Chapter 168: Vashtorr the Arkifane
You can always trust in steel and gears—after all, they built the history of humanity.
It was the pursuit of technology and truth that allowed a mammalian species like mankind to venture into the vastness of the stars. Though the underclasses of hive cities would never understand those perfect products of technology and industry, their entire lives were built upon them—whether it was the filthy machine in front of them spewing out protein blocks, or the moment at the end of time's river when the first steam engine coughed out vapor.
Machines are perfect. Without machines, humanity—flesh-and-blood carbon-based organisms—would accomplish nothing.
Steel forms the skeleton, gears fill the organs.
Perturabo gazed at the machines before him and thought of the warriors of the Necrons.
If only those beings were just a little stronger, they would be the perfect warriors in Perturabo's mind.
Humans. Flesh. Too fragile.
Even the most powerful Trident soldiers would begin to break under the pressure of endless warfare. They would become unstable, irritable, weak.
Perturabo needed warriors who were resilient—who would not retreat, who would not falter.
The sound of screws being tightened echoed dully, but Perturabo found comfort in it. These were his rare moments of peace, moments in which he could bury everything in the reflection of metal—the Emperor's deliberate neglect, the ridicule of his brothers, and the gaze of that rift.
It was always watching him. But only Perturabo could see that blasphemous, evil, and absurd chasm. The other Primarchs couldn't. They would only offer false consolation, telling him not to overthink it.
Just like now. It was still watching him. It gave Perturabo a persistent, intolerable pressure, like a spike slowly and deliberately scraping against glass.
Perturabo buried himself in his research. He had originally intended only to build his warriors based on solid engineering and mechanical logic, but the shadow of the Necrons kept intruding into his mind, disrupting his original vision.
He put down the laser tool and stared at his half-finished creation—
He didn't know how to proceed.
This was rare. Or rather, for Perturabo, it was something that should not happen.
Since childhood—standing alone atop that mountain, staring into the source of his fear, and being stared back at by fear itself—Perturabo had lost "ignorance."
He knew everything. He could master anything at a glance. Knowledge was like air to him—he breathed, and he understood.
But now, he couldn't.
Perturabo realized that his thoughts had drifted dangerously close to a cliff.
He knew exactly what he was thinking—those xenos forms kept flashing in his mind. They weren't particularly powerful, but there was something about them that captivated him. Deeply. Obsessively.
Yet he couldn't recreate it. His knowledge stalled. His mathematical models turned pale and hollow.
What Perturabo didn't know was that the technology developed by the Necrons through the power of the C'tans was beyond even his comprehension.
"Perhaps… I need a little innovation…?"
Innovation. The word struck Perturabo's soul like a thunderclap.
It was his antithesis—an unattainable phantom. A man who could master anything had been stripped of the right to create something new.
Perturabo trembled.
He suddenly realized he might be regaining a human emotion.
The Primarch quickly bowed his head, terrified he might miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Still, having never experienced innovation in his life, Perturabo's first attempt was destined to fail.
The question was whether a man like Perturabo—obsessed with success—would dare to try again after confronting his first failure.
For someone as prideful and easily angered as he was, such a concept might feel humiliating.
But these were thoughts for another time. Right now, Perturabo knew none of this.
He was lost in his attempt, completely absorbed—for the first time, he succeeded in ignoring everything that usually plagued him.
And so, he failed to notice the gaze cast from the Eye of Terror.
The gears continued to turn.
Steel grows across the wasteland, and the flames in the furnace roar—the war machines have run endlessly for tens of millions of years.
It sits upon its throne.
Time flows like the ore pouring out of a rioting mining drill—chaotic, jumbled, mostly useless stone, but occasionally, glimmers of gold shine through.
It is powerful, but not the most powerful.
Vashtorr seeks apotheosis.
In this cold and cruel universe, that means it must be exceedingly careful.
Vashtorr hides itself with caution, revealing its presence in the river of time only when necessary—only then can it—
A flicker in time caught its attention.
Innovation, machinery, and a tiny black hole just out of reach.
It narrowed its eyes dangerously.
Vashtorr is an inventor, a scientist, a craftsman, a forgemaster. It is the roar within every machine's movement, the spark in every mad scientist's inspiration.
It has no morality—logic and structure define its existence.
No one can say exactly how many souls among those daring innovators who defy the teachings of the Mechanicus have fed power to Vashtorr.
Innovation, wild ideas—these may fall into the traps of Tzeentch, but the Changer of Ways prefers philosophers and speculative thinkers—those steeped in humanistic inquiry. He has little love for the rigid, law-bound artisans who obey physics.
Vashtorr, however, welcomes them.
But not all craftsmen and Tech-Priest can empower Vashtorr. Their unwavering faith in the Cult Mechanicus makes them impervious to the Master of the Soul Forges's influence.
Perhaps that's why the Mechanicus, the rigid, stubborn, and often repulsive religion—so incomprehensible to ordinary mortals—still endures.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sacred incense of machine oil rises slowly. Reddraped tech-servitors chant hymns. Gears turn, engines roar—in the Mechanicum's sacred court, the statue of the Omnissiah watches its faithful without expression.
The pact of cooperation between Graia Forge World and the Death Guard of the 14th Legion now comes into effect. A servo-skull, cloaked in red robes and golden filigree, slowly descends, bearing a document inscribed on sacred parchment and imbued with authority.
The contract has been handwritten in gold by the wisest scholars of doctrine, in triplicate. One copy for the Death Guard, one for Graia, and the final one—escorted by both parties—will be sent to Terra, into the hands of Regent Malcador, for Imperial review and archiving.
The ceremony concludes successfully. Even the most stoic Tech-Priests are willing to hold a "small" celebration afterward. Hymns pour forth in cathartic waves. Mortarion, unable to stand the noisy chaos, finds an excuse to leave early, leaving Hades to handle the social ties with Graia.
"Praise the Omnissiah!"
Hades, expressionless, catches the third Artisan that lunges toward him and sets the fanatic gently back on the ground. The Archmagos speaking with him offers an apologetic smile, then gestures for a servitor to escort the overexcited Tech-Priest away.
Thank the Machine God this Archmagos is at least normal, Hades thinks numbly.
What Hades doesn't know is that, while this Archmagos insists Hades is no god, it doesn't stop him from editing their conversation footage into a glorious video—one that will sell spectacularly upon return to Graia.
In the mechanical jungle filled with circuits and toasts, the servitors chant endlessly in praise of the glory of the Machine.
"Praise the Great and Holy Machine!"
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