The Stellarr Peregrine was a vessel unlike the brutal, purely functional Thunderhawk. As a Rogue Trader ship, it possessed a character and a history that bled into its very structure. The corridors were a labyrinth of Imperial Gothic architecture mixed with xenos artifacts and opulent, age-worn finery. Rimuru was given spacious quarters, a far cry from the metal bench of the gunship, and he spent the week-long warp journey in quiet conversation with Kael.
The Interrogator was an encyclopedic source of information, explaining the nuances of the Imperium, the nature of the Navis Nobilite (the mutated Navigators who guided them through the hellscape of the Warp), and the eternal, grinding war that was the status quo of his universe. In return, Rimuru spoke of the Jura Tempest Federation, describing a nation of monsters built on cooperation, a concept Kael logged with the detached fascination of a biologist discovering a new, impossible ecosystem.
When they translated back into realspace, the sight that filled the armored viewport stole Rimuru's breath.
Before them hung the Forge World of Ryza.
It was a world entirely encased in a shell of industry. Continent-sized manufactorums glowed with the heat of a billion forges, their skylines a jagged forest of smokestacks and plasma conduits that reached into the smog-choked, perpetually orange sky. A vast orbital ring of shipyards and defense platforms encircled the planet like a crown of thorns, birthing the great warships of the Imperium. It was a jewel of terrible, magnificent industry, a testament to the sheer, indomitable will of mankind.
"Impressive, is it not?" Kael said, standing beside him. "Ryza is the beating heart of the Segmentum's war machine."
As their ship descended, guided through the thick, metallic haze, Rimuru's awe began to curdle into something else. He saw armies of cybernetic soldiers, the Skitarii, marching in perfect, unnerving synchronicity. He saw rivers of molten slag flowing in canals wide enough to swallow cities. And he saw the servitors.
Men and women, stripped of their minds and wills, their bodies grotesquely augmented with cranes, drills, and welding tools. They moved with the jerky, mindless motion of puppets, their flesh fused with cold iron, their souls hollowed out in the name of efficiency.
Rimuru's expression hardened. He had seen many things in his life and the one before, but this casual, systemic desecration of personhood struck a deeply dissonant chord.
"What are those people?" he asked, his voice losing its usual warmth.
"Servitors," Kael answered simply, noticing the shift in his tone. "Criminals, heretics, and failed aspirants, their minds wiped and their bodies repurposed for labor. Flesh is fallible. The machine is pure. They are granted a final, perfect purpose in service to the Omnissiah, the Machine God."
"You take away their minds and call it purpose?" Rimuru countered, his voice dangerously quiet. "In my nation, even the lowest goblin has a name, a will, and a right to his own life. This… this is slavery of the soul itself."
Kael did not argue. He simply stated a fact. "This is what is necessary to fuel the Imperium's survival."
Their landing platform was a vast expanse of brass and iron, attended by red-robed Tech-Priests who moved with the aid of clanking mechanical legs and serpentine mechadendrites. Their welcoming party was led by a being that was barely human anymore. Archmagos Dominus Valerius-9-Tane was a towering construct of ancient, ornate machinery, his original human form visible only in the pale, vat-grown flesh of his face, which was framed by a halo of whirring lenses and data-probes.
[01001001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01110010 01110010 01101111 01100111 01100001 01110100 01101111 01110010 00100000 01001011 01100001 01100101 01101100], the Archmagos's synthesized voice crackled, a mixture of High Gothic and pure binary data. [Your arrival is acknowledged. Your message was… illogical. You speak of an entity with knowledge beyond the Standard Template Constructs. Present this anomaly for analysis.]
"Greetings, Archmagos," Kael said with a stiff, formal bow. "May the Omnissiah bless your forges. I present to you Rimuru Tempest, a sovereign from an uncharted reality."
The Archmagos's many lenses all swiveled to focus on Rimuru. A dozen different beams—las-scanners, radiation detectors, psychic aura readers—washed over him.
[Analysis: Biological composition… unknown. Energy signature… paradoxical. Not of the Warp, yet not of conventional physics. The claim requires empirical validation. Provide a demonstration of this 'non-standard' knowledge.]
Rimuru looked at the Archmagos, then at Kael. He understood. This was another test, but not of combat. It was a test of knowledge.
"Very well," Rimuru said. "Do you have a laboratory? And a patient with a simple wound? A cut, perhaps?"
Intrigued by the strange request, the Archmagos led them to a sterile, white medicae-bay. A Skitarii warrior with a deep gash on his organic arm was brought in. Rimuru asked for a few simple things: a beaker of purified water, a common restorative herb from the station's hydroponics bay, and a piece of crystal to act as a catalyst.
In front of the whirring, recording lenses of the Tech-Priests, Rimuru went to work. He didn't use any complex machinery. He simply crushed the herb, mixed it into the water, and channeled a tiny amount of his own magicules through the crystal into the concoction. The liquid in the beaker swirled, shimmering for a moment before turning a vibrant, glowing green.
<
"There," Rimuru said, holding up the beaker. "Have the patient drink this."
A servitor arm took the potion and administered it to the wounded Skitarii. The Archmagos and his priests watched the readouts from the bio-monitors with cold, analytical detachment. What they saw defied their logic.
The moment the potion was ingested, the wound began to heal at a visible rate. Damaged tissue wasn't just scarred over; it was perfectly regenerated. Nerves reconnected, muscle fibers re-wove themselves, and skin sealed over, leaving not even a scar. The entire process took less than fifteen seconds.
The medicae-bay was silent save for the frantic clicking and whirring of the Magi's cogitators as they tried to process the data.
[Impossible!] a lesser Magos binary-screeched. [Cellular regeneration at such a rate without rejuvenat treatments or warp-sorcery is a violation of known biological law!]
Archmagos Valerius-9-Tane approached the now-healed Skitarii, a mechadendrite probe extending to scan the arm. The data flowed into his consciousness. Perfect cellular regeneration. No genetic deviation. No cancerous growth. No residual energy signature of the Immaterium. It was… perfect. It was a miracle of science, achieved in seconds, with simple ingredients and an unknown energy source. It was a process that could save billions of lives, make their soldiers near-invincible. It was a piece of knowledge more valuable than a thousand worlds.
The Archmagos slowly turned, all his glowing green lenses focusing on Rimuru. The cold, logical machine was gone. In its place was the burning, zealous fire of a high priest who had just witnessed his god.
His synthesized voice crackled with an emotion that was utterly alien to him: a raw, consuming, and avaricious awe.
"The Omnissiah… The Machine God has sent a prophet… or a holy temptation," Valerius-9-Tane rasped. "Your process. Your knowledge. The science of your very being."
He took a clanking step forward, his mechadendrites reaching out not as weapons, but as if to grasp something sacred.
"We must possess it. For the glory of the Machine God, for the Quest for Knowledge… we must understand everything about you."