Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 157 Messenger and Brand

As the messenger ship docked, the residual heat from its propellers cast a dark red glow on the armor plating. It was a modified Sword-class corvette, painted in dark gray naval camouflage, with a line of small text engraved below the double-headed eagle insignia on its side: "Imperial Navy · Lucis Office · Logistics Deliverer".

The maintenance crew in the berth area were already lined up at the jet bridge, their optical lenses arranged in two rows in the dim light, silently watching the ship. A messenger descended the gangway, dressed in a dark blue uniform with a silver double-headed eagle epaulette on his left shoulder. He carried a fine gold sealed case, its surface etched with the Imperial Navy insignia, multiple tamper-evident seals gleaming a cold gray under the spotlight.

After the messenger ship docked, the adamantite sealed box traveled for several weeks between shuttles, transport ships, and elevators, passing through layers of security checks in the subspace turbulence and the forging world, before finally landing on the desk on the top floor of the temple's side hall.

Cohen sat behind his desk, a combat report from the Serflis route spread out in front of him. Larson stood opposite him, placing the sealed box down with steady movements, but lingering for a moment at the edge of the lid as he finished—checking the integrity of the seal was a necessary step.

"The Imperial Navy Logistics Department reacted faster than expected," Larson said, his voice steady. "As soon as the Mars verification team set off, the interstellar communications were sent directly to the Lucis Navy Office, requesting that the Navy Office handle the text preparation and then send it over by messenger ship to ensure everything went smoothly."

Cohen didn't reply. He glanced at the adamantite-sealed case. Larson sat down opposite him and pressed his finger on the side of the case. The seals peeled off layer by layer under mechanical power, and the lid flipped open. Inside were three data boards, each sealed in an individual anti-magnetic bag, the bag openings pressed against the wax seal of the Imperial Navy's office in Lucis.

He took out the first piece and placed it on the table.

"Contract. Two years, six Odysseus-class battleships."

Cohen picked up the data panel: his thumb pressed on the sensor area. The screen lit up: High Gothic text unfolded line by line—From the end of Imperial Calendar 943 to 945, the Galos Casting World was required to deliver six Odysseus-class armed transport ships, all with full upfront payment. Every two years, the head of the Imperial Navy's liaison office in Galos was responsible for coordinating naval needs and renewing the text.

Cohen's gaze lingered for a moment on "six projects in two years." Three projects in one year and six projects in two years yield the same total output, but the pace is completely different. Three projects in one year means a single dock must operate continuously, from keel laying to outfitting completion, taking a year. Six projects in two years means six docks operating simultaneously, completing a shipbuilding cycle in two years, which is more reasonable.

In fact, the Imperial Navy Logistics Department was overjoyed when it received this result, and even the entire Naval Command was shaken. They had originally expected Garros to refuse outright, or even seek redress from Mars. But Garros accepted the result of two years and six articles, which was an incredible fact for the Empire; clearly, a forging world wouldn't joke about such a thing. Even the High Lords had already turned their attention to Garros, wanting to know how the two years and six articles would be completed. This is why they rushed to sign the agreement before the Mars inspection team; clearly, the Navy didn't want Mars to play "some" role in it.

Cohen placed the data panel on the table without immediately pushing it back.

Larson waited a few seconds before taking out the second piece and pushing it toward Cohen.

"Agreement on the supply of refined gold ore. Supply at 90% of the market price. This agreement will remain in effect as long as Garros continues to build ships for the Navy."

Cohen flipped to the second data panel. The terms of the agreement were clear: supply volume, discount rate, and continuity conditions—each line was written concisely and precisely. This agreement covered about one-fifth of Garros' current refined gold demand, enough to give Garros a source of half of its refined gold ore, significantly reducing supply chain risks. He placed the second panel next to the first.

Larson retrieved the third piece. This one was thinner, and the wax seal on the envelope was red—the Naval Logistics Bureau's evaluation stamp, Lucis's spare stamp, and a record filing certificate from the Imperial Navy's Astral Language Bureau and Lucis's Office Astral Language Corps. This compensated for the fact that the documents weren't sent directly from Terra; all three data plates were the same size.

"Production capacity assessment certificate. This will serve as strong evidence when the Mars verification team arrives. The Garros Foundry World has been officially designated as a Tier II production capacity zone by the Naval Logistics Bureau."

Cohen turned to the third data panel. The text was much shorter than the first two, and the wording was restrained, but the numbers and standards carried clear weight within the Empire's industrial system. Priority allocation of resources, increased strategic reserve quotas, and a reduction of one level in censorship frequency all occupied different positions within the Empire's bureaucratic system.

He finished flipping through them, placed the three data boards side by side on the table, and leaned back in his chair.

"Garros will be using six dry docks," he said. "This directly takes up half of Garros's large dry dock capacity."

Larson did not deny it. He knew what that number meant: six of the twelve large dry docks, for the foreseeable future, would be unable to undertake any projects other than naval orders, as these would inevitably be renewed—either for the Odysseus-class or some other ship type. All existing shipbuilding plans would need to be rescheduled.

