Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 177 CMC-500

The deep underground industrial area of ​​Garros.

Deep underground, there is no distinction between day and night; only the lighting panels periodically switch color temperatures to simulate the circadian rhythm. At this moment, they are operating in night mode, with dark red emergency lights spreading along the walls of the passage, like congealed blood vessels extending through the gaps in the adamantine skeleton.

Cohen stood in the center of the workshop.

Located in the core of the Garros underground industrial zone, this workshop spans nearly 10,000 square meters. Searchlights illuminate the central testing area from four directions, making it as bright as day. The walls are embedded with data terminals and monitoring panels, and nearly a hundred servo skulls float throughout the workshop, their optical lenses locked in the same direction.

There stood a suit of power armor.

Standing 2.6 meters tall, his entire body was covered in dark gold terracotta composite armor plates, their lines thick and flowing. The shoulder armor was wider than the CMC-300 model, its outward curves capable of deflecting incoming fire at large angles. The center of the breastplate was etched with the Garros gear and skull emblem, below which was a binary code: CMC-500A-P-001. The edges of the dark gold terracotta visor were etched with binary prayers, topped by a deep red plume—the traditional insignia of the elite Guardians. A deep red cloak hung from the inner slots of the shoulder armor, its edges embroidered with short phrases in low Gothic script in dark gold thread, layered several times, reaching below the knees.

With Garros becoming part of the Forge World, the approach to power armor development has completely changed. From the initial goal of enhancing individual combat capabilities to rival Astartes, the focus has shifted to maintaining combat effectiveness while simultaneously improving survivability, self-sufficiency, and endurance. Therefore, it is neither the originally planned Type 400 nor Type 600—the entire technological path has been rewritten.

Beside it, a three-meter-tall ceramic steel sealed box was open. Dozens of mechanical interfaces and attitude recognition sensors were embedded in the inner walls of the box, while the robotic arms on both sides were retracted into a standby position. After the attitude recognition sensors completed their scan, the robotic arms detached, flipped, and fastened the armor piece by piece from the support, completing the full fitting while the wearer was standing. If there was no living person inside the box, the armor could also automatically assemble and exit the box in an unloaded state.

Isfahan Duresa crouched before the access panel on the outside of his powersuit's left leg. An adamantite robotic arm extended from the cuff of his crimson robe, its fingertips tipped with probes connected to a thin data cable. The other end of the cable was plugged into a diagnostic port on the side of the powersuit's knee joint. His optics were locked onto the terminal screen, where data streamed rapidly in the cold light.

"The servo response curve of the left leg joint is normal, and the torque output matches the design value. The damping coefficient of the knee hydraulic buffer deviated by 3% in the low temperature simulation test due to the residual effect of the material's thermal expansion coefficient. It should return to zero after the second round of constant temperature cycling."

Cohen stood in front of a Thinker terminal at the edge of the testing area, the architecture diagram on the screen slowly rotating in the cold light.

As he listened to Duresa's report, the design trajectory of the armor simultaneously flashed through his mind—it had been conceived since the CMC-300 was deployed, undergoing hundreds of design iterations. The mass production bottleneck of the forehead mental barrier remained unresolved; that module was too intricate to be assembled using the robotic arms of a production line. Even now, it could only be manually adjusted by high-level technical priests, requiring several man-hours per set. The barrier module could be stored over time, but it couldn't be implanted in unauthorized personnel beforehand—that was impractical.

Two high-ranking technical priests stood nearby. The older one, Olivier, was in charge of designing the life support system architecture; he had a lean face and an old-fashioned optical lens embedded in his left eye socket. The younger one, Thorne, was responsible for integrating the neural interface and injection cavity; the data interface panel on the back of his head was still exposed.

Olivier's finger slid across the data panel: "The life support system has passed full-power operation tests. Air tightness, carbon dioxide filtration, and fluid circulation recovery are all within the rated range. The automated drug delivery program in the injection chamber has completed twelve simulated sequences, and the timing and dosage of the resistance injection are correct."

Cohen's attention lingered briefly on Olivier's report before returning to the power armor. The core function of the mental barrier was to filter psionic contamination and warp whispers—it didn't need to be directly attached to the skull to function; it only needed to establish a filter layer between the wearer's consciousness and the external psionic environment. By enlarging it and embedding it into the armor's interlayer, indirectly connecting it to the wearer's consciousness via neural ports, the mass production bottleneck disappeared. The power armor's armor plates could be mass-produced on a production line, and the enlarged version of the mental barrier could be packaged into standard modules for mass production.

