With a final groan of twisting metal, the once-unbeatable Chaos Terminator finally collapsed.
He did not die in some noble duel; instead, he was crudely torn limb from limb by several Ogryns using sheer brute force. His armor was stripped away like a crab being de-shelled before he was finally submerged under a mountain of flesh.
The battlefield finally fell silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the Ogryns.
Huron strode onto the high ground at the center of the battlefield, a look of satisfaction appearing on his face as he surveyed the blood-drenched, massive players. These Ogryns were indeed incredibly useful.
"Well done, big guys! You have shown a strength that strikes terror into the hearts of our enemies!" Huron shouted, skillfully "painting the bread" with empty promises. "The victory of this battle belongs to you! Everyone will receive double rations! Now, dismissed! Go enjoy your rest!"
"Ohhh! Double rations!"
"For the Emperor! Huron is the best!"
The Ogryn players cheered. Some logged off right where they lay, while others ran off in small groups to scavenge whatever loot might remain on the battlefield, dispersing quickly.
Adjusting his cloak, Huron walked straight toward a corner of the battlefield. There, a player wearing the red robes of the Adeptus Mechanicus was half-squatting beside the corpse of a fallen Chaos Lord, holding a servo-caliper and seemingly measuring something.
"As per our pre-war agreement, this planet is now under your jurisdiction," Huron said, getting straight to the point with the authority of a superior. "You hold administrative power and the right to establish a self-defense force. In exchange, this planet will be protected by a garrison of our Astral Claws Astartes. You must pay a set amount of tax annually and cannot unreasonably refuse trade from the Astral Claws."
[Cog 007] stood up and wiped the grease from his hands. "Of course. This is what we agreed upon. The spirit of the contract is the foundation of cooperation."
"So, have you thought about what you'll use to pay your taxes?" Huron asked, his gaze sweeping across the war-torn wasteland. "This planet's industrial facilities are almost entirely destroyed. I doubt you can produce any decent resources immediately."
The other party didn't look embarrassed. Instead, he rubbed his chin and pointed to the mess of Chaos Space Marine corpses covering the ground. "If you don't take these bodies away, I can recast this damaged power armor. I should be able to produce over two hundred sets of brand-new power armor from them."
"This armor?" Huron frowned, a flash of disgust in his eyes.
He looked at a wreck near his feet—the power armor of a Khorne worshiper. It was not only covered in blasphemous brass runes, but the twisted flesh had actually fused with the ceramite plating, still squirming and emitting a nauseating Warp stench.
"The Warp residue on these is severe," Huron warned. "Normally, these things can only be destroyed."
"It won't be an issue," Cog 007 replied with extreme confidence. "I possess unique technical means to strip away the impurities. I guarantee that once recast, their Machine Spirits will be absolutely loyal—as pure as anything coming off Mars."
Huron stared at him for a few seconds. Though skeptical, he chose to believe, given the Mechanicus's endless supply of bizarre technologies.
"Fine," Huron said, giving up the argument since the other was so determined, and pivoted to squeezing out more profit. "Since you have this ability to turn trash into treasure, how about an annual tax of one hundred sets of power armor?"
"One hundred sets?!"
Cog 007 nearly jumped, his voice cracking. "I know negotiations involve asking for the moon and settling for the dirt, but your asking price is way too high! You've gone from the Earth to outer space! This is power armor, not a flak vest!"
He held up two mechanical fingers and made a cross. "Ten sets a year, no more! This planet might not even have all the materials; ceramite and adamantium don't grow in the ground, after all. If I can't build them later, I'll make up the value with bolters."
Internally, Huron was overjoyed.
Power armor was the lifeblood of a Space Marine. Even ten sets a year was a massive fortune for a Chapter; many Chapters might not see that many new suits in decades. And all he was giving up was a ruined planet that needed managing anyway, and a pile of garbage that was supposed to be destroyed.
However, the old fox put on a reluctant face, as if he were suffering a great loss. He sighed. "Fine. Considering the difficulties of post-war reconstruction, I will begrudgingly accept. Ten sets it is."
He extended a hand, his metal gauntlet glinting coldly in the sun. "Then, by these terms, let us sign the contract, Lord Governor."
Cog 007 shook the massive metal hand. Despite the disparity in size, the player's aura was not weakened. "Pleasure doing business, Chapter Master Huron."
With the deal struck, Cog 007 wasted no more time. He turned and clapped his hands at a row of silent, towering figures standing behind him, issuing a concise command: "Baymax, begin operations. Separate the corpses from the power armor. Note: maximize the integrity of the armor plates; the meat scraps inside are not required."
To the hum of servo-motors, ten Castellan Robots painted a pristine, spotless white stepped forward. The screens on their rounded heads flickered with a soft blue light, looking almost cute in a clumsy way, but their actions were filled with mechanical ruthlessness and precision.
These "Baymax" units extended massive power fists, peeling open the twisted chest plates of the Chaos Space Marines as easily as peeling shrimp. Precise mechanical appendages popped out from their wrists, skillfully severing the mutated flesh and nerve bundles fused to the armor.
Squelch—Snap!
The flesh was ruthlessly stripped away, while precious ceramite and electronic components were stacked neatly to the side.
Huron watched the ten robots perform this grisly salvage work, somewhat taken aback. "Using Castellan Robots for this kind of work... isn't that a bit too extravagant? Such ancient war machines are usually treated as holy treasures by the Mechanicus."
"Efficiency is paramount, and they are obedient," Cog 007 said without looking back as he recorded the recovery data.
Then, as if remembering something, he added: "As a 'Purist,' I have a slight germaphobia. I don't like performing mechanical augmentations on fragile biological flesh; it's neither aesthetic nor stable."
He turned his head. "So, on this planet, your warriors will only see robots operating. They won't see a single servitor with a human brain, nor any biologically modified Skitarii. I hope you can inform your subordinates in advance so they aren't too surprised—and don't try to look for the wetware."
Huron's eyes narrowed.
In this galaxy full of superstition, the reason the Mechanicus used "servitors"—biological cyborgs—was because the Emperor strictly forbade the development of "Abominable Intelligence (AI)." Without a biological brain as a wetware core, pure machines were not allowed to have high levels of autonomy.
And the guy in front of him refused to mix biology with machinery, yet possessed a robot force capable of understanding complex commands and performing delicate dissections...
Huron instantly understood why this guy preferred a godforsaken border wasteland planet in exchange for absolute autonomy and seclusion.
This guy was playing with fire! He was researching forbidden Abominable Intelligence!
If a rigid Inquisitor were here, they would have already drawn a bolt pistol and screamed "Heresy." But as Huron looked at the ground being cleared of high-value power armor materials, a playful curve tugged at the corner of his mouth.
An ally with a secret, with capability, and who couldn't survive without his protection? It was perfect.
"Rest assured," Huron said smoothly, his tone carrying a sense of unspoken understanding. "As long as you remain loyal and pay my share of the taxes on time, my warriors will not interfere in your internal affairs."
Cog 007 looked at Huron. Behind him, a pure white robot had just torn off the head of a Khorne Berserker, the blue cursor on its white armor looking exceptionally innocent.
He nodded slightly. "I am forever loyal."