Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 158 Ice Layers and Alliances 942.M41

From orbit, Galos 6 appears as a grayish-white sphere completely encased in methane ice. With a diameter approaching 20,000 kilometers, its thin atmosphere, composed primarily of nitrogen and methane, is held firmly by gravity 30% stronger than the gravitational standard, shimmering with a hazy glow under the cold light of distant stars. There are no clouds, no storms, only an eternally still frozen plain.

The shuttle landed on the refinery's landing platform. The platform was maintained above freezing by an underground heating system; methane frost melted and froze at the edges, forming a ring of translucent ice crystals. Cohen descended the gangway, his adamantite prosthetic boots landing on the terracotta platform with a short, metallic echo. The thermometer outside his mask read -170 degrees Celsius. At this distance, Garros's star was merely a dim, silvery-gray dot, radiating almost no heat.

Xavier Ambrose was already waiting at the edge of the platform. A fourth-tier technical priest, the chief engineer of Garros 6, he wore a thick, insulated outer robe over a deep red robe, the edges of which were adorned with fine white frost crystals. Behind him followed four high-tier technical priests, their optical lenses glowing a steady, dark red standby light in the low-light environment, like four small, floating lamps.

"Foundry Director. Welcome to Garros 6." Xavier's voice was slightly distorted due to the low temperature, but his tone remained steady.

The elevator shaft leading to the mining area is located underground in the main building of the refinery. As the elevator car descends, the reinforced ceramic steel frame walls flash past the portholes, and the emergency lights cast a downward-extending chain of light in the dim shaft. The air temperature slowly rises from -170 degrees Celsius at the surface, stabilizing at around -50 degrees Celsius by the time it reaches a depth of 1,000 meters underground. The main mining area is entirely underground, utilizing geothermal energy to maintain the operating temperature; the current mining depth has reached 7,200 meters.

The elevator came to a stop. As the heavy, airtight doors slid open, a dry smell, a mixture of geothermal heat and metallic dust, rushed into the cabin. Cohen walked a kilometer along the main passage to the excavation face. It was a massive cavity several kilometers in diameter, its dome supported by two-meter-thick terracotta steel lining. High-powered searchlights cascaded down from above, illuminating the exposed rock strata. Heavy drilling machinery lined up along the excavation face, diamond drill bits steadily advancing against the rock walls, emitting a deep, rhythmic roar. The vibrations were transmitted through the rock strata to the metal platform beneath Cohen's feet. Broken rock fragments slid down and were caught by high-temperature conveyor belts, transported to the crushing section behind. Mineral dust suspended in the searchlight beams, like slowly falling metallic snowflakes.

Xavier pointed to the rock formations below: "The strata are mainly composed of gneiss and granite, rich in iron, copper, tin..."

Common metals such as lead and zinc. There are also high-quality bauxite deposits and large-scale ilmenite veins. Nearly 30% of the titanium in the precision-engineered structural armor used by the Garros fleet comes from here.

Cohen's gaze swept over the exposed ore veins. Dark mineral bands were embedded in the grayish-white rock layers, like metallic blood vessels winding through the rock mass. His consciousness extended through the bio-interface, and the spectra of the common elements lit up one by one in his perception: the dense distribution of iron, the discrete veins of copper, the high-concentration areas of titanium. The data was quickly compiled in his processor.

What is the annual production volume?

Xavier opened the data panel and swiped his finger across the screen to bring up the production curve: "The total mining output of the entire mining area has exceeded 10 billion tons, of which about 70% is construction metals such as iron, copper, and aluminum, and 20% is industrial raw materials such as titanium and lead. The ore grade is stable, with no signs of expected depletion, and can be mined stably for at least three hundred years."

Cohen didn't respond. These veins were enough to support Garros's regular metal needs for hundreds of years. He silently marked several geological formations with the highest concentration of reserves in his mind.

"What about rare elements?"

Xavier's optical lens tilted slightly: "No. No veins of refined gold or any rare elements were found on the surface or in the shallow layers. Deep core samples also confirm this."

As expected. If there were adamantite on Garros 6, it would have been discovered by Imperial exploration teams thousands of years ago.

Cohen paused for a moment: "What about the third workshop of the refinery? I noticed that its output registration type is different from the other workshops."

Xavier's optical lens zoomed out quickly. "The third work area isn't inside the mining cavity. It's deeper, about four hundred meters below the ice base. That's a rare ice mineral layer."

Cohen did not speak.

"Mining is much more difficult than with conventional veins. The ice base is as hard as plastic steel, and the working window is extremely short in low-temperature environments. Each drilling machine can only advance less than two meters per shift. However, the output is a high-pressure gas-liquid mixture, mainly composed of methane and ethane. After being cracked and processed in a refinery, it can be converted into crude flammable materials. Currently, the annual output, converted into ship fuel, can cover about 30% of the current consumption of the Garros fleet."