This idea solved the mass production problem, but raised a new one: the armor must be worn at all times. Once removed, the amplified mental barrier breaks down. Therefore, the life support system must be optimized to the extreme—the wearer should not need to remove the armor, nor should they need to remove the helmet. In the wet-body mode, it's even impossible to remove the helmet. All functional needs are met within the armor, handled by an automatic circulation system. The armor becomes part of the body, and the body becomes the container for the armor.

Thorne stood on the back of the power armor, looking up at the seam between the neck armor and the spinal armor. "The average signal delay of the neural connectors is within 0.03 milliseconds, which meets the standard. However, the contact points of the spinal cord interface are twice as dense as expected—the wearer must undergo spinal modification, otherwise the initial signal strength will be insufficient." He paused, "But the wet-switch input mode for the brain does not have this problem."

Cohen thought of the Dreadnoughts—those iron coffins unearthed beneath Istvan III, buried for millennia. But what he created wasn't the Dreadnought. The Dreadnought was a cage, its inhabitants unable to leave: the Type 500 was an optional extension, which the wearer could remove at any time or choose to never remove. Its combat capabilities were roughly equivalent to the Type 300. This wasn't a firepower upgrade, but a survival upgrade. More robust life support capabilities, a longer operational cycle, and simplified logistical burdens—especially for the medical department. Severely wounded soldiers no longer needed life support pods; simply remove their brains, place them in a pre-heated Type 500, and activate full-power life support mode. The body could be discarded, but the brain could continue fighting.

"Have you measured the signal strength of the brain's input pattern?" Cohen asked.

"It ran successfully." Thorne pulled up another page of data. "The wet component core passed all waveform verifications and is completely in line with design expectations."

Duresa squatted in front of the inspection panel, not looking up, and said, "The brain input mode eliminates the need for biomechanical adaptation—it doesn't require matching limb length, joint range, or body shape differences. A standard wet component, a set of universal interface protocols, is much more efficient."

Olivier put down the data panel: "But full-body lying mode has irreplaceable value. Experienced soldiers, wounded soldiers who need to be saved, missions that require complete tactical judgment—they can't just have one brain left."

"Both models are complete," Cohen said. "It's no longer a matter of choosing one over the other."

The brain input mode of the Type 500 is fundamentally different from that of the wet component core of the mech servant—it is not a downgrade of function, but a replacement of the carrier. The wearer's complete personality, memories, and judgment are all preserved. It is not creating a mech servant, but providing consciousness with a new container that will not age or be torn apart. Of course, when necessary, this can also be the shell of an armed mech servant wet component, depending on whether it is a war of attrition or an elite war.

Adamantite armor frame, ceramic steel composite armor plates—this is the standard configuration of the 500A model. The all-adamantite 500E model is reserved for elite guards and special operations units. The reactor core has increased power and is built into the chest armor interlayer, with cooling vents extending along both sides of the spine. The full-body reclining mode still requires neural reattachment surgery to the back of the head and spine, but does not require amputation or organ replacement—it simply "connects" the wearer to the armor's control system. The brain-input mode completely bypasses the surgical procedure, directly inserting the wet core into the interface slot. The same armor can be worn by a complete person or driven by an independent brain.

Mass production plan: The first batch will be deployed to the Stormtroopers and Phoenix Legion, followed by all elite regiments of the Faith Guard. Production for regular troops will be postponed until production ramps up. The medical department's life support pods will be replaced by a spare parts depot for the Type 500.

Duresa straightened up, turning the optical lens toward Cohen: "The left leg damping offset will return to zero during the constant temperature cycle, no intervention is needed. The next point is the sustainability of the reactor's maximum power output—that will take a relatively long time."

"Full power test," Cohen said.

The workshop fell silent again. Duresa returned to the access panel and connected to the next set of data. Olivier pulled up the reactor test protocol. Thorne plugged the cable into the power output on the back of the power armor and began releasing power at maximum. The sound of the current pulses was deep and even. The Thinker's power readings climbed, and the waveforms on the wall display jumped in the cold light.

Cohen looked at the power armor that stood silently.

He archived these thoughts one by one from his mind, then brought his attention back to the testing site. Durreza was still in front of the terminal, with Olivier and Thorne on either side of the power armor, checking the next set of parameters item by item.

Just then, the airtight door at the entrance of the workshop slid open.

