The Machine Spirit is Displeased

Unlike their previous meeting at the Governor's Mansion.

She wasn't wearing a helmet this time. Her face was sharp and angular, with several old scars etched across her cheekbones and jaw.

Her silver-white hair stood upright, cropped close to her scalp, every inch radiating hardness.

Her gaze was direct and cold, carrying a penetrating force.

Black power armor covered her entire body.

The plates were thick, with signs of wear and patch-welding at the joints.

Under the searchlight, a layer of stark white gleamed across the surface of her chest plate.

The Aquila etched into the center had faded from years of polishing, but it was still clear.

When she stood, her spine was straight, her shoulder pauldrons naturally settled.

Her right hand never left the grip of the Boltgun at her waist.

The low, steady hum of her armor pulsed in sync with her breathing.

Rovi stepped forward.

He didn't grovel, nor did he show excessive warmth.

He simply stopped five paces away.

It was a safe distance—one that showed respect without provoking threat.

He gave a slight bow.

"Welcome to Granary Seven, Captain of the Guard."

Lilith didn't speak immediately.

Her gaze swept over Rovi like a scanner.

Then it passed him, landing on the laborers digging trenches in the distance.

Next, it moved to the rumbling Fermentation Tanks.

Finally, it settled on the newly modified Harvester parked in the corner, its frame twisted into a menacing shape.

"Not bad. Matches the 'basic production order' you mentioned in your report..."

Lilith's voice was hoarse and steady.

It carried a metallic edge, the residue of years of shouting on battlefields.

She pointed at the orderly crowd queuing for food, showing no signs of unrest.

"On my way here, I saw the situation at Granary Three and Granary Five."

"It's already a mess there. Supervisors are cowering in their fortresses, and mobs are looting the warehouses."

Lilith withdrew her gaze.

She reassessed the young man before her, who seemed somewhat frail—or perhaps bookish.

That night, the Governor had sent her to pick up Rovi.

At the time, she hadn't thought much of him.

She'd just treated it as routine duty.

Now, she had to admit she shouldn't have judged by appearances.

"But here, what I see is an army."

Those words carried weight.

In the Empire, forming a private army was a precursor to rebellion.

Rovi's heart tightened.

But his expression remained as calm as stone.

"This is merely the organizational form necessary to ensure production, Captain of the Guard."

Rovi replied without servility or arrogance.

"As you can see, these people hold shovels and wrenches, not Boltguns."

"They fight for the Governor's Imperial Tithe, not for anything else."

"For the Imperial Tithe..." Lilith savored the words. "A good excuse."

"If that waste of space Kais had even half your awareness, he wouldn't have turned himself into a lump of flesh that only knows how to count."

Clearly.

The Governor's Mansion was fully aware of everything happening here.

Rovi didn't respond.

Silence was the best answer at this moment.

Lilith waved her hand.

The soldiers behind him immediately opened the rear hatch of the armored vehicle.

Inside the armored vehicle, there were no Military Police or Inquisitors as Rovi had feared, only neatly stacked wooden crates.

The crates bore the Aquila Symbol of the Imperial Department of Munitions.

They were also stamped with Warning Runes reading "Explosive" and "Hazardous Material."

"The Governor received your letter."

Lilith walked up to Rovi and spoke in a low voice.

"'The ribs are ready, only lacking the skin'... Hmph, you certainly know how to use a metaphor."

She patted her thick Power Armor Glove.

"Inside here are six Heavy Logging Guns, two thousand Armor-piercing Rounds, and fifty High-Explosive Incendiary Grenades."

"All old stock pulled from the last Hive War. Some might jam. But they're still better than the steel pipes your Farm Workers are holding."

Rovi looked at the crates and let out a sigh of relief.

This wasn't charity.

This was recognition.

This was Governor Alicia's recognition of his ability.

And her tacit approval of his "act first, report later" approach.

"I am grateful for the Governor's generosity." Rovi bowed deeply, this time sincerely. "With this 'skin,' this umbrella can hold."

"Don't celebrate too soon." Lilith warned. "This isn't free. The Governor told me to pass along a message."

She spoke each word deliberately:

"The rain has already started to fall. If your umbrella leaks and soaks the Imperial Tithe ledger... then the next one sent to the Adeptus Mechanicus to be made into a Wetware Server might be you."

Rovi met her gaze without flinching.

"Please tell the Governor."

He spoke slowly, his tone carrying an iron will.

"As long as I'm standing, not a single drop of rain will fall into Granary Seven."

A few seconds later, Captain of the Guard Lilith smiled.

It was a brief smile.

Carrying a hint of appreciation, and also a hint of pity.

"Good luck, Scribe... no, Special Agricultural Advisor."

She turned and strode toward the armored vehicle.

"Let's go. We're not needed here anymore."

With the engine roaring again, the black convoy vanished into the night as quickly as it had arrived.

Leaving only tire tracks behind.

And the wooden crates filled with instruments of killing.

