Warhammer: Rebuilding the Golden Age Starting with Farming.

This is clearly the defective goods section of a scrap metal recycling station.

There were seven or eight laser guns, several live-fire automatic guns, and a pile of rusty chainsaw swords on the shelf.

Andy casually picked up a laser gun.

Good guy.

The gun's heat dissipation vents were sealed tightly with red prayer wax, and even the battery interface was coated with a thick layer of grease.

The Mechanicus has an extremely absurd logic: they believe that heat is the wrath of the machine spirit, and if the heat dissipates too quickly, the machine spirit will catch a cold.

Therefore, they like to block the heat dissipation vents, euphemistically calling it "keeping the machine's soul warm".

If this gun is fired ten times in a row, the barrel will definitely overheat and explode.

Andy picked up another automatic gun.

This one is even more outrageous; the barrel is full of sand, fine, golden sand.

"What is this?" Andy asked Gamma-9, pointing to the sand.

Gamma-9 said with a devout look, "This is sacred lubricating sand, Your Excellency. Each grain of sand has undergone three binary prayers to make the bullets run more smoothly when fired."

God™ Holy Lubricating Sand.

Pouring sand into the gun barrel—is that because they think the barrel isn't wearing out fast enough?

Andy's blood pressure is soaring.

It's a miracle these people have survived this long, or maybe those mutants were just too weak.

"Take all this garbage out of me."

Andy threw the sand-filled automatic gun onto the table with a loud bang.

Gamma-9 was startled: "Sage, these are..."

"dismantle."

Andy only said one word.

He stretched out his metal hands, his movements so fast they left afterimages in the air.

Click, click.

In less than ten seconds, the automatic gun was disassembled into a pile of parts.

Andy picked up the recoil spring and pointed to the rust and the reversed buckle.

"The spring is installed backwards, the firing pin is badly worn, and there's all this damn sand."

As Andy spoke, he picked up a rag and began frantically wiping the parts.

There was no holy oil, no prayers.

Only the purest form of violent cleaning.

He poured all the sand on the ground and pried off and threw away all the red wax blocks.

Gamma-9 watched with trepidation.

In his eyes, Andy's behavior was blasphemous and would invite divine punishment from the God of Machines.

But as Andy's fingers moved swiftly, the parts were reassembled.

Click.

The final, crisp snapping sound rang out.

A clean, unadorned automatic gun appeared in Andy's hand.

Andy pulled the bolt.

"Snap!"

The sound was crisp and clear, without any hesitation or extraneous noise.

The beautiful sound of metal clashing shut Gamma-9 up instantly.

Although it didn't have the scent of any holy oil, the killing intent emanating from this gun was now more than ten times stronger than before.

Just as Andy was about to throw the gun to the Gamma-9 so he could try it out.

"Waaaaah—!!!"

A piercing alarm suddenly blared throughout the hall.

This is not a machine malfunction alarm.

It's an external intrusion alert.

The refugees in the hall instantly erupted in chaos, screams filling the air.

A sentry covered in blood stumbled in from outside, shouting as he ran:

"The Skinners! It's the Skinners gang!"

"They blew open the outer door! They stormed in!"

The Skinners Gang.

These are the most notorious predators of the bottom nest, who like to skin their victims and hang their skin on their bodies as decoration, both as a deterrent and as a kind of perverse totem.

Gamma-9 dropped the scepter in his hand to the ground, his previous Mechanicus demeanor vanished instantly, and he trembled like a leaf.

"It's over... it's over..."

"Our guards can't stop them..."

The hall was in chaos, with everyone running around like headless flies.

In this extreme chaos.

Only Andy stood there, motionless.

His perspective is changing.

The original engineering maintenance interface quickly faded away, revealing a dark red tactical analysis layer.

[Hostile target detected.]

Threat Level: Low.

[Battle Protocol: Activated.]

Although there are many different models of Iron Man, some are specifically for construction and some are specifically for scientific research.