Xavier paused, his optical lens clicking. "The No. 3 cracking workshop at the second refinery has been installed and commissioned, and is dedicated to rare ice processing. Production ramp-up is underway, and I plan to increase production coverage to 40% within six months."

Cohen nodded. Tire, the lifeblood of the Imperial Navy. A mining planet that could provide both conventional metals and strategic fuel meant double the weight on the Forging World's resource list. He turned back, his gaze returning to the mining face. The dark mineral belts stretched endlessly in the searchlights, while deeper beneath the ice, another stable resource chain was taking shape.

"Expand the exploration area," he said. "I need a complete assessment of ice reserves. The expansion plan for the third work area should be prioritized."

Xavier's optical lens lit up briefly. "Understood."

After the inspection, the shuttle took off. The grayish-white, icy planet gradually shrank in the field of vision, the refinery lights forming a small, warm patch in the methane haze. Suddenly, the communicator beeped. Ellis's voice came through the speaker, slightly distorted by interference: "Director. The Great Khan of the White Scar Legion, Kublai Khan, is personally visiting. The messenger ship is expected to arrive in three days."

Cohen's fingers paused on the armrest. "Notify the Temple to prepare for reception according to the highest protocol of a Space Marine Chapter."

Three days later, Cohen stood on the steps of the main entrance to the temple.

As White Scar's transport ship landed at the edge of the plaza, twilight was filtering through the transparent armor plates of the dome. The ship was painted off-white, with the crescent moon emblem of the steppe etched on its sides, its paint gleaming a dull silver-gray in the low-angle starlight. Unlike the standard Imperial transport ships, its lines were not boxy; it was longer and lower, clearly designed for high-speed penetration and low-altitude maneuverability.

The gangway descended. The figure at the front was over two and a half meters tall. The ceramic steel armor plates of his meticulously crafted power armor gleamed a cold white in the twilight. The crescent moon emblem of the steppe was etched on his shoulder and breastplates—the marks of wind erosion left fine lines on the metal surface, like rocks polished by the desert for millennia. The edges of his deep red cloak were embroidered with battle maxims in Chagatai with gold thread. When a corner was lifted by the swirling wind, the fine stitching on the lining was revealed—a characteristic of the hand-sewn craftsmanship of the Chogris steppe.

He wasn't wearing a helmet. His skin was tanned a deep brown by the star Chogris, his cheekbones were high, and his jawline was well-defined.

An old scar ran across his jawline, sloping diagonally from below his eye to the edge of his chin, its edges smoothed by time. His eyes were deep brown, and as he descended the gangway, his gaze swept across the temple facade. Cohen noticed his eyes lingering on every detail: the height of the massive adamantine gate, the depth of the binary inscriptions etched on the doorframe, the number of optical lenses on the Castellan mechs at the entrance. He was counting rapidly, like any warrior who had survived countless ambushes, completing a full situational assessment in the very first second of entering a new space.

He walked up to Cohen, the distance between them exactly the standard arm span of a precision-engineered power suit. He didn't speak, completing the assessment first before turning his gaze back to Cohen's face.

"Foreman of Foundry." His voice was low, with the deep, guttural quality characteristic of Chagatai. "The winds of Chogris never pass through the air of strangers. But I've heard that the winds of Garros blow in a different direction."

Cohen performed a full gear salute. "It is an honor for Garros to have the Great Khan visit in person."

"I came in person because there are some things that are not suitable to be said by a messenger." Kublai Khan did not return the greeting. The Great Khan of White Scars did not bow to anyone—but his right hand moved slightly at his side, then opened half an inch toward Cohen. In the etiquette of Chogris, that was not a handshake, but a sign that "I see you."

As he strode toward the temple entrance, the hem of his cloak swept across the edge of the steps. The wear patterns on the soles of his boots were exactly the same as those of riders on the Chogris steppe—the forefoot was much more worn than the heel, evidence of years of maintaining a forward-leaning center of gravity while moving at high speeds.

Two white-scarred warriors followed behind him. They adjusted their strides in unison as they crossed the threshold of the audience hall, each step landing perfectly in sync. The one on the left paused for a moment on the inside of the doorway, tapped the frame with his knuckles, and then followed—

The white scar is an ancient custom, a safety check before entering a new space.

When Kublai Khan sat down across the long table, his posture was unlike any Space Marine Cohen had ever seen. He didn't sit upright with his back against the chair; instead, he leaned slightly forward, his weight on his knees, as if he could stand up at any moment. It wasn't the alertness of battle, but the instinct of a steppe rider. His self-glow finally fell on the statue of Om Messiah, the dark golden psionic core reflecting two tiny points of light in his pupils.