There was no prior notice. The duty officer's authority was insufficient to stop her. When Vera entered, the hem of her crimson, fourth-tier technical priest robe was still being pushed by the airflow behind her, and the transceiver array on the back of her head was in standby mode, with six extremely thin data antennas retracted into the base. Her steps were faster than usual, but her landing was still steady, the soles of her boots tapping out a short, rhythmic beat on the adamantite floor.

Cohen didn't turn around. He knew who it was just by the sound of footsteps.

Duresa glanced up, the optical lens zoomed out slightly, then locked onto the terminal screen again. Olivier and Thorne exchanged a look, then continued with their work. The rhythm in the workshop remained unchanged; the white light of the searchlights still shone on the dark gold power armor.

Vera stopped three steps behind Cohen. She didn't speak immediately, but instead glanced around the workshop at the nearly three-meter-tall power armor, the floating servo skulls, the scrolling test data on the terminal screen, and Duresa crouching in front of the maintenance panel. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the dark gold armor before returning to the back of Cohen's head.

"Lucai's interstellar communication. Just arrived." Her voice was lower than usual, but not intentionally so; she was simply stating a fact. "Highest level of encryption."

Cohen turned around. He looked at Vera but didn't say anything.

Vera handed him a data tablet. Cohen took it and pressed his thumb on the sensor area. The screen lit up, and the decoded text unfolded in the cold light. His gaze swept from the first line to the last, without pausing or rereading. Then he closed the data tablet and placed it on the Thinker terminal's desktop.

Vera stared at his face, trying to find some trace of emotion. There was no surprise, shock, panic—nothing at all. His expression was as calm as if he had just received a confirmation letter for the allocation of supplies.

"Rellano and Arek have been taken away by the Custodians," she said. "To Terra. Rellano says he's going to see the Emperor."

"and then?"

"The Phoenix Legion is withdrawing from the front lines in an orderly manner. Rellano has ordered Lucé to take over command. The Phoenix Legion originally joined the expedition as a strategic reserve, with the rearguard duties being handled by the most elite companies, and the main force has already disengaged." She turned to the second page of the data panel. "Lucé's assessment is: the withdrawal can be completed within the scheduled time, and the losses are manageable. The Phoenix Legion will return to Garros within a few weeks."

Cohen nodded. He looked up from the data panel and back at the dark gold power armor. His voice was calm, as if he were saying something he had expected long ago: "Understood."

Vera looked at him. A few seconds of silence followed. Then her gaze shifted from Cohen's face to the massive, dark gold shadow being tested. She knew this document; it was frequently mentioned in reports, and the Apostolic Guard had high hopes for it.

She looked away and focused her gaze back on Cohen.

"You knew all along." This wasn't a question. "You knew Rellano would be taken away."

Cohen didn't answer immediately. He stood there for a while, watching Duresa enter parameters at the terminal, watching Thorne climb onto the test platform to check the locking mechanism of the helmet visor, and watching Olivier squat at the feet of the power armor to adjust the drug delivery valve of the injection chamber.

Then he walked to the observation window on one side of the workshop—the darkness outside the window was the rock strata deep beneath Garros.

"You already know the answer."

Vera walked behind him. She didn't stand next to him, but rather half a step to his side and behind, like someone waiting for an answer—not putting pressure on him, but not leaving either.

"Does the Emperor know about you?"

"Sure."

"Because of Relano?"

“Rellano is the bridge,” Cohen said. “You can probably guess his background. The Emperor knows him, and he knows me.”

Vera was silent for a few seconds. "And what about Great Sage Enpu?"

Cohen did not answer immediately. He turned around and looked again at the dark rock formations outside the window.

"Enpu Shakra must be real," he said. "He is the Great Sage of Punoris who forged the world. When Cohen is not here, Great Sage Enpu is here. Remember that. Even if the Emperor were to rise again, he would not deny it."

He paused for a moment.

"Externally, he is the source of Garros' technology. Internally, he is merely a data core that needs to be maintained."

Vera's voice lowered: "I knew it, it was you too."

"It was me." Cohen did not evade the question. "Enpu was both a cover and a legal basis. Without the name of Punoris, Garros could not have obtained a legitimate identity as a forging world within the Imperial system. He allowed me to stand before Lucis and Mars, instead of being crushed as an illegally rising frontier power."

"He will be in Garros, and I have never truly left Garros." The words were spoken in a very low voice.

Vera was silent for a few seconds. She looked at his profile—a face she had seen for years, from Lucius to Garros. She thought she knew him well enough. But now she knew that she only knew the layer he was willing to show.