"Gallos will faithfully fulfill its contractual obligations, and we hope the Imperial Navy will do the same," Cohen said.

Larson paused for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice half an octave lower than before: "Of course, the Imperial Navy is the decisive force. As long as Garros fulfills its contracts in the long term, its future will undoubtedly be brilliant."

Cohen picked up a data pen and signed his name in the signature field of the first contract. The lattice layer of the data board left a dark golden streak on the screen. He moved the pen to the second and third contracts, signing them in turn.

Larson watched as the three dark golden streaks of light lit up one after another, then reached out and closed the lid of the box. The seal clicked sharply as it tightened, a sound that was particularly clear in the quiet office.

On the morning of the fourth day after the contract was signed, Cohen and Larson boarded the shuttle to Wangshu. Cohen chose to let Larson see it because he knew that some things, once seen with one's own eyes, could never be pretended not to exist.

The shuttle traversed the daytime surface of Galos's primary star, heading towards the outer berth of Wangshu. Starlight streamed in through the portholes, casting a cool, white halo over the bulkhead. Wangshu's silhouette gradually magnified in view, its ion thrusters flickering on its back, maintaining its orbital inclination relative to the primary star. Ceramics armor plates covered the entire surface, the outline of the macrogun pedestals appearing and disappearing through the armor gaps, and the heat dissipation grilles of the light spear turrets gleaming with a dull metallic sheen in the starlight.

Looking out from the shuttle's porthole, the industrial crown of Garros unfolds before your eyes: the guide lights of the spaceport form an arc, occasionally a Metis-class mining ship sails into the passageway of the Wangshu furnace area, and the tracks of numerous heavy transport ships weave a dense net between the main star and Wangshu.

The shuttle passed through the guiding beams of the outer layer of the Wangshu (a type of ship) and slid into the berth passage in the dock area. As the airtight door closed behind it, a low-frequency humming sound seeped from the terrazzo steel lining of the dock cavity.

Larson followed Cohen along an upward-sloping passageway to an observation platform suspended above the dock's cavity. From here, one could overlook the entire dock area.

Looking down, the dock area of ​​Wangshu unfolds beneath his feet.

Twelve large dry docks lined up in a row, each large enough to accommodate a large cruiser or a ship of similar size; one dock was even large enough to hold the Fireseed. Countless beams of light shone down from the top of the dry dock area, cutting sharp lines of light and shadow into the armor plating.

Larson saw that two docks were already empty, with only the adamantite supports and the bases of the binding force fields remaining on the slipways, casting heavy shadows in the beams of searchlights. In the docks next to them, the hulls of ships still under construction were slowly taking shape—the arcs of welding torches flickered inside the hulls, each flash casting a moment of daylight on the armor plating before being swallowed by darkness.

He took out his portable field-of-view array and held it before his eyes, beginning to discern the moving black dots. They weren't people, but mechanical servants. These servants were distributed across every deck and every section of the keel, welding, inspecting, and moving. They roamed, climbed, and hovered on the hull, like metal beetles attached to the belly of a giant beast, all orchestrated by the same invisible hand. There were no collisions, no waiting, no hesitation—more than a dozen docks, millions of servants operating simultaneously, maintaining an almost organic and precise coordination.

A special type of giant transfer machine attaches to sections of massive metal and moves them from the material preparation area on the dock wall to the required work surface under low gravity. The sections are slowly joined together under the control of the giant transfer machine with its thrusters activated. The arc light of the welding torch flashes at the joints, and thousands of machines climb along its outer wall, like a swarm of metal insects stitching up a wound.

Larson didn't speak. He stood behind the railing of the observation platform, his hand resting on the cold metal bars. He had seen the Imperial Navy's shipyards, the shipbuilding facilities of the Forge World, the Lucis, the orbital docks of Agrippina, and even the docks of the Martian Iron Ring. Those places also had colossal structures, large scale, and tens of thousands of mechanics and craftsmen at work.

But the operation in those places is a different kind of complex, ritualistic, and slow process covered by layers of procedures.

Garros is different.

The pace here is faster and more compact. It's not the haste of rushing to meet deadlines, but the kind of speed where every step is so precise that there's no need to go back and check. Every weld, every piece of armor, every pipe is within the system's field of vision, monitored, recorded, and confirmed. There's no unnecessary waiting, no repetitive procedures; every minute of work is used where it's meant to be.

He stood there for a long time, looking down at the huge ship hulls and the ants-like machines clinging to them, trying to capture the outline of this industrial behemoth in the flickering of each welding arc.

"The construction process of these shipyards—" Larson began, his voice softened by the low-frequency hum of the shipyard cavities, "is it directly intervened and controlled by the Thinker Array?"

"The Thinkers assign tasks, and the servants carry them out," Cohen said. "Rest assured, the Thinkers of Garros have not violated the Crimson Protocol. We have a massive array of Thinkers, and now we also have a large team of Tech-Priests."

