Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 154 Opening New Routes

In the top-floor office of the side sanctuary of the temple, cool white light poured down from the dome's lighting array, spreading a uniform halo across the dark gray metal desktop. Cohen sat behind his desk, a monthly production report of the underground industrial zone spread out before him.

He looked up as the door slid open.

Phyllis walked in. She wore a dark gray captain's coat, the collar buttoned all the way up, the dark gold gear stitching on the inside of the left lapel gleaming slightly under the light. She didn't have a data pad in her hand, but her gait said it all: her steps were a beat faster than usual, her shoulders relaxed, and the soles of her boots made a crisp, clean sound on the terrazzo floor.

She didn't need to say anything; Cohen already knew the conclusion.

"Sit down." He pushed the report aside.

Phyllis sat down opposite her, without exchanging pleasantries: "That adamantite route is real. It goes directly from the southern border. They call themselves Turenstein. Turenstein is a human colony, isolated from civilization for who knows how long. Their technological capabilities have severely deteriorated, but their mining facilities are well-maintained. Although the gap in civilization is large, their mining capabilities have been relatively intact."

Cohen leaned back in his chair and waited for her to continue.

Phyllis placed a data panel on the table, the screen facing him—it displayed a coordinate record and a summary of the ore vein assessment. A small ore sample was clipped to the edge of the panel, its dark gray crystal cross-section gleaming with the cold light characteristic of adamantite under the lamp.

"The coordinates were bought from a small family of traveling merchants. Their ships can't go that far, but the coordinates they have are real. I took the Valiant on a trip there and confirmed that the ore vein is of high grade and has large reserves, enough to support stable production for many years."

She paused for a moment: "The annual production, converted to refined gold at standard grade, is enough to fill the cargo holds of three Odysseus-class ships, meaning each ship would make three trips a year. If all of it were brought back, it could cover 20% of Garros' current refined gold demand."

Cohen's gaze lingered on the data panel for a moment, then shifted away.

"What about those previous channels?"

"There were two paths before," Phyllis said. "One was the scattered purchases by wandering merchants, which were unpredictable and completely out of control. The other was Serflis, which was escorted by frigates. The adamantite mines there were famous throughout the Empire, but we were only given a tiny portion of their quota. The rest was monopolized by the large foundry world of Calicus. They only gave us a small amount because of our deep background, which can be traced back to the Great Crusade. It was just a favor, and it was relatively stable—guaranteeing a few percentage points every year."

She flipped through the data panel: "All channels combined, about ten percent."

Cohen didn't speak. He knew what ten percent meant. The real main ingredient for smelting had always been filled by his abilities.

The 90% gap isn't a big problem in terms of raw material production. But the real issue is that it won't stand up to scrutiny in the long run.

Phyllis didn't wait for his response and continued, "This route is remote and isolated, outside the empire's sphere of influence."

Industrial equipment, spare parts, food, weapons—these things are hard currency locally. I've confirmed that the other party is willing to pay with refined gold ore powder, in a long-term transaction based on a fixed ratio.

"What about the safety of the flight route?"

"I made a trip to confirm that there is pirate activity along the way, but it is not on a large scale. The firepower of the Odysseus-class is sufficient to deter them."

No formation is needed; a single ship can handle it. If routine operations are required, my suggestion is to use the Odysseus-class destroyer. It's safe and stable enough, and the cargo value is already high enough; using it is worthwhile.

She turned to the next page: "I conducted the transaction under the guise of a route explorer—a trade license registered in the Wandering Port, independent of the Garros Trade Department system. The Forging Temple has records and knows this identity is an outer cover, but only I know the specific routes and trading partners. The ronin family that sold me the coordinates doesn't know Garros is the buyer; they think they're doing business with an independent explorer."

She paused briefly, as if choosing her words carefully: "They still have value—they know more people, and their information channels are still operational. I've already discussed future cooperation with them: they will continue to provide similar coordinates and intelligence, paid on a commission basis, without any written contracts, just verbal agreements. These people are suitable as peripheral informants. If necessary, I will apply to the Temple's Internal Affairs Department to terminate the cooperation, eliminate redundant nodes in the information chain, and ensure the secrecy of the flight routes."

Cohen did not answer immediately. He picked up the mineral sample, weighed it in his hand, and then put it back on the table.

"The shortage of refined gold ore powder has always been a bottleneck for Garros," he said. "You've done a good job. You can make your own judgment about terminating the cooperation; you don't need to report to me."

He paused for a moment, then said, "Since the reserves are abundant, we can establish a trading post there permanently."

