In the sacrificial rituals of numerous Chaotic evil gods, patterns emerged. Requirements. Prices.
Khorne's sacrifices were the simplest and easiest to understand. Straightforward. Brutal. Honest in their horror.
Offering the enemy's heads and blood would be sufficient to satisfy the Blood God. Skulls for the Skull Throne. Blood for the Blood God. Simple mathematics of slaughter.
Sacrifices to Nurgle were relatively easy as well, at least superficially. The Grandfather was generous. Accepting.
They only needed to collect information on viruses and bacteria from the local world to barely manage appeasing the Plague Lord. Samples. Data. Seeds of corruption.
But the sacrificial rituals of Slaanesh and Tzeentch posed different challenges entirely. Complex. Obscure. Maddeningly vague.
Nolan, his brow furrowed in concentration, read the requirements repeatedly for a long time. Each pass through the text revealed new layers of impossibility.
He still couldn't figure out what they truly wanted. The demands were paradoxical. Subjective. Impossible to quantify.
Slaanesh required offering the pinnacle of art or the ultimate enjoyment beyond mortal senses. What constituted pinnacle? Who judged ultimate? The metrics were deliberately unclear.
Tzeentch demanded schemes or widely circulated, cunning plots that required capricious strategy. Plans within plans. Deception as offering. But how complex was complex enough?
However, Nolan, whose thoughts were racing through possibilities and implications, reacted with sudden understanding.
The sacrificial rituals of the Chaos Gods still contained deadly pitfalls that one could easily fall into if not careful! Traps hidden within apparent simplicity.
Let's set aside the obscure and difficult-to-understand Slaanesh and the damned Tzeentch for now. Even attempting to satisfy them seemed suicidal.
Even the seemingly simple demands of Khorne were bound to be traps in disguise. Escalation built into the system.
Perhaps the first dozen or even dozens of sacrifices would be very easy. A few skulls. Some blood. Manageable numbers.
However, as time passed, as the relationship developed, the number of sacrifices required by the Chaos God would inevitably increase! Appetite growing. Demands escalating. Never satisfied.
If Nolan remained completely unaware of this pattern and continued carrying out sacrifices, following the path to its logical conclusion...
Then in the end, he might discover that even slaughtering the entire population of a planet wouldn't satisfy Khorne's appetite! Billions dead. Still not enough. Never enough.
Nurgle's sacrificial rituals were even more insidious when examined closely. Subtler poison.
The Chaos God who acquired disease substances from the native world would surely repurpose them, twisting them with warp energies to create even more terrifying plagues specifically tailored for the local population.
When the holy number countdown ended, when blessing descended, disaster would follow.
Even if Nurgle only blessed a single individual, just one chosen champion, it might still cause a widespread plague to spread across continents! Patient zero with divine backing. Unstoppable contagion.
Unfortunately, Nolan had no choice at all now. The timer counted down. The gods watched. Action was required.
He could only carefully consider which Chaotic evil god posed the greatest immediate threat to the native world. Lesser of evils. Damage control.
In order to minimize the threat that their blessing might bring to Earth, strategic calculation was necessary. Which damnation could be survived?
Fortunately, there was still some time before the blessings of the Chaos Gods arrived. Days. Weeks maybe. The countdowns ticked slowly.
Nolan and his team still had time and opportunity to prepare. To fortify. To pray.
Teams of automatic servo robots waving mechanical tentacles moved with coordinated purpose. They were controlled by Procellas, the machine spirit, and David working in concert.
They shuttled back and forth throughout the entire Twin Islands base, carrying materials and tools. Performing modifications. Executing orders.
Statues of the Emperor were being installed almost everywhere. On surrounding walls. On ceilings. In corridors and chambers. Bronze and gold. Stone and ceramite.
Countless prayer texts were being engraved beside them. High Gothic. Low Gothic. Every language the faithful spoke. Protection through devotion.
Even the Servo Skull Raditus, who occasionally ventured out for metaphorical fresh air despite not breathing, couldn't help but emit electronic approximation of a sigh.
The Twin Islands base now gave the ancient tech-priest a sense of familiarity. Like returning to the Warhammer universe. Like coming home to sacred forges of Mars.
At this moment, Nolan, seemingly returned to normal after his near-corruption, sat in the center of the base's lobby. His Terminator armor gleamed under overhead lights.
He instructed Procellas to notify Raditus. The message was clear: increase production of the Intelligent Control Legion. More robots. More soldiers. More defenses.
Then he opened the simulator page without any attempt to hide it from David standing nearby. No secrets between them now. Not after what had happened.
He casually sorted through the salvaged supplies that had just been added to storage. Inventory assessment. Resource cataloging.
Although Nolan's accumulated resource time had been wiped out overnight, converted entirely into salvage attempts, the final operation had also brought him many valuable gains. Compensation for loss. Trade-offs accepted.
For example, four complete sets of ancient power armor. Two from the Holy Blood Angels Chapter. Two from the Ultramarines Chapter. Legendary wargear from legendary legions.
In addition, there was an XV8 'Crisis' battlesuit from the Tau Empire. Alien technology. Advanced systems. And the corpse of an ordinary Tau Fire Warrior for study.
They'd even unexpectedly acquired an ion rifle belonging to the space dwarves, those rarely encountered xenos. The weapon was a curiosity. Potentially useful.
