The Great Deception Technique

Fu Haoran stared at Priest Kallen's metal face, sensing this was getting tricky.

Reason with the Machine Cult? These oil-and-incense fanatics would chant the Machine Spirit's litany three times just to fix a flashlight, and ask for permission before changing a lightbulb.

You tell him, "We're in a hurry."

He tells you the Machine Spirit will be displeased.

To put it in a Tech-Priest's terms, the Machine Cult's core skill isn't building things—it's making a drama out of everything.

In their eyes, innovation is blasphemy. Back in the day, they dug up a toaster that couldn't be replicated and worshipped it like a holy relic. Hopeless.

Reason with the Mechanicus Cult? Fu Haoran could tell with his little toe that it'd take three days and three nights to get nowhere.

But he'd pinpointed a fatal weakness in these oil-and-incense fanatics.

"Priest Kallen." Fu Haoran turned serious. "Can't you see? This is a creation from the early Golden Age of Humanity."

Kallen's brain froze for a second.

"...Governor, this cannot be a holy relic of the Golden Age."

Fu Haoran shook his head and explained, "This is a semi-finished product made by early humans using an STC. The craftsmanship wasn't refined yet, so it lacks standardization. But look at this glider kit—it's Golden Age assembly-line work, standard specifications."

Kallen fell silent for five seconds.

His servo-skull flew over, scanning the glider's interface repeatedly.

"...Scan results." A flicker of fluctuation crept into Kallen's electronic voice. "Interface tolerance, ±0.01 millimeters. Confirmed as mold-formed from an assembly line."

Priest Kallen's gaze shifted from doubt to shock, his metal bionic eye locked onto the bomb as if he'd spotted a priceless treasure.

Good news: the bluff was working.

Bad news: Priest Kallen suddenly blocked the bomb, his stance even more resolute than before, looking ready to fight to the death:

"No! I absolutely will not allow you to use a creation of the Golden Age! This is blasphemy! This is utter disrespect!"

"Damn, this oil-and-incense nutcase has lost it?" Yuri muttered from the sidelines.

"He was just shocked, and now he's flipped out. Is he really this extreme? If we waste time, the factory's gone, and so are our Throne Coins!"

Fu Haoran's head throbbed. At this critical moment, Kallen was dropping the ball.

No choice. He'd have to fill the hole with an even bigger lie.

Fu Haoran stepped forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper, like a devil's temptation: "Priest, I actually have a fragment of an STC."

Priest Kallen's entire body jolted. Doubt, shock, and sudden realization flickered across his face in succession, his metal bionic eye's pupil contracting sharply. His first instinct was to report it:

"Such an important STC must be reported to the Forge World immediately! This is the guidance of the Omnissiah!"

Fu Haoran wasn't too surprised. For the Machine Cult, innovation is blasphemy; archaeology is the real job.

"Don't you want to replicate it?"

Kallen's voice caught.

Fu Haoran stepped closer: "Priest, how many years have you been on Sce-Sai IV? Ten? Twenty? Has anyone on Mars ever asked about you? Does the Forge World even remember you?"

Kallen didn't move.

"What's your rank in the Machine Cult? Magos? Tech-Priest Dominus? Or... just an ordinary Priest?"

Kallen felt a tightness in his chest.

But he'd replaced his heart with a Mechanical Heart a hundred years ago—why did it still... ache?

Yet the blade didn't stop; the man kept twisting it:

"No offense meant, I'm just curious. Are all Tech-Priests like the legends say—no emotions, no desires, devoted entirely to the Machine God, the Omnissiah?"

"Otherwise, I can't fathom why anyone would stay on a backwater planet for fifty years, doing the same work as every other Priest, copying templates that others have replicated ten thousand times, writing reports no one reads, submitting requests no one approves..."

With every word Fu Haoran spoke, Kallen felt like his heart was being stabbed, his data processor flooded with errors.

Finally, Fu Haoran played his last trump card: "When the battle's over, I'll show you this STC. It's just a fragment, but I believe with it, you can be promoted to Archmagos."

"Maybe even recalled to Mars, a guest of honor on the Forge World."

Kallen's lens aperture contracted.

Silence stretched for ten seconds.

"...You're sure it's an STC." Kallen repeated.

"Yes."

"Why not report it?"

Fu Haoran smiled: "Priest, if you report it, who do you think will get to study it?"

Kallen didn't answer, but his electronic components hummed faintly.

He knew all too well—his credentials were mediocre, his abilities average. He'd never had a chance at promotion.

"Exiled" to this remote planet, ignored for years.