After Cohen finished speaking, he turned and entered the elevator at the back of the observation platform. Larson followed behind him, as the elevator descended, reducing the distance to the dock.

As they descended to about half their altitude, they passed a mid-level work platform extending laterally. Larson paused there, his gaze falling on the platform's edge—several crimson figures were operating a mobile monitoring terminal, the data streams on the screen mirroring the sections of the hull being joined together. From this height, the entire landscape several kilometers above was still visible, and the hull under construction below was so clear that the deck layers could be distinguished. Arcs of welding torches exploded kilometers away, casting brief patches of orange-red light on the armor plating before being swallowed by darkness. The workers on the mid-level platform were focused on their work, their attention entirely concentrated between the terminal screen and the hull sections, their tentacles moving rapidly across the interface panels, matching the data pushed by the mainframe with the physical objects one by one.

Larson glanced at it for a few seconds; the elevator was still descending.

As they descended to the level of the dock platform, the arc of the welding torch danced hundreds of meters away, casting brief patches of blue-white light on the armor plating. A hovercraft swept overhead, its belly-mounted sensor array humming continuously, pushing scan data to the nearest terminal.

The shuttle broke free from Wangshu's shadow and swooped down toward the daytime surface of Garros. Starlight streamed in through the portholes, casting a cold, white halo over the bulkhead. Larson leaned back in his seat; the extended field of view array had been removed from his sight. The dock inspection was over; he no longer needed to scrutinize the details.

He turned his head to look out the porthole, then paused for a moment.

Near the equator of the primary planet Garros, on a barren, gray-yellow wasteland, a colossal ring-shaped base is rising from the surface. Its diameter exceeds tens of kilometers, its terracotta frame protruding from the rock strata, casting a shadow spanning hundreds of kilometers in the low-angle sunlight. The base is far from complete—the upper part of the frame still reveals the cross-section of the adamantine truss, and hundreds of giant hoisting machines climb along the frame, the arcs of welding torches flickering on the structure, which is currently only a few thousand meters high. A heavy segmentation transport machine is slowly lowering an adamantine ring segment from low orbit, sliding it along a guide beam towards the top of the base.

Larson's gaze lingered for a moment on the shadow that stretched for hundreds of kilometers. He had seen the initial plans for the base in the Naval Liaison Office's engineering bulletin—a few months ago, there was only a ring of marker stakes on the ground, and the data panel described it as "Synchronous Orbit Space Elevator - Surface Anchored Base - Planning Phase".

He didn't turn to look at Cohen; his gaze remained fixed on the view outside the porthole. "The progress assessment in the project bulletin states that the foundation will be completed in four years and the overall structure in sixteen years," he said calmly, "but at the current pace of construction, it probably won't take ten years."

Cohen didn't respond. The shuttle continued flying along the guide beam, the silhouette of the base slowly rotating outside the porthole, the arc of the welding torch flickering on the hundreds-of-meters-high frame.

"The synchronous orbit berth will serve as an extension of the berths at Wangshu," Larson said. "It will be used to berth ships that require long-term resupply, as well as those types of ships that cannot easily access the internal docks of Wangshu. The scheduling will be handled by the orbit control department at Wangshu." He turned his gaze from the porthole and leaned back in his chair. "That's what the report says."

"Has the design plan for the main cable been finalized?" he asked.

"The cable core is segmented and reinforced with high-strength steel, and is wrapped with multiple layers of ceramic steel armor and radiation-resistant coating," Cohen said. "Each segment of the cable core is equipped with stress monitoring sensors during manufacturing, and a set of attitude adjustment thrusters is installed at intervals to counteract track disturbances. The synchronous track berth itself has an independent attitude control system that can be separated from Wangshu when necessary."

Larson nodded. These details weren't in the report. He'd seen too many similar projects reported by the Naval Logistics Department with timelines measured in decades, and whether they'd be completed on time depended on too many variables. But the foundation for Garros was already under construction on the surface, and progress was far ahead of the plans stated in the report.

The shuttle continued gliding along the guide beam toward the edge of Dome One. Larson's gaze shifted from the porthole to his hands resting on his knees. The fingertips of his prosthetic limbs still bore traces of wax rubbed off the seal of the sealed case—left from when he opened it to check its integrity.

The transparent armor of the dome spread out overhead, and sunlight filtered through the armor plates, casting warm white patches of light on the armrests of the seats. One could feel the even airflow of artificial air compressed from the circulating vents beneath the dome.

The shuttle landed on the helipad in the side sanctuary of the temple. Cohen stood up and walked down the gangway, his footsteps fading into the distance along the terracotta floor. The engines behind him went into standby mode, their low hum gradually fading into silence.

Larson stood up, descended the gangway, and walked down the corridor toward the naval liaison office. The corridor lights were as cold and white as ever, and the soles of his boots tapped rhythmically on the terracotta floor. Ahead was the door to the naval liaison office, and behind him was Garros's growing skeleton.