Assembly

"Ugh..."

The locomotive spewed thick black smoke, its massive gears roaring under the drive of its internal combustion engine as it headed toward the miners' gathering grounds...

I always felt as if I were wrapped in some immense sense of dissonance. Kiavahr clearly possessed the civilization needed for interstellar travel, yet this hunk of iron beneath our asses still ran on the internal combustion engine that ignited humanity's first industrial revolution... Sandman mused inwardly.

Before crossing over, he had thought the disparity in civilization between the various planets of the Warhammer Universe was absurdly outrageous. Yet after actually arriving, he realized that was nothing—technology could differ by worlds even on the same planet.

The most ridiculous part was that the entire galaxy was constantly at war, yet military technology was not advancing. It was actually regressing...

Technological progress had to rely on archaeology. That was utterly insane...

The group was crammed onto the packed steam train, traveling along the tracks. At every stop, people continuously boarded or got off.

Half an hour later, Sandman and his group finally arrived near their camp. After disembarking, they worked together to hand over the mined ore to the companions waiting there.

Those companions would transport the ore by cart into the camp, to the place where it was stored.

Meanwhile, the miners dragged their exhausted bodies toward the camp. If they were lucky and the companions loading the ore worked quickly, they could hitch a ride.

If they were unlucky, they had to walk back to camp on their own two legs.

The crowd surged toward their camp, looking like a band of refugees flooding through its gates.

After laboring all day, the miners were little different from refugees. The only thing they had over refugees was that, in this cruel world, they still had a relatively safe "home."

"Ah... that feels good!" Sandman sat up after lying on the stone bed like a salted fish for several hours, spreading his arms and stretching.

Listening to the crackling sounds from his body, like beans popping in a pan, he spoke with satisfaction.

After chewing through an entire bar of Corpse Starch, Sandman sat down on a stone bench outside his room, closed his eyes, and quietly waited for something to arrive.

"Boss, Shadow Kill can finish assembling tomorrow," Nekser reported as he emerged from the darkness.

"What about the intelligence?" Sandman did not rise. He merely opened his closed eyes and asked.

"We've investigated it thoroughly. The ones responsible are a raider organization west of here called Shattered Skull. Most of its members are vicious criminal gangs from Kiavahr, and they only recently wandered into this area."

"According to the information we received, aside from raiding teams heading to various camps to exchange for food and other necessities, this group also attacks smaller camps, looting their stored minerals and young women."

"Shattered Skull has set up camp in an abandoned small mine shaft to the west. It is easy to defend and difficult to assault."

Nekser handed the detailed information to Sandman, then stood quietly like a wooden stake, awaiting his decision.

"A few hundred raiders dare come pluck a tiger's whiskers? Did they forget what happened to that Wild Wolf Gang or whatever it was called?" Sandman flung the documents in his hand heavily onto the stone table before him.

The thick stack of papers struck the table hard, and the gust it kicked up swept away the dust around the tabletop, leaving a large clean patch.

"Korax, want to go see what this world truly looks like?" Sandman turned and invited the Primarch, whom he had just called over.

Among all the Primarchs, Korax was considered quite fortunate. At the very least, the world he had landed on was not one of those Death Worlds.

Death World was an Imperium classification for worlds within its territory. Such worlds generally had extremely harsh natural environments, such as Fenris, where the Space Wolves' Primarch had fallen.

Fenris was covered in extreme cold, so frigid that it could even freeze steel until it cracked.

Besides the cold, Death Worlds also had constantly erupting volcanoes, toxins left behind by biological weapons from ancient wars, frequent geological activity, and more...

Other than the inhuman slave masters, Kiavahr was relatively habitable in every respect. The miners of Kiavahr in particular were mostly kind people.

Kindness was such a rare quality on this mining world, where people were endlessly exploited and squeezed dry. It could even be called a luxury.

But now, Sandman had decided to let Korax see the true nature of this world—and even this galaxy—sooner rather than later.

The strong devour the weak!

By planting a seed in the young Primarch's heart, perhaps this idealist, originally so full of compassion, could avoid some future tragedies.

"They want to take our food and kill our companions. Naturally, we can't simply let this go," Korax readily agreed.

Killing was no great matter to Korax. The moment he emerged from the amniotic pod, he had naturally torn a supervisor's head clean off.

The Space Marines created from the Primarch template were the main force of the Great Crusade. As the genetic progenitors of these genetically engineered killers, the Primarchs were even more naturally gifted in this regard.

"Good. Let's choose our weapons first." Sandman rose and led Korax toward the weapon storage room on the second floor.

Life was tenacious. No matter how barren the land, humans would always develop the things they needed from it.

As a mining world that had existed for several centuries, the miners' camps had grown from barren wastelands into places with all kinds of established industries.

There were even markets for trade. As a large camp in the surrounding area, The Saviors had their own smelting workshop, capable of forging ordinary cold weapons and even armor.

Moreover, after countless years of inheritance, the artisans here had become highly skilled in smelting and forging.

But lacking the necessary electronic components, they had no way to manufacture Chainswords, Power Swords, and the like.

No matter how finely crafted these cold weapons were, the miners' resistance remained as fragile as paper armor when facing Chainswords and power weapons.

The slave masters on Lycaeus did not care about these cold weapons.

After all, before rebels could even get close, Laser Guns would already have riddled them with holes...

To them, miners' rebellions were nothing more than an extra joke.

Yet these cold weapons were indispensable tools for the miners to protect their camps.

Miners armed with crossbows routinely stood guard atop the stone gate tower of The Saviors' camp.

"These are all fine weapons crafted by the camp's artisans. Take a look and see which one suits you." Sandman casually picked up a sixty-centimeter silver shortsword and flourished it.

The blade darted like a silver serpent, producing sharp hissing sounds as it sliced through the air.