Warhammer: Rebuilding the Golden Age Starting with Farming.

An in-depth analysis report from STC caught his attention.

The toxin residue we just analyzed is C12H18Cl2N2O.

This chemical formula was matched to a source in STC's database.

Matching result: Military-grade fungal inhibitor (Model: Extinction-IV).

Manufacturer: Helios Pharmaceuticals Group.

[Purpose: To clean stubborn parasitic fungi from starship ventilation ducts, or for scorched earth tactics.]

Andy's electronic eyes narrowed slightly.

Helios Pharmaceuticals Group?

Military-grade model?

This thing isn't something those makeshift workshops in the bottom nest that mess around with flasks could produce; it's a strategic material under strict control.

Usually, only planetary defense forces or large families with franchises can obtain them.

How did this thing end up in a dilapidated fungal farm in the bottom nest?

If it were just a fight between gangs, they wouldn't use such high-cost methods.

Gangs will only send people to kill you, rob you, and then take over your land to continue growing mushrooms.

The fact that the person who poisoned the land shows that they didn't care about the land's output at all.

It could even be said that their goal was to completely destroy this land and make it impossible for the people here to survive.

Someone is deliberately clearing out the population of the bottom nest.

why?

Is it to make room for something else?

Or is it to cover up some secret?

Andy was reminded of the gene-stealing cult marked as "extremely dangerous" on the STC map.

If these cunning individuals have already infiltrated the upper levels of the nest, then it is logically sound for them to use such methods to weaken the human resistance in the lower nest.

Or perhaps this was just a "low-end population cleanup" operation that the useless governor decided on on a whim?

In either case, this means that Andy's farming plan is not as secure as he imagined.

Beneath this dark lair, even deeper undercurrents surge.

Andy did not tell Roger about this discovery.

Telling him will only make him more panicked, and he might even do something stupid.

"Let's go."

Andy strode out of the farm that was filled with the aura of death.

"The air here makes me nauseous. Let's go back and sign the contract."

Chapter 15 Forgotten (Please continue reading)

After the power generation contract was signed, the two-kilometer-long aluminum core high-voltage cable was erected in just thirty hours.

As the massive knife switch was closed, the lights in the shelter flickered briefly before settling back down.

It is no longer the dim, flickering light caused by insufficient voltage, but a bright, stable industrial light without any flicker.

Immediately afterwards, the three enormous bioreactors emitted an unprecedented hum.

A stable 380-volt industrial voltage was connected to the heating rod and stirring motor.

Previously, when geothermal power generation was used, the voltage fluctuated, causing the temperature curve inside the reactor to be like a roller coaster. If not careful, the bacteria would become dormant due to excessively low temperature or be killed by excessively high temperature.

The constant temperature control system is now online.

This means that the production of starch balls is not a simple addition, but an exponential multiplication.

As long as the raw materials are available, these three reactors can run around the clock, continuously producing high-calorie white food.

Electricity is order, electricity is efficiency.

Standing in the newly built power distribution room, Andy looked at the row of green indicator lights, and the anxiety in his heart finally dissipated a lot.

He walked up to the dedicated charging station and inserted one of his fingers into it.

Nothing makes an Ironman feel more at ease than being able to charge at full power anytime, anywhere.

Beside him, Gamma-9 was holding a small brush and reverently applying holy oil to the newly installed transformer casing.

He painted very slowly, each stroke like a work of art, while muttering to himself.

Seeing the old priest's serious expression, Andy finally couldn't hold back his questions any longer.

Gamma-9.

Andy pulled out his finger, and the surge of energy made his voice even louder.

"You're a legitimate technical priest, aren't you?"

Gamma-9 stopped what it was doing, turned around, and looked at Andy with a puzzled expression through its single eye.

“Of course, Your Excellency.” Gamma-9 straightened his chest and pointed to the nearly worn-out gear emblem on his tattered robe. “I am a junior priest officially ordained by the Forge Mechanical Order.”

"Then how did you end up like this?"

Andy pointed to the dilapidated surroundings.

"Logically, you should be staying in one of the factories in Zhongchao or Shangchao, where at least you'd have clean water to drink and spare parts to replace."

"How could they have led a group of refugees to this corner of the Underhive, a place even mutants despise, and spent so many years guarding a nearly broken recycling machine?"

This is not only Andy's biggest question these past few days, but also a clear logical flaw.

Although the Church of Mechanics has a strict internal hierarchy, it values ​​its technical personnel highly and would never allow a priest with a formal position to end up on the streets.

Gamma-9 paused for a moment, and the red light in its eyes dimmed.