"Forging Director," he finally spoke, "I've heard rumors about you in Chogris. The heir to the Punoris Forging World from the Great Expedition ten thousand years ago. In White Scar's files, Punoris has always been our main supplier of military equipment and a flank force accompanying us on our expeditions."

His self-illumination withdrew from the icon and fell on Cohen's face.

"If I am fortunate enough to meet the Great Sage Enpu, I think everything will become clear."

Cohen remained silent for a moment, his heart churning—Phonolis was merely a pretext he had chosen from the old documents, a forged world that happened to have been destroyed during the Great Crusade and by Horus. He hadn't expected it to actually have any connection with White Scar. "Unfortunately, the last time the Great Sage awoke was a month ago. According to the pattern, the next awakening will be quite long, and the first priority upon awakening will be data processing; he won't be receiving visitors."

"That was ten thousand years ago, and our Primarch has already disappeared. Garros can choose not to inherit the deal, and White Scar is prepared for that."

Cohen looked into those deep brown eyes: "Military equipment? I don't think that's a problem. Garros still has data on some equipment from the Great Expedition. As long as there's a corresponding resource exchange, it's possible."

Kublai Khan leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Cohen's face for a moment: "The quartermaster with the white scar will liaise with your trade department. We have many subsidiary groups, all qualified to inherit this deal."

Cohen sat up straight: "Gallos, as a forging world, providing the Imperial Space Marine chapters with necessary military equipment is both reasonable and necessary as part of the deal."

He paused for a moment: "As for the expedition issue you mentioned, it no longer exists."

"No, our chapter is lobbying within the Empire. We want to launch a second expedition to the Gulf of Damocles." Kublai Khan's tone was calm but more direct. "The hatred of the White Scars needs to be washed away with blood, and the Brotherhood's losses must be repaid."

"Is this your true purpose? Garros has just returned from the battlefield of Invernus, I'm afraid—"

"Your Excellency, Director of Foundry, I understand your concerns. Garros has just finished a battle and needs rest; White Scar never rushes its allies when they are exhausted. But I also believe in the Tau's technical data and potential resources—and White Scar's friendship—"

This is something you should seriously consider. If Garros is willing to lead your Titan Legion and the Guardians to answer White Scar's call, then Garros will be White Scar's brother. Garros will need us one day too.

Cohen was silent for a moment. "Great Khan, how long has it taken to prepare for the expedition?"

"Ten years from now, we will sound the horn in Chogris."

"We need to discuss this internally. We'll let you know when we have a result," Cohen said, pausing for a moment. A fragmented image surfaced from the depths of his consciousness—not a complete memory, but just a shadow, a name, a coordinate worn away by time. 943. Near Chogris. He vaguely remembered something he'd heard: this Khan would disappear during the battle with the Dark Eldar in 943.M41, possibly taken to one of Gamor's arenas.

"The winds over Chegris blow in a different direction than elsewhere," he said. "If you're hunting something, watch out for things reaching out from the shadows. Speed ​​can evade most pursuers, but not all hunters in the dark."

Kublai Khan narrowed his eyes, looking at Cohen for a long time. "Thank you for the reminder. Chogris will remember your friendship."

"There's likely a web crossing near Chogris," Cohen said. "The Great Sage Enpu has research data on webs. If the Great Khan allows, I'd like to take a team to Chogris. I'm also very curious about the web, those damned gutter rats."

Kublai Khan was silent for a moment: "Forge Director. White Scar's curiosity about the Net Path surpasses that of any other imperial power."

Cohen understood: "If nothing unexpected happens, when the White Scars sound the war horn, Garros will stand on the flank as a responder. This is Garros's way of showing respect to a Khan who is willing to personally travel across half a star system to visit."

Kublai Khan stood up. He walked to the base of the statue of Om Messiah and looked up at it for a moment. The dark golden light of the psionic core fell on his face, which was covered with old scars.

Then he turned around.

"White Scar isn't used to being in debt. But I'll remember what you gave me."

He extended his arms, crossing his forearms and touching his wrists together—an ancient ritual for steppe riders to confirm their alliance. Cohen stood up and extended his arms in return. The adamantite armor and the precision-engineered power armor's forearms met in a cold light, producing a short, sharp metallic clang.

Kublai Khan loosened his grip and turned to walk towards the door. As he reached the door, Cohen's voice came from behind him.

"I will be setting off for Choglis in a few weeks."

Kublai Khan paused, turning his head slightly. Dusk filtered through the cracks at the entrance to the audience hall, casting a thin, dark golden light on his scarred profile. He looked at Cohen for a few seconds, his deep brown eyes narrowing slightly, then said nothing and strode out.

Two white-scarred warriors followed behind him. The edges of their cloaks swept across the doorframe, their crimson shadows trailing across the terracotta floor before disappearing around the corner of the corridor.