He yearned for progress, for knowledge, to escape this mediocre fate, to become a revered Archmagos.

On one side stood doctrines upheld for years; on the other, an opportunity he had dreamed of.

A moment later, he jerked his head up, his gaze turning resolute: "If this guidance system is proven to be STC, I must be the first to study it!"

"No problem." Fu Haoran agreed without hesitation.

"...Servitor." His electronic voice regained its steadiness. "Retrieve pylon adaptation parameters. Complete all mounting operations within fifteen minutes."

Priest Kallen had transformed in an instant; his former rigid dogmatism vanished without a trace.

"Move faster! Mount all these holy relics from the Golden Age onto the Valkyrie Gunship!"

He was even more anxious than Fu Haoran, almost wanting to do it himself, his mind entirely focused on witnessing the power of these Golden Age creations.

Fu Haoran breathed a sigh of relief.

"Finally talked him into it."

Yuri appeared from nowhere, leaning close to his ear: "Damn, what kind of charm did you feed that tech-priest? He was ready to fight you to the death just now."

Fu Haoran ignored him.

As for how to cover up the lie later, that was a problem for another day.

Don't bring tomorrow's worries into today.

Fifteen minutes later, the Sky-Claw Valkyrie Gunship completed its mounting.

Eighteen FAB-3000 aerial bombs hung steadily beneath its belly.

The pilot climbed into the cockpit and initiated the self-check.

A line of parameters flashed across the screen, and the pilot paused.

"Sir, the carrier requirements for these bombs... airspeed must not exceed 500 kilometers."

"Correct."

Hearing Fu Haoran's reply, the pilot looked troubled.

You see, although the Valkyrie Gunship's top speed wasn't particularly fast, it still reached 1100 kilometers. Cutting the speed in half now was simply...

"What kind of weapon is this, so underwhelming," the pilot silently grumbled.

As the three Sky-Claw Valkyrie Gunships lifted off, Fu Haoran issued the combat order:

"Follow my command. Detour to the mid-rear of the coalition forces and conduct standoff bombing."

"Why go through all this trouble?" Yuri was baffled.

"If you were a noble, would you go to the front lines?" Fu Haoran countered.

"Definitely not," Yuri said matter-of-factly.

"Exactly. The mid-rear is the command hub and supply depot for the nobles' private armies. That's where the enemy is densest, all elite private troops. Bombing there both inflicts heavy casualties and cuts off the front-line cannon fodder gangs' supplies and command—two birds with one stone."

Fu Haoran then ordered the pilot: "Remember, immediately withdraw after dropping the bombs. Do not linger."

"Understood!"

The Valkyries veered toward the mid-rear of the coalition forces.

The coalition's anti-air units soon spotted the Valkyries, but seeing them flying so far away, they paid them no mind.

At that distance, even if bombs were dropped, they couldn't possibly harm anyone—at most, it would be some irrelevant harassment.

The Valkyrie Gunships advanced unhindered, reaching 60 kilometers above the coalition's mid-rear. The pilot's voice came through the communicator: "Sir, arrived at designated position. Within bombing range. Requesting permission to drop!"

"Drop!" Fu Haoran ordered in a low voice.

The eighteen FAB-3000s detached from their pylons one by one. No roar of boosters, only the faint whisper of air friction as they fell silently.

In midair, the bombs' folding wings slowly deployed. Two large retractable right-angle wings and a V-tail fully extended, steel struts firmly securing them to the bomb body, their posture as steady as a rock.

The inertial guidance system activated. Under precise satellite navigation, the bombs gently turned in the air, like eighteen clumsy iron birds, diving toward the dense cluster of elite private troops below.

On the ground, the nobles' private soldiers stood in neatly arranged standard armor. Heavy bolters were set up at the front lines. Leman Russ tanks were lined up in orderly formation. The vigilance was tight, yet they sensed nothing.

The sound of the bombs flying was lighter than the hum of a servo-skull. No one paid any attention to the anomaly in the sky.

Priest Kallen stared at the feed coming through the communicator. His expression gradually shifted, his tone full of doubt:

"No, how could a creation of the Golden Age be so crude? No roar of a machine-spirit, no fluctuation of holy energy... Have I been fooled?"

The moment he finished speaking, an unbelievable scene unfolded. Those seemingly clumsy bombs not only flew steadily but also turned with precision, heading straight for the core area of the private troop formation without the slightest deviation.

Priest Kallen was completely stunned. In his processor, thirty-seven entries from the catechism he had memorized fifty years ago scrolled past—not a single one could explain what he was seeing.

His metal bionic eye locked onto the image, and for a moment, he was utterly speechless.