Phyllis confirmed, "We can't rashly deploy a large-scale force, but we can station a small, disguised friars, nominally as a guard. Too much might backfire and turn into a major conflict, attracting unnecessary attention. The most rational situation is that someone is mining for us, and we only need to contribute some inexpensive items to bring the ore back."

Cohen nodded: "How do you plan to prepare the goods for the transaction?"

Phyllis flipped to another data panel and pushed it in front of Cohen: "Our trade department recommends setting up a production line for the Type 045 force feedback armor, as well as the Star Force's standard laser guns, and various types of affordable weapons. We can't keep using high-end products; there's a strong demand for mid-to-low-end products."

"Type 045?"

"It's basically a downgrade of the entire CMC-100 technology suite," Phyllis said. "Removing redundant backups of the life support system..."

Reduce the response speed of the joint servos, replace the outer shell with standard ceramic steel instead of composite armor, and use a more basic neural feedback interface solution.

She continued without pausing: "The tech priests tinkered with these things on their own, then uploaded them to the Thinker's mainframe for evaluation and earned points. Anyway, the database has everything now. The private workshop system in the underground industrial zone is already operational, with seventeen workshops currently licensed. The high-ranking tech priests have production capacity, blueprints, and workshops; all they lack is a stable export channel. The adamantite powder shipping route can perfectly handle the output of the private workshops."

Cohen looked at her: "You want to tie the workshop's output to the trade lines?"

Phyllis said, "The workshops lack sales channels, and the shipping routes lack cargo. Trade containers need to be loaded, and private workshops need to ship their goods. The Foundry Temple only needs to approve the production licenses of private workshops, and then the Ministry of Trade will handle the unified acquisition and sales. All products must undergo quality certification and ritual blessing procedures. Private workshops do not lack production capacity—they can produce high-end products, and they can also produce mid-to-low-end products. What the shipping routes need is a stable, continuous, and reasonably priced supply of goods."

She closed the data panel: "This isn't just about this shipping route. If this mechanism works, the Trade Department can directly use the private workshops' production capacity to fill containers for every new shipping route it opens. Casting the Temple won't require using the official production lines, won't affect the delivery of Navy orders, and won't require applying to the fleet dispatch for the allocation of materials."

"It will be written into the administrative regulations," Cohen said. "The output of private workshops will be purchased by the Temple, and after the tax in kind is paid, the remaining output will be sold to foreign entities by the Ministry of Trade."

Phyllis wrote on the data panel: "Understood."

"We've added a few more large-scale refining platforms to the Garros IV, so we have a surplus of fuel," Cohen said. "That's hard currency."

"Gross metals can be put into trade containers," Phyllis said. "The local area needs weapons, industrial equipment, spare parts, food, and fuel. We'll load the containers over and bring back the refined gold ore."

She closed the data panel and adjusted her posture.

"The Trask family's main source of revenue is the human trade. Once they learned that we were trying to immigrate people to populate Garros, they offered to help, providing a full range of services including screening, shipping, and delivery. In return, we would pay with industrial products, which would complement the products from those technical priest workshops. Not all trade requires high-end products."

"Let them handle the talks," Cohen said. "Connect with Ellis."

She paused for a moment, then said, "There's one more thing."

Cohen waits.

"I'm over forty," Phyllis said. "This trip on the adamantite powder route was long and stressful. My recovery has been slower than before. My rank as a logician is technical priest, but my body is holding me back."

"You want to make changes."

“Yes, I want to get modified,” Phyllis said. “I’m past the age where I can rely on physical strength to get by; I need modifications to extend my peak physical years. Liz says her skills have reached their limit and she can only perform conventional prosthetic replacements. So—should I have a high-ranking technical priest do it?”

Cohen leaned back in his chair: "Liz's problem isn't technical; it's that her body has reached its limit. Vera is also considering it. The three of you should work together to come up with a plan, and let me know when you've thought it through. I'll do it."

Phyllis's gaze lingered on his face for a moment: "I understand."

"It's good that you understand."

Phyllis didn't ask any more questions. She stood up, put the data pad into her coat pocket, and walked to the door. Instead of pushing the door open, she turned around and gave a standard gear-like salute.

"For the will of Om Messiah."

Cohen nodded and then waved his hand.

The door slid shut behind her. Footsteps faded into the distance along the corridor, swallowed by the silence of the side hall.

In the corridor, Fasc Ravinius was already waiting at the corner. He leaned against the terracotta wall, clutching a spare data board in his hand, a small data interface panel embedded behind his left ear. Hearing the door slide open, he straightened up and glanced sideways in the direction Phyllis had come from.

