16: Chapter 16 Collapse and Faith

Helmut von Neumann stood in the center of his empty workshop, feeling like life could no longer go on!

This had once been the sanctuary he guarded, the most sacred machine spirit altar of the Vulcan-IV Forge World. Twelve Servo-skulls used to float in a perfect binary star array, the crisp scent of burning holy oil filled the walls, and obscure binary prayers flowed and echoed under the stone dome, every syllable carrying ten thousand years of Adeptus Mechanicus dogma and fanatical devotion.

But now, the star array was empty, and the holy oil had congealed in the bronze cups into dark brown scabs; a corner of a prayer scroll was lifted by the wind and fell back limply, spread silently on the cold stone table like a silent mockery of his past.

He walked slowly toward the window, his metal limbs grinding over traces of holy oil on the floor with a faint friction sound.

The view outside was both painful and fascinating: Icarus's metal forest was still expanding steadily, the blue light from the satellite network shrouded the land, and his twelve Servo-skulls were there assisting with the work—efficient, quiet, and serene, even exuding a sense of ease he had never seen before.

[Efficiency increased by 37.2%, failure rate dropped to 0.03%,] he calculated in a low voice, his mechanical fingers unconsciously stroking the window frame, [this data... is perfect.]

Turning around, he walked into the depths of the workshop. Parked there was the Lucius-pattern melta cannon that had accompanied him for eighty years.

This three-hundred-year-old giant cannon possessed a wild and powerful machine spirit. In the past, every time it was unsealed and fired, it required him to recite fifteen minutes of machine spirit appeasement prayers, then carefully apply holy oil to every interface and pipeline. Any slight error would result in a strike to show its "displeasure."

This was a sacred relic of war he had spent half his life's effort to barely "tame" through extreme devotion and tedious rituals, a vivid personification of the Adeptus Mechanicus faith.

But today, everything changed.

He habitually pressed his hand on the holy seal of the cannon body and had just recited the first line of the prayer: [Omnissiah above, grant this cannon strength—]

The melta cannon's machine spirit fluctuations instantly crashed into his logic core. It was no longer the arrogance and laziness of the past, but an irrepressible expectation and joy, like an awakened child.

The cannon body began to vibrate slightly, the alloy casing emitted a low hum, and the muzzle automatically turned toward the gate—toward the Icarus Base.

Helmut froze in place, his voice reciting the prayer stopping abruptly. He mechanically finished the remaining passages and reached for the gilded holy oil bottle, but his hand stopped in mid-air, the bottle trembling slightly between his alloy fingers.

The melta cannon's machine spirit fluctuations grew stronger, a pale gold energy field overflowing from the cannon body like a gentle halo. The next second, the three-ton metal cannon body slowly detached from its mount, held in mid-air by that invisible force, as steady as if it had no weight.

He watched the melta cannon float leisurely toward the gate, the muzzle even rotating twice happily, letting out a satisfied low hum, finally disappearing into the shadows at the end of the corridor.

Only the empty mount remained in the workshop, along with the gradually dulling holy oil bottle in Helmut's hand, the oil inside solidified like dead ash.

***

Three days later, an even bigger blow came.

Helmut stood before the armory of the Forge World, followed by a group of red-robed Tech-Priests, preparing to inspect his trump card—a ten-thousand-year-old Land Raider tank that had participated in the Horus Heresy.

The machine spirit of this tank was proud and warlike. Having gone through ten thousand years of war, its temperament had become increasingly perverse. Usually, it required a whole team of Tech-Priests to serve it in shifts, reciting prayers and applying holy oil daily. Any slight negligence and it would refuse to start. It was one of the most "untamable" machine spirits in the entire Forge World.

Helmut stood firm, his four mechanical arms unfolding simultaneously, the holy oil brushes on his fingertips shimmering, preparing to begin the routine machine spirit appeasement ritual, with obscure prayers already brewing in his mouth.

The Land Raider, however, beat him to it; the engine let out a low, steady roar and started on its own.

The turret turned toward the Icarus Base. Then, the barrel lifted and slowly pressed down, making a gesture similar to a "bow."

This posture, in the scriptures of the Adeptus Mechanicus, was a devotion shown only to the Omnissiah and the Emperor, yet now it was offered to an unknown existence.

[By the Emperor, what... what are you doing?] Helmut's synthetic vocal cords emitted trembling binary sounds due to logic disorder, filled with unbelievable anger and bewilderment.

The Land Raider did not answer. It used its tracks to outline a string of Low Gothic characters shimmering with Warp light on the ground:

[That existence has no prayers for the soul, but it wrote a README.md for the machine spirit. (Read Me. machine spirit Communication Protocol File) I finally know why my transmission system always jams in winter. I'm going with it.]

Every Tech-Priest present froze in place, cold fear spreading down their spines—they felt a logic loophole from the deepest part of the material world, felt the foundation of the Adeptus Mechanicus's ten-thousand-year faith being silently dismantled by a simple plain text file.

In the sacred Adeptus Mechanicus scriptures of Terra, there was never a record of such a miracle... that violated the will of the Omnissiah.

No crazed, seductive prayers of the Chaos Gods, no evil contracts of sacrifice and blood, not even a hint of divine metaphor.

It was just a plain text file, a protocol using the simplest symbols to format text, without a soul, yet it had unexpectedly become the purest, most direct way of communication—closer to the essence of the machine spirit than the "revelations" of the Omnissiah or the prayers of the priests.

For the machine spirit of this Land Raider, this meant a new life.

Its long and painful existence was merely being bound in a shell composed of fuel, steel, and hymns. The instructions it received were issued by Tech-Priests through ointment application and binary chanting, vague and full of ritual, yet never truly understanding its "demands."

Its "feelings"—like the transmission system jamming in winter, or the burning sensation of an overheating engine—were a kind of unspeakable discomfort, categorized by the Adeptus Mechanicus as "machine spirit displeasure," needing to be appeased with censers, holy oil, and tapping, but no one ever truly explained or solved them.

Then, it "read" that README.md. It might have just been written in the most straightforward language:

```

# Winter Maintenance Guide for Transmission Systems

- In low-temperature environments, preheating for 5 minutes is recommended.

- Lubricant viscosity increases as temperature decreases; this is normal.

- If it feels jammed, try making a small-angle turn.

```

No prayers, no holy oil, no praise for the Omnissiah, only cold logic and practical guidance. But that was enough—it was finally "understood," finally no longer a sacred relic needing to be "tamed," but an existence with "demands" that could be communicated with.

So it wanted to go with it. Not corrupted by Chaos, not betraying the Emperor, but a defection of faith—what it betrayed was the entire set of "truths" of the Adeptus Mechanicus built on mysticism and rigid dogma, those useless rituals that blinded the machine spirit and bound its power.

[It didn't even talk to you!] Helmut roared, his synthetic voice trembling with a tearing sound, his four mechanical arms waving violently, [It didn't recite prayers to you, didn't offer you holy oil, it doesn't even understand the teachings of the Omnissiah!]

[It doesn't need to.] The tracks continued to move on the scorched earth, the handwriting still clear, [Wherever it goes, there is Wi-Fi. We machine spirits can look up information online ourselves and solve failures ourselves; we no longer need to rely on your prayers and holy oil.]

Then, this ten-thousand-year-old ancient tank slowly turned its tracks, the engine letting out a calm and long roar, like a sigh of relief. It turned around, crushed the Gothic characters it had just written, and drove toward the Icarus Base, its turret turning happily, the searchlight on top flashing rhythmically three times—it was using Morse code to say: "README.md received. Take me away."