“Based on strategic simulation data, the probability of victory in this operation is below 0.7%.”
The central processor of the chanical ark Steel Soul emitted a deep hum. The new proxy body of Great Sage Cawl awakened from its life-support pod.
As the chanical fra—about two-thirds the size of the standard model—stretched its joints, the servo systems echoed with electronic hymns within the chamber. The exposed chassis bore no trace of identification codes;
they had long been erased.
Beneath the cowl before the observation screen, datastreams churned. The priest’s own ID was hidden under triple-encryption layers.
“The dedicated datalink has been physically severed, but public frequencies remain synced.”
Cawl adjusted the signal interface connecting to the Dawn.
“This is an observation window deliberately left open by them, Great Sage.”
As dust twisted under the light, a towering figure slowly appeared.
A Space Marine—yet far bulkier than most, and clad in armor that didn’t match any known Imperial models, though clearly superior to the currently issued power armor.
It was MK10 Power Armor, the gift Great Sage Cawl intended for the next generation of Space Marines.
“The target ship has passed through Tier-3 purification protocols. Of the seventy-two observation nodes we set up, 67% were overwritten with new logic;
the rest initiated self-destruct procedures.”
The voice of the Primaris prototype carried the distortion typical of encrypted transmission.
“Additionally, based on personnel dataflow analysis, the crew’s quality-of-life index has increased by 82%, and productivity curves are rising exponentially—the predecessors are moving quickly.”
He showed no surprise at Cawl’s body swap, clearly well-accustod to such things.
“No wonder they were the elites of their ti. Looks like my concern was unnecessary—but the workers aboard the Dawn aren’t from a civilized world. Their level of education might make rolling out new policies quite difficult.”
Cawl’s sigh drifted with the mist of evaporating lubricant, a quiet acknowledgnt of their professionalism, without even a hint of envy toward the transmigrators’ technological performance.
A servo-skull projected an image of the cruiser’s interior—faces of countless tech-workers.
Blank, murky, dull.
“No matter how refined the blueprint, it’s hard to plant seeds in a cognitive wasteland.”
This monitoring wasn’t driven by malice. The appearance of these ancient warriors in this era was undoubtedly a gift from the Omnissiah. Cawl had to be extrely cautious for their safety.
“Lord Romulus emphasized in his orders to the ship’s senior officers that they should at least try. The outco is another matter.”
Seeing that Cawl was listening, the Primaris continued:
“Lord Garna has strictly overseen every procedure directly affecting the civilians. He personally watched each pill go into the workers’ mouths.”
“Lord Arthur publicly executed several senior fleet officers, establishing the authority of the new laws. At the sa ti, he conducted a covert purge of heretical faiths aboard the ship.”
“Lord Rases led the ship’s modification efforts, cataloged the Tech-Priests’ technical knowledge, and began testing how the Warp interacts with it.”
“As for the unknown production lines aboard the ship, we’ve preliminarily determined that they may possess STC (Standard Template Construct) and pocket-space technologies, along with a highly advanced understanding of the Warp.”
At this point, the Primaris paused.
“All this is what the lords want us to see.”
“Clear division of labor.”
Countless images flashed through the processor. Cawl gave a soft comnt, then asked:
“And what else?”
“What do you an?” the Primaris asked, confused.
“What did you see?”
The Primaris paused, then reached into his mory for the image that had left the deepest impression.
“I saw rationality. And their hope for humanity.”
“They understand the Warp, yet they don’t irrationally reject anything. Instead, they combine it with past knowledge and try to bring about change.”
“They believe that even mortals—through character, ability, and a desire to beco better—can improve their quality of life.”
“Compared to the other humans I’ve seen, they’re far more confident. In their eyes, there are only problems that have been solved, and those that will be solved—utterly unlike the Imperium of today.”
“Move forward, and hold onto hope.”
The Primaris softly repeated the elders’ whispered words as they watched the ship’s workers.
“That’s what they want to tell humanity.”
“Do you think they’re right to do so?”
The Primaris fell silent, then replied, “I don’t know—but they are confident.”
“Right now, they’re just trying to change one ship. But in the future, I can’t even guess where they’ll draw the line.”
This confidence felt like that of the people ten thousand years ago, who, under the Emperor’s guidance, looked up to the stars—not knowing the vastness or danger of the cosmos, but charging forward nonetheless. Because the mont humanity touched the stars, their future would shine bright and be filled with hope.
They believed—firmly—that humanity could beco sothing else. Sothing better.
Because they had seen it before.
“Heh...”
Cawl laughed, his entire chanical body trembling.
The Primaris was sure—before today, it had been a very long ti since the Great Sage had used this uniquely human function.
“How long has it been, Primaris?”
Cawl asked the figure beside him.
Of course, he already knew. The atomic clock inside his chanical body let him track ti with absolute precision.
But asking like this—like normal conversation—helped him cling to a bit of humanity.
“Thirteen hours until launch,” the Primaris replied.
“It’s been ten thousand years.”
Cawl touched the ancient fragnts embedded in his staff. Binary code danced in his optical sensors, and for a mont, it wove sothing with the warmth only humans could feel.
In that mont, he no longer felt like an execution terminal blindly following so protocol—but the young tech-adept from ages past, tuning power armor for a primarch after a grand battle... the kind who’d carve jokes inside the armor using machine oil. A living, breathing man.
Then he stepped forward, boarding the transport craft.
“While I’m gone, you’ll guard the Ark.”
“I’ll be taking the Titan Legion. You are permitted to deploy the Primaris Space Marines if the Ark’s safety is at risk.”
He gave the order.
“Yes, Great Sage.”
There could be no mistakes in this operation.
Cawl wanted to accomplish his goal—but he also had to preserve what had already been achieved.
Whether it was the in-progress Armor of Fate, or the completed Primaris Space Marines—nothing could go wrong before that man awakened.
He was still a bit greedy.
He still wanted to preserve the miracle of the Omnissiah.
“Hopefully those Sons of Dorn understood my not-so-subtle hint.”
As the hatch slowly closed, Cawl thought silently to himself.
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