been incorporated into the various production lines of Wangshu, and craftsmen have been assigned to dock workstations. Standing in the observation area now are the last batch of core personnel—those who need to see Wangshu with their own eyes to feel at ease, the most deserving people recruited from the Wandering Port to be brought here.

The crowd's gaze passed over the ship sections being welded and landed deep in the dock.

At the very center of the slipway, the keel of a massive cruiser was being laid. Larger than the Luna-class, its adamantite frame stretching from its base into the void, the welding torches of the engineering servitors exploding with bursts of orange-red light at the nodes. On the slipways on either side, sections of Luna-class cruisers, Sword-class frigates, and Cobra-class destroyers were arranged alternately. Not a single one of the twelve hull positions was empty. The production line was operating at its limit; each keel was growing at a visible pace, some already finished with hull plating, others still having their underfloor piping laid. The blueprints for these ships—the Sword-class frigates and the Avenger-class large cruisers—nominally designs from the Pronoris era extracted from the Fireseed's database, had already undergone mass production modifications in the computing hub. This was mass production. The Thinker's mainframe had broken down the blueprints, optimized countless times by Cohen, into millions of instructions, distributing them to every production line, every workstation, and every engineering servitor.

Dozens of Metis-class mining ships operated silently in the asteroid belt, plasma cutting beams slicing through the rock from the core, the fragmented ore being dragged into the processing compartments beneath the hull by traction beams. There were no living people on board, only organic servants, predetermined programs, and routes and operational instructions assigned by the central computing hub.

The orbital transport ships approached from the direction of Galos, dozens of them, their exhaust trails leaving dense blue streaks in the vacuum.

Their cargo holds were crammed with refined gold framework nodes cast from the underground industrial zone, standardized components processed from the factory beneath the dome, and rare alloys that the Wangshu smelting area could not yet produce itself. The transport boats lined up and docked sequentially at the unloading berths outside the dry dock, while the six-legged service vehicles darted swiftly between the cargo holds and platforms. Wangshu's industrial chain was closing.

In the crowd behind Phyllis, someone silently pressed their right fist to their chest. The most basic greeting of the Mechanicus, ancient as the first line of a hymn. The gesture spread quietly through the crowd, one after another, spreading backward. The servo motors of the robotic arms hummed softly, and the sleeves of the bio-arms swayed gently with the movement. No one spoke.

The golden door deep inside the observation platform slid open.

The Starforge mechs were the first to emerge. Four mechs, each over four meters tall, cast deep shadows under the cold white lights. Their heavy, fist-shaped explosive cannons on their shoulders pointed towards the dome, while their powered gauntlets hung at their sides. Their optical lenses glowed a dark red light as they lined up along the central axis of the observation platform, standing before the crowd.

Enp Shakra emerged from behind the door. He wore a deep red robe, and his electron beam was concealed beneath his hood. He walked directly from the Starfortress armored column to the armored glass edge of the observation platform.

As the mechanically-covered body passed by, everyone involuntarily held their breath. Not out of awe, but because the body itself didn't seem like a living person. Its movements were too precise, so precise that it didn't resemble a human; it was more like a programmed, walking, contemplative terminal.

Someone slowly bent their knees, kneeling on one knee on the cold terrazzo floor. The knee bent on its own—at that moment, the person kneeling didn't even know why they were kneeling.

Enp stopped in front of the armored glass, his back to the crowd. His optical lenses gazed at the ship keels taking shape in the dock's hollow, at the transport ships moving about, and at the busy ranks of mechs. He didn't utter a word, nor send a single binary pulse. He simply stood there for a moment. Then he turned and walked back through the passageway of the Starfortress mech ranks.

The adamantine door slid shut behind him. Simultaneously, the optical lenses of the Starfortress soldiers went out, the dark red spots disappeared, and the corridor fell into darkness. Only the heavy breathing of the crowd and the persistent low-frequency hum of the cooling pumps remained on the observation platform.

Someone straightened up from their kneeling position, their knees scraping against the terrazzo floor with a short, sharp squeak. Someone stood up, the servo motor of their prosthetic arm whirring briefly. No one spoke.

Phyllis stepped out of the crowd and stood at the edge of the observation platform. Her voice was not loud, but every word was clear.

"Dockyard. Production line. Forge area. Three departments. Everyone will receive assignment instructions. Technicians from the roaming port will report directly to the dockyard and production line. Craftsmen will go to the forge area. Personnel in core positions will undergo identity registration and interface calibration at the computing power hub tomorrow." She paused. "The ships you see include one large cruiser, two Moon-class, four Sword-class, and five Cobra-class. Except for the Avenger-class, the hulls of the other ships will be completed within a few months. More will follow. There are orders from the Imperial Navy—and also from Garros' own fleet."

The crowd began to move. Some whispered among themselves, while others silently made their way to the exit. A man in dark gray casual clothes walked at the back of the crowd, his pace unhurried. As he passed the edge of the observation platform, he glanced sideways at the spot deep within the dock's cavity where the ark had once been moored. It was now empty, save for the adamantine supports and the base of the binding force field, casting a deep shadow in the beams of the searchlights. His gaze lingered on that empty space for a moment, then moved away.

A combat-type mech stood at the corner of the passage, its dark red lens flashing slightly as it passed by.

Without pausing, he blended into the crowd and walked down the corridor.

In the corridor, Phyllis came out from around the corner and blocked his way.

"Lor," she said flatly. "Aren't you going to report for duty?"

The man—Lor—stopped, placed his right fist against his chest, and gave a standard Aquila salute. His smile was faint, polite, and restrained. "Captain. I'm just getting familiar with the surroundings. After spending so much time in the Wandering Port, I'm used to exploring new places first."

Phyllis looked at him for two seconds. "Wangshu is not a roaming port. Every corner here is recorded. Your assigned post is in the dock area, on the twelfth slipway, in the keel-laying group for large cruisers. Report for duty tomorrow at 6:00."

"Understood." Lor didn't ask any further questions and stepped aside to make way. Phyllis walked past him without turning back. Lor stood there, watching her figure disappear, then turned and walked towards the dock area. The servant's optical lenses had been turned off, and the dark red light spots completely dissipated from the gaps in the fuselage.

On the other side of the dock area, deep within, where no one was allowed to enter, behind a blind spot where the adamantite armor plates were welded, lay a compartment. There were no numbers, no markings, and no passageway leading to it. Enp stood there.

He stood in the center of the cabin, silent for several minutes, then walked out. The adamantine door slid shut behind him, blending seamlessly into the cabin wall.

The corridor's lighting panels cast a cold, white glow, and Starfortress mechs stood silently at the crossroads. Enp walked among them. The optical lenses were not lit; only faint, dark red spots of light, in standby mode, seeped from the gaps in the fuselage.

He didn't know whose people those undercover agents were. He didn't care. All he needed was for them to see that this steel-clad shell was still alive, still walking, still emitting those binary pulses from ten thousand years ago. Their intelligence would be written into reports, and those reports would be sent to higher desks. The Inquisition, the State Religion, Mars, the Alien Cult's spies, the merchants' spies—let them be. He had already given them what they wanted to see. A backup of the consciousness of the Great Sage of the World, forged ten thousand years ago, stood on the orbit of Garros, silent, precise, and unshakeable.

Deterrence doesn't need words. He only needs to be there. Then all the ill-intentioned glances will recalculate their cost.