"grown ups."

"Let's go." Phyllis didn't stop. "The thirty-ninth floor, Duresa's workshop. The first batch of Type 045 finished products has arrived."

Farsk followed beside her, his strides small, just half a step behind. He opened his data panel, swiped his finger across the screen, and brought up the access list for the underground workshop area. A servo skull silently hovered behind his shoulder, two optical lenses embedded in its eye sockets, and a dark red standby indicator light remained steadily lit.

"Only Lord Duresa's workshop had any entry or exit records on the 39th floor today." Fask glanced at the screen. "The first batch of prototype Type 045 has been packaged and is awaiting inspection. Lord Duresa's feedback is that the assembly line is running smoothly and production capacity can be increased."

"What about the second one?"

"The laser weapon order is on the 42nd floor, scheduled for this afternoon." Fask flipped through the data panel. "After checking with Duresa, the timing will be perfect."

The two crossed the side plaza and boarded the shuttle. Farsk sat in the passenger seat, placing the data pad on his lap, his servo skull hovering behind and to the side of the seat, its optical lenses aimed at the passageway in front of the shuttle. The shuttle took off, passing through the airtight passageway at the edge of Dome One, and flew towards the ground-level elevator platform area.

A few minutes later, the shuttle landed at the edge of a huge terracotta platform.

The main elevator hub is located in the transition zone between Dome I and Dome II. Sixteen giant elevator platforms are arranged side by side, each large enough to accommodate three standard-sized railcars parked side by side. Servant trains and railcars shuttle between the platforms, with rails extending from the platform edges to merge into the surface rail network leading to the various domes. There are also elevator platforms inside Dome I, though the main sanctuary is still under construction; there are also dedicated elevators beneath the side chapels, but these are for the Director General and the Great Sage and are not suitable for general use.

Phyllis walked toward the third lifting platform. A mechanical apprentice stood at the edge of the platform, clutching a data tablet and checking the inventory against the terminal. He saw Phyllis approach, his gaze lingering for a moment on the dark gold gear line at her neckline, before stepping aside to make way.

"Sir, Platform 3 is ready."

Phyllis nodded and stepped onto the platform. Fask followed behind her, the servo skull silently drifting past the edge of the platform behind his shoulder and landing above the handrail on his left.

The guide rails locked, and the platform began to descend. The surrounding walls transitioned from ceramic steel to rock walls separated by intersecting steel bars. Emergency light strips were arranged in a downward light chain along the walls, turning on and off sequentially as the platform passed. The air temperature slowly rose as it descended, changing from the dry, cold air circulating from the ground to a scorching heat carrying metallic dust and hot air.

Phyllis gripped the handrail at the edge of the platform, her breathing becoming heavy. She glanced at Fask; he didn't seem to react much, his body, more than ten years younger than her, managing to hold up in this environment. She realized she should wear power armor next time, or get the modifications done as soon as possible. Fask seemed to sense her state, glancing down at his data panel and making a note without saying a word.

The servo skull floated between the two, its dark red indicator lights flashing silently in the dim light, recording the footage of their commute.

The thirty-ninth floor had arrived. Phyllis took a breath before stepping off the platform and into the furnace area's passageway. The air carried a sweltering heat rising from the depths, mixed with the smell of metallic dust and coolant. Every few dozen meters along both sides of the passageway, there was a half-open fireproof door made of adamantite, the orange-red light of the furnace shining through the cracks. This was the true smell of the forging world—it had passed through layers of filtration devices to ultimately maintain the habitable state of the surface world, but deep underground, industry itself never concealed its weight.

Fasker followed behind her, his boots clicking sharply on the metal grille with each step. The servo skull hovered in the passageway, its optical lenses automatically adjusting their focus to the changing light, navigating the pipes' path...

The door number and machine servant distribution are stored in the recording module frame by frame.

There were few living people along the way; only occasionally would one encounter a mechanical monk in a red robe. The underground was vast, with nearly a million monks scattered across various levels. Most only met in the passageways during shift changes. Phyllis noticed that the two technical priests approaching were wearing breathing masks, their chests rising and falling much less than those of the surface inhabitants—long-term modifications had adapted them to this environment. She, on the other hand, was struggling to walk down the path with only an unmodified body, her breathing becoming increasingly labored.

She quickened her pace, not wanting to waste any more time on this.

The workshop's main gate appeared at the end of the passage. It was five meters high and over ten meters wide, made of dark gray ceramic steel plates, with a line of low Gothic inscription etched along the edge of the door frame: "Isfahan Duresa—Fourth-Order Foundry Technology Priest Workshop." An identity verification terminal was embedded on the left, its dark green standby indicator light steadily glowing in the dim light.