"Who exactly are you?" Her voice was softer than before. "I don't believe you really came from Amoghasiddton."

.

Cohen didn't turn around. His gaze remained fixed on the dark rock formations outside the window, stretched open by the adamantine skeleton. He remained silent for a long time. Then he spoke, his voice even lower than before, as if it came from some deeper place: "I come from Earth. Roughly corresponding to Terra tens of thousands of years ago."

Vera clenched her fist at her side, then relaxed it. She didn't speak.

"Earth." Cohen's voice was flat, devoid of any reminiscence, simply stating a fact. "The Earth has mountains, water, oceans, and forests. The sky is blue, and the sun feels warm on the skin. People live under the sun, not under a dome, but in real, unfiltered sunlight. That solar system has a moon and Mars."

He paused for a moment.

"I don't know if that Earth is the same as Terra as it is now, and I hope it isn't."

Vera's breath hitched. She knew what she was hearing. It wasn't anything written in the Imperial history textbooks.

"Did you know that Terra is now home to trillions of people? The oceans have dried up, the mountains have been leveled, and the earth's crust has been drilled through."

She didn't know what Terra was like; she had never been there. But she had read about it in the holy scriptures of the state religion: the earthly abode of emperors, the sacred Terra, the center of the human empire. The scriptures described it as a radiant holy city, a golden palace, and the emperor's throne.

"Did you grow up in Terra?" she asked.

“No, I grew up on Earth,” Cohen said. “I still don’t know why I ended up in Amighadoon.”

He turned to look at Vera. His eyes held no feigned profundity, nor any trace of deliberate emotional control. He simply looked at her and said in the same calm tone he had used when describing Earth, "Vera, remember to protect Garros. It will become increasingly important in the future."

The servo skulls in the workshop continued to patrol along their preset tracks, the white light of the searchlights still falling on the shoulder armor of the dark gold power armor. The busy figures of the three high-ranking technical priests became the background.

Vera was looking at the background differently now. Her fingers clenched at the side seam of her robe, then relaxed. The movement lasted for about two seconds. Then she looked up into Cohen's eyes. She noticed that the edges of his eyes were slightly redder than usual, and his breathing was slower than before, as if he had kept those words somewhere for a long time and was just taking them out and placing them on the table.

"We've discussed it privately. Within our inner circle of a few dozen people, the issue of secrecy is at a death level," she said, her voice lower than before. "You're the same kind of person as the Emperor."

Cohen was silent for a moment.

"No. I am not like the Emperor." His tone held no eagerness to correct her, only a calm, factual statement. "He is not like most humans. I am not."

He paused for a moment.

"I am just like you. I get hungry, tired, bored, and regretful for wrong choices. I am a consciousness that needs sleep. I am not a god, not the Primarch, not any being beyond humanity. I am just a lost person with a few tools, choosing to live at every possible moment."

Vera looked at him without speaking. Her silence was a process of processing what he had just said.

“You’ve been around me long enough,” Cohen continued. “The Director Garros you see, who can fix everything, predict everything, and never make a mistake, isn’t the whole me. That’s the mask I wear to maintain order. And the person behind that mask, just like you, needs rest, needs to eat, and needs to be alone in the dead of night.”

He paused for a moment.

"Your inner circle already knows about this—including you. I make choices every day, some right, some wrong. I'm just trying to make the wrong ones as insignificant as possible."

Vera stood there. A very short, cold flash of light appeared on the back of her head's transceiver array, which was in standby mode, before it retracted. She looked into Cohen's eyes for a long time.

"So, will you get married? I mean—Terra 20,000 years ago, people got married. Will you?"

Cohen paused for a moment, and his lips twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"Is that your understanding of Terra from 20,000 years ago?"

"You're dodging my questions," Vera said.

"Terra did indeed marry 20,000 years ago," Cohen said, "but that's not the point."

"So what's the key point?"

"The point is that I'm here now, and every year, every month I live here, I'm making choices." He looked at Vera, "and none of those choices point to 'living like a normal person.'"

Vera looked at him, and after a moment spoke: "When you modified me, I requested that most of my human body be preserved, and that mechanical replacements be minimized as much as possible. You agreed without hesitation."

Cohen did not answer.

"I asked you why, and you said it was my request." Vera's voice wasn't loud, but she didn't back down. "Is that really true?"

Cohen remained silent for a long time.

"You asked," he said. "I agreed."

"What if I ask for something else?" Vera asked.

