44: Chapter 44 Three Tests

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The afternoon after Guilliman's landing shuttle departed, Lin Mo unfolded the document containing the three tasks in the Archon's office.

First: Eradicate the remaining Ork forces in the Green Sector. The Green Sector was located a few star systems north of Hope Star. According to intelligence previously provided by the Astral Knights, there were still tens of thousands of Orks there, though they lacked a unified command system. The problem was distance—the supply lines being so far from Blackstone Town meant this purge could not rely on the local Arsenal for continuous ammunition. A crusade meant every bullet had to be packed into ammo crates before departure, every morsel of food weighed in advance, and every wounded soldier's evacuation route drawn on the map before setting out. His finger traced a logistics route on the star map of the Green Sector, and then he discovered a problem: not a single transport vehicle currently in Blackstone Town could support a supply mission of this distance.

Locke remained silent for a long time after reading it. It wasn't that he couldn't understand the words—he just needed time to translate them into a language he was familiar with. Then he said something in a very Locke-like style: "I can fight the first one, and Old Tom can build the second. The third one—those words you wrote on the paper, can they be shot with a gun?"

Lin Mo smiled. He didn't smile because Locke's words were funny—it was because only Locke would translate an abstract concept like an "Autonomy Plan" into the question of "can it be shot with a gun." This wasn't rudeness; it was pragmatism. In the universe of Warhammer 40,000, most "problems that can't be shot with a gun" are, in the final analysis, because the parts that *can* be shot with a gun weren't handled properly.

He returned his gaze to the text of the first task. Green Sector. He flipped open an old intelligence file provided by the Astral Knights, which contained a worn data slate recording the general distribution of Ork settlements—Lin Mo spent nearly half an hour manually transcribing that data onto the corresponding locations on the star map, then circled the two most densely populated areas with an arc. There was an open space between these two areas; if luck was on their side, a sudden raid could sever the connection between the two sides. He drew a line between those two areas and labeled it with a word: "Segmentation."

[Uncertain.] Lin Mo replied without looking back, [But moving forward is better than waiting to die.]

Second: Provide a logistics supply order for the Ultramarines that is no lower than the imperial guard logistics standard. Materials must be self-produced, no outside purchasing. This meant Blackstone Town's industrial capacity would be pushed to its limit over the next few weeks—it wasn't a matter of quantity, but of quality standards. Lin Mo had seen the imperial guard logistics standard once; it was a system of specifications so rigorous it was almost absurd. The tolerance for a single plate of standard Power Armor could not exceed 0.01 millimeters—using Old Tom's steam forge and manual lathe, this was equivalent to asking someone who carves flowers with a kitchen knife to replicate Michelangelo's David.

Third: Submit an Autonomy Plan for the Blackstone Territory, covering the four major systems of administration, economy, military, and judiciary. This item was the most difficult—not because Lin Mo didn't know how to write it, but because once he did, the Imperium would have to formally respond to a question it had never faced: whether an autonomous territory not directly governed by the Imperial Administration could exist within the framework of the Imperium. Lin Mo knew exactly what Guilliman wanted—not a perfect plan, but one that the Imperial conservatives couldn't find fault with.

He spread the three documents out on the table and fell silent for a moment. The light from the oil lamp cast three shadows on the paper, like three mountains waiting to be climbed.

That night, he gathered his core team—Locke, Old Tom, Alice, and Marcus—for an unprecedented high-level meeting at the steel-topped table in the Blackstone Town Intelligence Center. Three documents and a hand-drawn map of the Green Sector were spread across the aluminum tabletop; the corners of the map were wrinkled from Locke's sweaty hands. Outside the window, the lights of the Ultramarines fleet moved slowly in orbit, like a string of silent stars patrolling the night sky of Blackstone Town.

Locke spoke first, his finger pointing to the Green Sector on the map: "If we're going on a crusade, ammunition is an issue. Our current stock of Steam Rifles is probably enough for one defensive battle—two, and we're empty."

Old Tom chimed in, his voice low but every word carrying the certainty unique to a blacksmith: "I looked at the logistics order during the day. Those tolerances—our lathes can't do it. But if you give me two weeks to modify the drive shafts, I can get the precision close to the standard range. It doesn't have to reach the imperial guard level—just close."

He remembered a sentence he had read in some materials before transmigrating: The Imperium of Man has spanned the galaxy for ten thousand years, yet it has never truly conquered any single planet. They are merely occupied, forgotten, and then rediscovered at some dawn—if anyone still remembers to go looking.