He remained silent for a long time before slowly speaking.

"Because... there were no orders."

"No orders?" Andy asked, puzzled.

"Thirty years ago, this was the No. 492 air purification station, the core node of the entire 7th Industrial Zone."

The sound of Gamma-9 carries a hint of melancholy and nostalgia.

"Later, it seems that the higher authorities made an administrative division adjustment."

"I heard it was because a senior official from the Ministry of the Interior's hand trembled while drawing a new map, or perhaps the ink spilled."

"In short, on the new map, Industrial Zone 7 has been crossed out and turned into an 'unknown abandoned area'."

"From that day on, the supply ships stopped coming, and the orders for regular maintenance also stopped."

Andy understood.

This is the daily life within the empire's vast and rigid bureaucratic system.

A clerical error by an Interior Ministry clerk, or the loss of a data pad, could cause hundreds of millions of people to starve on a planet, or leave a fleet stranded in the subspace waiting for an attack order that will never be issued until it comes to a complete standstill.

This kind of thing sounds absurd in reality, but in the Warhammer universe, it's more common than breathing.

"Then why don't you leave?" Andy asked. "Since the supplies have run out, you could have appealed to your superiors or applied for a transfer."

Gamma-9 shook his head, his tone becoming unusually firm.

"There was no order to retreat."

"My oath of service states, 'I will remain at my post until the machine's soul is extinguished and the gears break apart.'"

"The higher authorities did not issue any orders to shut down the site, nor did they issue any orders to evacuate."

“If I leave, I will become a deserter who abandons his post, a sinner who has turned his back on Om Messiah.”

So, I stayed.

"I bring my apprentices here to repair and fix things, take apart and put back together broken parts, and force those machines that should have been scrapped to keep running."

"This guarding has lasted for thirty years."

As Gamma-9 finished speaking, he looked up at Andy, his single eye showing no regret, only an almost foolish obsession.

As Andy looked at the old man, the contempt he felt for these people smearing engine oil on him underwent a subtle change.

Ultimately, these people are indeed ignorant, dogmatic, and have turned science into superstition.

But it was precisely this rigid dogma that allowed them to hold onto the last embers of hope in a forgotten corner of the empire, without any support.

For Gamma-9, it wasn't that he didn't want to leave; he simply didn't know where to go.

His world is made up of instructions; without instructions, he would simply die on the spot.

And now, Andy has appeared.

Andy not only fixed the machine, but also gave him new instructions.

This is why Gamma-9 is so devoted to Andy.

Because in that channel that had been silent for thirty years, someone who seemed like a superior finally gave him orders.

Even if the order was to cook porridge or move bricks, he would do it willingly.

"We won't have to wait for that damned Ministry of the Interior's orders anymore."

Andy patted Gamma-9's semi-mechanical shoulder.

"From this moment forward, my words are commands."

"I've renewed your staffing for this purification station."

Gamma-9's body trembled violently, then it nodded heavily, its eyes seemingly a little moist.

"Yes, Your Excellency!"

Having sorted out the personnel and psychological aspects of the project, Andy refocused his attention on production.

With electricity, people, and raw materials, we have electricity.

It's time to upgrade this workshop-style, handcrafted production line.

Andy opened the STC database.

From a vast sea of ​​blueprints, he selected a very basic, yet extremely important piece of equipment.

[General Purpose Automatic Stamping Machine (T-4 Type)]

This isn't high-tech; it doesn't even require sophisticated chip control.

Its principle is extremely simple: a large flywheel, a crankshaft, a weight, and a set of molds.

The motor drives a flywheel to store energy, and then the crankshaft converts the rotational motion into up-and-down reciprocating motion, which is then used to bring down the several-ton hammer.

With just a clang, any metal sheet placed in the mold will be instantly compressed into shape.

Andy insisted on building this first, because the stamping press is the starting point for industrial standardization.

Everything used in the shelter now is made by hand.

The refugees used hammers to break scrap iron into bowls, knives, and armor plates.

Not only is it inefficient, but everyone's output is different.

If you tap the bullet casing with your hand, you can basically forget about hitting the target accurately; you'll even have trouble getting it into the chamber.

But with a stamping press, the situation is completely different.

All you need to do is replace the bullet casing mold and put the copper sheet inside.

Clang, clang, clang.

Sixty times per minute, and the result is sixty identical standard cartridge cases with an error of no more than 0.1 millimeters.

Replace the mold with an armor plate, and you have sixty standard protective inserts.

Andy immediately broke the blueprint down into several parts.