But in the dark age of technology, even an iron man used to unclog toilets came with a complete individual combat database in his factory settings.

Because in that era, every iron man possessed universal intelligence that was unimaginable to humans.

Andy looked up, and his electronic eyes, which had been flashing a soft blue light, suddenly turned a cold, scarlet red.

He carried the newly repaired automatic gun in one hand and moved the still-trembling Gamma-9 aside with the other.

"Shut up."

Andy's voice wasn't loud, but it carried throughout the hall through the loudspeakers, carrying an irresistible air of authority.

"Everyone, take cover behind the bunkers."

He turned around, facing the door that was about to be breached, and pulled the bolt.

Chapter 5 Massacre

"boom!"

With a loud bang, the heavy blast door in the hall was blown away.

The twisted metal door tumbled through the air and crashed heavily into a group of screaming refugees who were scattering in all directions, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Immediately afterwards, those nauseating roars poured in along with the thick smoke.

"Meat! Fresh meat!"

"Skin them alive! Offer them to the God of Blood!"

A dozen or so figures rushed into the hall.

This group is known as the Skinners gang.

At the bottom of Forge-7, the Skinners are the second biggest pest after the Mutant Tribe.

These people are not fanatical believers in chaos, nor do they have the intelligence to understand the whispers of the warp. They are just a group of lunatics whose frontal lobes have degenerated due to long-term consumption of industrially contaminated corpse starch.

The skinners believe that skinning their enemies allows them to absorb their power, so each official member carries several roughly tanned "trophies." Although their equipment is tattered and pieced together from scraps, their sheer numbers and complete lack of pain receptors make them a formidable force, capable of overwhelming their opponents with sheer numbers.

Their image is usually that of someone shirtless with dried human skin hanging on their body; some even sew the victim's face onto their own mask.

He was holding a crudely made chainsaw, a spiked club made from a water pipe, and several automatic pistols that had changed hands countless times.

To the commoners in the hall, they were a group of demons from hell.

But in Andy's eyes, they were just a bunch of moving red boxes.

[Battle protocol activated.]

Threat assessment: Extremely low.

Target quantity: 14.

[Suggested solution: Targeted elimination.]

Andy stood still, his feet slightly apart, locking the hydraulic joints.

He doesn't need to find cover.

For these low-level thugs wielding fire sticks, the best cover is absolute firepower suppression.

He raised the automatic gun that had just been cleaned.

The butt of the gun struck the metal shoulder armor with a crisp clanging sound.

No breathing adjustments or heart rate control are required.

His STC ballistic computer calculated wind speed, humidity, recoil compensation, and the target's trajectory in a fraction of a second.

"boom."

The first shot rang out.

The thug at the front was waving a rusty chainsaw sword and shouting something.

The next second, a black hole appeared between his eyebrows.

His head snapped back, but his body continued forward two steps due to inertia before finally collapsing to the ground like a tattered sack.

The surrounding thugs were stunned; they had never seen this kind of fighting before.

In the gang wars at the bottom of the nest, everyone is holding the trigger, shouting and spraying bullets. Whether they hit or not depends entirely on luck and the Emperor's blessing.

How can something fire only one shot and then stop?

But Andy didn't give them time to think.

"Bang. Bang. Bang."

Three very rhythmic gunshots rang out.

Every time the gun barrel bounced, it was perfectly suppressed by that metal arm.

The three thugs fell to the ground, all shot between the eyebrows.

In the Warhammer 40K universe, such precision is typically only achievable by veteran Astraklan soldiers with decades of training or Space Marines equipped with aim assist systems.

The automatic gun, now cleaned of lubricant and sealant by Andy, was displaying the excellent performance it was originally designed for.

The feeding was smooth, the firing was crisp, and the spent cartridge cases flying out of the ejection port drew graceful arcs in the air.

There was no jamming, and no explosion.

As it turns out, as long as you don't fill the gun with sand, human-made products are actually quite durable.

In just five seconds, seven people had already fallen to the ground.

The remaining thugs finally realized what was happening.