Phyllis aligned the gear-shaped wire on the inside of her left collar with the sensor area. A short beep sounded, and the indicator light turned green. The sound of the adamantite lock unlocking came from deep within the door, and the door slid open to both sides.

The space behind the door spans several thousand square meters. The dome is about twelve meters high, and the terracotta steel frame stretches out in the cold light, suspending rail-mounted cranes and work platforms. To the left is the casting area, where three small smelting furnaces are in operation; in the center is the assembly area, where several semi-automatic assembly lines are laid out along the ground; to the right is the testing area, where terminals and testing platforms are arranged along the walls, and several sets of encapsulated Type 045 force feedback armor are hung on the walls.

Isfahan Duresa stood beside the testing platform. He wore a deep red robe, the hem of which had several small holes burned into it by the welding torch. His left arm, from the elbow down, was made of adamantite mechanical structure. He heard the door slide open, turned his head, the optical lens lingered on Phyllis for a moment, then he lowered the testing probe and removed his welder's mask.

"Lady Phyllis, you've arrived sooner than expected."

"On the way." Phyllis walked into the workshop. "What's the progress on the Type 045?"

Duresa turned to the side and pointed to the middle of the assembly line: "The first pilot production line is running smoothly. This is the seventh batch of finished products, having completed all assembly and basic testing." He took a set of Type 045 force feedback armor from the wall and placed it on the testing platform. It was made of dark gray ceramic steel plate, with neatly arranged joint sealing interfaces, and a data interface panel embedded in the inside of the chest armor.

Phyllis pressed the outer shell of the breastplate: "Looks good."

"It was already pretty good." Duresa tilted his optical lens slightly. "This is in accordance with procedures and regulations. I made simplified modifications, which are derivative designs. This is the director's CMC-100 skeleton structure. I cut all the relatively expensive parts, from the redundant backup of the power core to the sensor array of the life support system. I dismantled it all the way down, keeping only the most basic exoskeleton drive and neural feedback. The outer shell was replaced with standard ceramic steel, not composite armor. The sealing level was also reduced. It can't last too long in a vacuum environment, but it's sufficient within the atmosphere."

He paused for a moment: "The design finalization documents have been submitted to the Temple's Technical Appraisal Department for review. According to the mechanical church's practice, a fixed percentage of the revenue from each Type 045 unit is allocated as patent licensing fees, which are collected by the Trade Department and then transferred to the Temple's Technical Fund."

Phyllis nodded; she didn't need to make a statement at this stage, as the necessary procedures had already been followed.

What is the monthly output?

"A single assembly line can produce 600 sets per month." Duresa pulled up the production capacity curve. "If there are stable orders, three more assembly lines can be added in the surrounding area, quadrupling the monthly production capacity. But the export channels need to be stable."

Fask stepped forward from behind Phyllis and opened the data panel: "The first batch of export lists from the Department of Trade is already being prepared."

The gold shipping route requires a stable supply of goods, and your production capacity is just what's needed.

Duresa's optical lens turned toward Fask, paused for a moment, and then moved back toward Phyllis.

Phyllis said, "Export channels will be available soon, and the mechanism will continue to operate. Just maximize production capacity and maintain stable quality. You don't need to worry about anything else."

Duresa nodded, turned, and walked towards the assembly line terminal, inputting several sets of parameters. The robotic arm's rhythm was slightly adjusted, and the arc of the welding torch lit up again in the dimly lit workshop, its orange-red light slowly moving along the edge of the ceramic steel plate. The servo skull hovered above the assembly line, its optical lens tilted downwards, recording the entire parameter adjustment process frame by frame.

Phyllis stood at the doorway for a moment, watching as a Type 045 armor set was pushed into the packaging station at the end of the assembly line. The ceramic steel plate gleamed a uniform gray in the cold light, and the gear and skull emblem on the breastplate had just been etched. She watched for a few seconds, then turned and walked out of the workshop. The adamantite door closed behind her, the sound of the lock re-engaging swallowed by the continuous low-frequency hum of the furnace area.

Fastk followed behind and made a note on the data board: "The trial production verification of the Type 045 has passed. The monthly output of a single line is 600 sets, which can be expanded to four lines."

"Write it down," Phyllis said. "Next one."

She stepped onto the elevator platform and said, "Go to the forty-second floor." Fask followed, and the servo skull silently floated past his shoulder, hovering above the platform handrail, the dark red indicator light flashing in the dim light.

She also needs to go to another workshop to follow up on the laser weapon order.

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