Rovi stood still, feeling the chill of the night wind against his face.

With guns, with grain, with men.

The stage was set.

Now, it was time to see when the "audience" hiding in the shadows would make their entrance.

"Barker!"

Rovi ordered.

The hem of his coat fluttered in the wind.

"Move these crates into the Repair Workshop. Have Priest Alpha bring out the best Machine Oil."

"Nobody sleeps tonight. We're giving these old relics a thorough 'tune-up'!"

"Yes, sir!"

Barker roared with excitement.

A bloodthirsty gleam shone in his one eye.

For a warrior, nothing was more reassuring than running his hands over a heavy machine gun.

The heavy doors of the Repair Workshop slammed shut.

Shutting out the noisy wind and digging sounds outside.

The air was thick with the smell of Machine Oil and incense smoke.

A few flickering Lumen Lamps cast dim halos of light.

The shadows of those gears and hydraulic rods stretched twisted and grotesque.

Rovi took off his dust-covered coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Revealing two arms.

Not particularly strong, but with taut, defined lines.

On the workbench before him lay six Heavy Logging Guns, just unpacked from wooden crates.

Even under the dim light, it was clear their condition was poor.

The barrels were covered in dark red rust spots, and several pieces of the heat shield were missing.

The feeding mechanisms were clogged with dried grease and unknown black grime.

On one gun's firing mechanism, traces of dried blood remained.

That was the last mark left by its previous owner before death.

"The Machine Spirit is displeased."

Alpha stood across from Rovi.

Several Mechanical Tentacles cautiously probed into the gun's chamber, scanning.

His Cybernetic Eye flickered with a worried red light.

"These sacred creations have severe internal wear. The tolerance of the piston rod exceeds standard values by 18%."

"If used directly without an Appeasement Ritual, the jam rate will be as high as 40%."

"Then let's make them happy."

Rovi picked up a wire brush and dipped it in special rust-removing oil.

"Alpha, prepare the Sacred Oil and incense. We're going to give these old friends a deep clean."

He didn't say "disassemble and repair" outright.

Instead, he used terms more in line with the Adeptus Mechanicus doctrine.

Science is heresy.

Only faith is truth.

Even if you're tightening a screw, it must be a prayer to the Machine God.

"Praise the Omnissiah."

Alpha murmured a chant.

Then he directed two Servitors to bring a burning censer and a golden bottle of Sacred Oil.

Rovi began to work.

His movements were slow, almost overly cautious.

Every pin he knocked out, every spring he removed.

He would pause, examine it with a nearly devout gaze, then carefully wipe it clean with white linen.

This wasn't just for show in front of Alpha.

To Rovi, these rusty lumps of metal were the life insurance for him and fifty thousand people.

Any tiny oversight, any lingering grain of sand, could mean death on the battlefield.

"Click."

With a crisp metallic sound, the Bolt Carrier Group of the first Logging Gun was fully disassembled.

Rovi picked up the Carbon Buildup-covered Firing Pin and examined it under a magnifying glass.

"The tip of the Firing Pin is slightly deformed, but still within usable range," he muttered to himself.

Then he picked up fine sandpaper and began patiently polishing it.

"Barker, hand me that bottle of No. 2 Sacred Oil, the one with Graphite Powder added."

Barker, who had been standing by as an assistant, quickly handed over the bottle.

The one-eyed commander watched Rovi's skilled movements and couldn't help asking:

"Advisor, you... did you serve in the Department of Munitions before? Your disassembly technique is smoother than any old armsman I've seen."

"I just enjoy reading," Rovi replied without looking up. "Books have everything. As long as you're willing to read, to think, to understand the logic between those metal components."

He certainly wouldn't say this came from his past life's love for mechanical engineering.

In this world, knowledge was a dangerous power.

Disguising it as "talent" or "the Emperor's revelation" was always safer.

Time passed in a flash.

The Repair Workshop was left with only the clinking of metal.

And Alpha's low, murmuring prayers.

Rovi's fingers had already been stained black by Machine Oil, and fine beads of sweat seeped from his forehead.

He still maintained a suffocating focus.

Rust removal, polishing, lubrication, assembly.

Every step was meticulous.

Every part had undergone repeated inspection.

When the first Heavy Logging Gun was reassembled, it had completely transformed.

The dark red rust was gone; after being coated with anti-rust oil, it reflected a cold, lusterless gleam.

The sound of the bolt being pulled was no longer harsh and grating, but smooth, deep, and full of power.

"Click."

Rovi pulled the bolt and then squeezed the trigger.

The firing pin struck the empty chamber with a crisp, pleasant sound.

"The Machine Spirit... is calm."

Alpha the Priest's bionic eye flickered with blue light, his tone full of admiration.

"With your hands, you have soothed its fury. What exquisite... prayer technique."

Rovi said nothing, silently picking up the second gun.

He didn't need praise.

He only needed these guns, the moment the trigger was pulled, to send bullets into the enemy's chest.

Not blow up in his own hands.