However, all of the above were just appetizers for Nolan. Preliminary rewards. The main course waited below.
What truly drew his attention to the simulator screen were two other incredibly powerful weapons that were completely unexpected! Artifacts. Relics. Impossibilities made real.
The descriptions materialized:
[The Dawnbringer Lost for Ten Thousand Years (Primarch Weapon)]
[Note: "This was a grand gift that the eighteenth Primarch, Vulkan, intended to present to Warmaster Horus, but Vulkan unexpectedly sensed the darkness brewing within Horus's heart, and he chose to withdraw the gift with great concern."]
[Note: "This indestructible, massive warhammer accompanied Vulkan, the Lord of Fire Dragons, through several deadly crises; the edge of the hammerhead still seemed to retain the blood of a Primarch."]
[Note: "'Tsk tsk, my lord eagerly anticipates your future... Rest assured, in order to pass through the psychic barrier of the sorcerer's undead, there are no signs of chaotic corruption on it; it is merely a symbolic hammer.' — Kairos the Fateweaver, following Tzeentch's orders, divined the exact location of this warhammer and then specially gifted it to you."]
[Note: "The Dawnbringer's size and weight far exceed those of all standard melee weapons; to use it skillfully requires strength approaching that of a Primarch."]
[Note: "'Eighty! Eighty! Eighty!' Vulkan roared."]
And beside it, another treasure:
[Plasma Revolver: Heart of the Furnace (Primarch Weapon)]
[Note: "This plasma revolver, comparable in size to a standard-issue bolter, was a sidearm gifted to Primarch Vulkan by Primarch Ferrus Manus. However, for unknown reasons, Vulkan himself was rather indifferent to this weapon, only carrying it around year-round because it was a gift from his brother."]
[Note: "This plasma revolver can unleash six terrifying plasma charges capable of destroying any armored vehicle at once, and can be unleashed again after a short cooldown period."]
[Note: "This plasma revolver seems to have been blessed by the Ork gods, Gork and Mork, through wrestling. The wielder has a certain chance to unleash several times the terrifying plasma without any cooldown time. The corresponding price is that the wielder will be followed or challenged to duels by large numbers of greenskin orks."]
[Note: "The Greenskin Chorus: Gork is brutal and cunning, Mork is cunning and brutal!"]
[Note: "'Forty! Forty! Forty!' Vulkan muttered."]
At this moment, Nolan, sitting beside the metal round table, couldn't help but widen his eyes. Shock. Disbelief. Awe.
Vulkan's weapons. The Fire Drake himself. Artifacts that had touched a Primarch's hands now offered to a mortal.
He took a deep breath, chest expanding in the Terminator armor. Then propelled the massive suit to its feet with servos humming.
He headed directly toward the base's training ground. Testing required. Immediate assessment necessary.
"Bring it on!" The declaration emerged fierce. Determined. Ready to attempt the impossible.
A few minutes later, having crossed the base at armor-enhanced speed, Nolan arrived at the training ground. The space was vast. Reinforced. Designed for testing destructive weapons.
He unhesitatingly retrieved his first Primarch-level melee weapon from the simulator, calling it forth into reality.
As for the annotations related to Kairos Fateweaver mentioned above, the Tzeentchian daemon's involvement, Nolan made calculations.
Since neither the simulator nor the Emperor specifically warned against this weapon despite daemon handling, it meant there was no corruption present. Verified. Safe. As safe as anything touched by Chaos could be.
Even if there were any problems, even if some taint remained, it was just daemon-touched metal. His strong will could handle it. Had to handle it.
BOOM—
In an instant, materialization completed.
A hammer with a handle alone nearly 1.8 meters long struck the ground. The shaft was thick as a man's torso. Dark metal wrapped in leather grip worn by ten millennia.
The massive, square-shaped hammerhead, almost the size of the Terminator's ceramite shoulder pauldron, slammed heavily onto the metal floor!
The impact created terrifying cracks radiating outward like lightning. Spider-web patterns of structural failure. An extremely dull thud resonated through the entire training ground, felt more than heard.
Nolan took a deep breath, oxygen flooding his system. Preparation. Commitment.
He immediately moved the Terminator armor forward, servos whining with effort. He positioned himself carefully.
Then gripped the Dawnbringer's thick hammer handle firmly with both ceramite-encased hands. The haft felt right. Balanced despite impossible weight.
"Rise!"
However, even with Nolan wearing Terminator armor, even with his already considerable enhanced physical strength from partial Astartes modifications, reality asserted itself.
He could barely lift the enormous, incredibly heavy warhammer off the ground! Muscles screamed. Servos strained. Power armor pushed to limits.
To actually wield it in battle, to swing it with the speed and precision required? That would be completely impossible! Far beyond current capability.
At this moment, Nolan's face gradually turned red beneath his helmet. Veins bulged. Teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
Blood pressure spiked. Heart thundered. Every fiber of enhanced muscle fired.
"Drink!"
With a roar that was part battle cry and part pain, he used absolutely all his strength. Everything. No reserves.
Nolan lifted the Dawnbringer above his head, arms fully extended! Victory. Momentary. Unsustainable.
Then, with gravity's assistance and no control remaining, he slammed it down heavily onto the training ground floor!
RUMBLE—
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