Marcus didn't speak. He was in the corner using a charcoal pencil to draw a simple diagram in his notebook—it was the supply route for the Green Sector, with transport times and risk factors marked next to every line. He tore the page out, pushed it to the center of the table, and leaned back in his chair. Lin Mo glanced at the diagram and within three seconds saw the conclusion Marcus hadn't voiced: existing supply methods could not support a cross-planetary crusade.

Alice sat closest to the window, holding the empty tube of the No. 1 Coagulant he had used—she had already cleaned it and kept it in a drawer at the Medical Station, but for some reason, she had brought it with her that night. She didn't participate in the discussion until everyone fell quiet, then spoke a single sentence, her tone as flat as if she were stating a medical diagnosis: "The Medical Station will not close until all three tasks are completed."

She didn't say "I will always be here," but every word she spoke conveyed the same meaning.

At the moment the meeting ended, a golden stream of light flashed at the edge of Lin Mo's vision—clearer than any time before. It wasn't an illusion or a residual image. A line of minimalist text surfaced in the corner of his consciousness, like a key gently placed on a table:

[System Module Update: Tactical Deduction Module Unlocked—Allows for pre-battle deduction of win rates and loss ratios for three different tactical paths.]

[Following the map, three days.]

He showed no outward sign of anything unusual. But he knew what this meant—the unlocking condition for the mirror of the emperor modules wasn't time or energy accumulation; it was him making a decision of a certain specific level. And tonight's division of labor meeting had just crossed that line.

He didn't respond to her words. He picked up the supply route map Marcus had drawn and looked at it for a long time, then looked up and said two words: "Staged supplies."

Locke paused for a moment, then leaned in to look at the broken line. Lin Mo traced a zigzag on the star map of the Green Sector with his index finger—instead of pushing straight from Hope Star, they would find a transit planet midway and set up a forward supply station. Marcus looked at that line for five seconds, then picked up his charcoal pencil again and added a new dashed line to the original diagram. He didn't speak, but his expression said it all—it was feasible.

Locke stared at the diagram for a long time, then looked up to ask a practical question: "Who's going to guard that transit station?" Lin Mo's answer was: no one needs to guard it specifically. Once the supply ship arrives, it unloads the goods into a pre-reinforced bunker and immediately returns, leaving no one behind. The transit station remains undefended—if there are no people, there is no intelligence to leak. Locke pondered the risks of this plan, then nodded without objection.

Locke was the last to leave after the meeting. He stopped at the door for a moment, turned back, and patted Lin Mo on the shoulder without saying a word. But that action pressed down with a weight forged through a thousand trials—as if saying: Three things, one by one. There will always be a way once dawn breaks.

Alice stood at the door for a moment as she left. She didn't look back, only saying one thing in a voice so low it was like she was talking to herself: "Remember to drink that glass of water on the table." There was indeed a glass of water on the table—someone must have placed it there. Lin Mo picked up the glass; the water was warm.

Lin Mo sat in the empty room and read the three tasks from beginning to end. He wasn't looking at the content—he was looking for the intentions Guilliman had hidden behind those three lines of text. Each task wasn't difficult to complete independently, but layered together—the Ork purge tested military power, the logistics tested industry, and the plan tested politics—each one accurately struck at Blackstone Town's current weakest links. Guilliman wasn't making things difficult for him—Guilliman was helping him identify his blind spots. This hidden information was more noteworthy than the tasks themselves.

Lin Mo folded the documents and put them in a drawer. He stood up and walked to the window to glance at the slowly moving points of light in orbit—the Ultramarines fleet had not yet left. They were waiting. Waiting for Blackstone Town's decision.

He turned to look at the Shattered Dawn Banner on the wall, fluttering slightly in the night breeze, and then blew out the oil lamp.

Three things. Start the first one at dawn.

*Three things, three directions,*

*One hand turning pages, one hand gripping a gun.*

**Lin Mo stayed alone in the Intelligence Center after the meeting. Facing the three task documents spread on the table, he wrote a short poem on the edge of the paper with a charcoal pencil:**

*Three mountains block the way, the road is long and vast, one strategy can settle the hardships of a hundred battles past.*

*Say not this lonely village lacks men of valiant might; if the spring breeze does not cross, I shall cross it by my own light.*

*— Lin Mo · After the three-task labor division meeting · Charcoal draft*

*— Lin Mo · Memo after the three-task labor division meeting*

On the eve of departure, Locke reopened the slip of paper that had been warmed by his body heat and took a look. On the back of the paper—which he hadn't noticed before—there was another line of text, the handwriting different from the front: 'Don't die. That's an order.' The signature wasn't Lin Mo's name. It was Alice's abbreviated psychic signature.