Cohen looked at her. The white light from the workshop's searchlights shone on the terracotta floor between them, casting shadows in the opposite direction. He spoke in a slightly lower voice than before: "That depends on what it is."

Vera didn't press the matter. She looked away, watching the dark gold power armor gleam heavily under the searchlight, before returning her gaze to Cohen's eyes.

"What do we do now?" she asked. "Will the Emperor let you go to Terra?"

"Yes," Cohen said, "and it will be soon. The Imperial Guard didn't take Relano and Arek; they took a signal. It will take some time for the message to reach me, and some time before anyone comes looking for me."

He turned around and faced the testing area deep inside the workshop again. The dark gold power armor still stood in the same spot, its red-tasseled helmet gleaming with a deep red halo in the white light of the searchlight.

"Once the message arrives, someone will come."

"A few weeks? A few months?"

"The journey of the Imperial Guard ships from Gologosa to Terra—including warp travel—will take about several weeks. Once they reach Terra, their assessment will depend on the completeness of the Emperor's information, and the messengers will then need even longer to depart from Terra." He paused. "I estimate it will take another three to four months."

Vera paused for a moment. "In other words, starting now, in a few months, the Imperial Guard will appear in the orbit of Garros."

"inevitable."

"Are you ready?"

"I'm preparing." Cohen's gaze fell on the power armor. "Everything that needs to be done will be completed within this time. The exploration and expansion plan of the Web Path, the scheduling of countless production lines in Garros, the expansion of the Guardians of the Faith and the integration of them into the Web Path, the finalization of the Type 500—all of these must be in a state of autonomous operation before the messenger arrives."

He turned to look at Vera.

"I can't hand over a forging world that's not even finished to a future with an uncertain future. So everything has to accelerate, even faster than it is now."

Vera nodded. The transceiver array on the back of her head flashed coldly under the light; she was writing Cohen's words into her data record.

"I understand," she said.

Cohen didn't continue the conversation and walked back to the power armor. Duresa's optical lens turned towards Cohen.

"Director, the second round of testing for the constant temperature cycle has just been completed, and the first phase of the reactor's full power output test data shows that stability is within the expected range."

"A complete test is required, covering all stages. Once the test is completed, submit a full evaluation report to my desk."

Duresa's optical lens lit up briefly. "Roger that."

Thorne climbed down from the testing platform, clutching a data board in his hand; the data cable was still connected to the interface inside the power armor helmet. "The neural port signal delay has all converged within the design value. The initial signal strength of the spinal cord interface reached the preset threshold in full-body lying mode."

"What about the mass production plan?" Cohen asked.

Duresa continued, "The production line design for the Model 500 has been finalized, and the existing Model 300 production line can be converted within a few months. The existing Model 120 will continue production—it currently occupies the largest portion of the powered armor production capacity."

He paused briefly, then confirmed, "Therefore, the production ramp-up of the 500 model will be relatively slow; it's only a supplement, not a replacement."

"Let's proceed as planned. The future direction is to focus on the full-scale production and large-scale storage of the 500A model."

Duresa's optical lens retracted slightly before regaining focus. "Understood," he said, then crouched back down in front of the access panel.

The testing continued. Duresa entered the final set of data. Olivier and Thorne returned to their respective positions to readjust the parameters that could only be calibrated manually. The servo skull cruised along a preset trajectory under the workshop dome, the data lights of the optical lenses forming a moving patch of light in the dim light.

Cohen stood in the center of the workshop, watching the dark gold power armor stand silently in the white light of the searchlight. The deep red plume at the top of the helmet swayed slightly in the circulating wind, and the cloak hung down from the inside of the shoulder armor.

He watched for a while, then turned and walked towards the workshop exit. He paused at the door, didn't turn back, and said to those behind him, "You should go and rest."

Vera stood to his side and slightly behind, without moving. "You too."

Cohen didn't reply. He stepped out, the airtight door sliding shut behind him. The white light from the searchlight narrowed into a thin line through the crack in the door, then disappeared. The workshop fell silent again.

Duresa straightened up from the access panel, turned the optical lens toward the door, paused for a moment, then looked away. He crouched down again and plugged the data cable into the next diagnostic port. Thorne and Olivier didn't look up, but that brief silence was enough for them to confirm: something was changing.

The dark gold power armor still stood in place, the deep red plume of the red-tasseled helmet hanging down the outside of the shoulder armor, and the low Gothic phrase embroidered in dark gold thread on the edge of the cloak was faintly legible in the cold light: "In the name of the Emperor. In the will of the Om Messiah."