You can always trust steel and gears that have built the history of mankind.

Although the bottom of the nest will never understand the perfect products of technology and industry, their lives so far are entirely built by those steel and gears, whether it is the dirty machine spitting out protein blocks in front of them, or the first steam engine coughing and spitting out steam at the end of the long river of time.

So the machine is perfect, and without the machine, humans, this carbon-based creature made of flesh and blood will achieve nothing.

Steel poured the skeleton, gears filled with guts, and Perturabo looked at the machinery in front of him, remembering the figures of the necromantic warriors.

If they were stronger, they would be the perfect warriors in Perturabo's mind.

Humans, flesh and blood, are too fragile.

Even the most powerful tridents can have problems on a continuous high-pressure battlefield, they will become unstable, they will become irritable, they will become vulnerable.

Perturabo needs strong fighters who don't back down, don't weaken.

The sound of screws sounding dullly, but Perturabo was comfortable with it, a rare moment of calm for him to hide everything in the reflection of the metal, from the emperor's deliberate ignorance, from the sneer between brothers, from the great chasm. Stare.

They were always watching him, but Perturabo knew that only he could see the blasphemous and wicked and ridiculous chasm, and that no other brother would see it, and they would only pretend to comfort him not to think too much.

Like now, it was watching him too, which gave Perturabo a constant and unbearable pressure, the spikes slowly but surely cutting through the glass.

Perturabo had devoted himself to research and development, and he had only wanted to construct his warriors according to sound engineering and mechanics, but the figure of the space necrons appeared in his mind from time to time, interfering with his original train of thought.

Perturabo put down the laser, and he stared at his half-finished product—

He didn't know how to continue.

This is rare, or, for Perturabo, it should not have happened.

Ever since he was a child, standing alone on the top of the mountain, staring at the source of fear, and fear gazing at Perturabo with its eyes, Perturabo has lost his "ignorance."

He knows everything, he knows everything, knowledge is air to him, he breathes, that's all.

But now, he won't.

Perturabo knew that his mind had slipped into a dangerous precipice, and of course he knew what he was thinking, the alien figures were still flickering, and although they were not powerful, there was something about them that still fascinated Perturabo deeply, deeply.

But he couldn't do it, his knowledge was stuck, the mathematical model he had turned pale, and what Perturabo didn't know was that the technology developed by the space necrons with the help of the star gods, even for him, would have parts that he couldn't understand.

"Perhaps. I need a little innovation.? ”

Innovation, the word that swept through Perturabo's soul like thunder, was his opposite, the ghost he could never reach, the one who could do everything, who had been deprived of the power to innovate.

Peturabo shuddered, and he suddenly realized that he might have regained control of a human emotion, so the original body quickly buried his head, for fear that he would miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

But after all, he had never innovated in his previous life, and Peturabo's first attempt was bound to fail.

I just don't know if Perturabo, who is pursuing success, will try a second time after facing the first failure, which seems to be insulting to the irritable primordial.

But Peturabo didn't know any of this, and he was so addicted to his own attempts that for the first time he had managed to ignore everything that made him unhappy.

So he didn't notice the look cast in the eyes of fear.

The gears are still turning.

The steel wilderness grows, the flames of the furnace roar, and its war machine has been running for thousands of years.

It sits on its throne.

Time is the ore pouring out of the riot mining machine, chaotic and disorganized, most of them are useless stones, but some contain the luster of gold.

It's powerful, but it's not the most powerful.

Vashtor wanted to ascend to the gods.

In this cold and cruel world, that means it has to be careful enough.

Vashtor carefully concealed himself, trying not to expose himself in the long river of time as much as possible, only when necessary, can-

A piece of time flashed by to attract its attention.

Innovation, machinery, and tiny black holes that it can't reach.

It narrowed dangerously.

Vashtor is an inventor, a scientist, a craftsman, a caster, a roar when all machinery is running, a flash of inspiration when all scientific madmen experiment.

It has no morality, logic and coherence that makes it up.

No one can tell how many souls of those bold innovators who don't follow the teachings of the Automata have provided power to Vashtor.

Innovation, whimsy, may fall into the trap of Tzeentki, but the Demon Lord of Change's preference is for those philosophers who are humanistic and speculative, and does not like these seemingly dull craftsmen who follow the laws of physics.

Vashtor welcomed them.

But not all Artisans and Sages will give Vashtor strength, and their belief in the Cult of the Mechanicus is strong enough for the Crucible Master to be inaccessible.

Perhaps that's why the Mechanic Religion is dull, stubborn, and disgusting to mortals.

The oil incense slowly rose, the red cloth servants chanted eulogies, the gears spun, the machinery roared, and in the mechanical sanctuary, the statue of the God of All Machines was staring at his followers without any expression.

The Grier Forge World and the Fourteenth Legion's Death Guard Collaboration Pact takes effect, and servo skeletons draped in red-robed gold threads slowly descend, words carried by sacred parchment filled with power.

The deed was copied in gold in triplicate by the most knowledgeable sages, one for each of the Death Guard and Gree, and the last copy was to be sent to Machado, the regent of Terra, under the escort of the Death Guard and Gree, and the Empire was to approve and document the cooperation.

The collaboration ceremony ended successfully, and even the mechanical sages were willing to hold a "little" celebration after it, and the chants poured out like catharsis, and Motarian couldn't stand the noisy scenes, so he made an excuse to retreat in advance, leaving Hades to continue to be in charge of the personal contact with Gree.

"Praise be to the Ohm Messiah!"

Hades stopped the third foundry who flew towards him without changing his face, and then put the fanatical creature on the ground, and the great sage who was chatting with him next to him smiled apologetically at him, and then asked the servant to pull the stunned foundry down.

Fortunately, the great sage who talked to him was a normal person

Hades thought numbly.

What Hades didn't know was that although the sage pressed Hades not a god, it didn't affect him from editing the video of the close chat with Hades, and then returned to Gree to sell the sale.

In the staggered midst of the mechanical jungle, the servants sang the praises of the majesty of the mechanical body.

"Praise the great divine machine!"

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(End of chapter)