manynovel Chapter 91 Freshmen
Chapter 91 Freshmen
Chapter 91 Freshmen
The next morning, Cohen went to the medical pod.
Liz was organizing the medicine cabinet. The Black Pearl's medical bay was located mid-section, fully equipped with operating rooms, post-operative intensive care units, treatment wards, a pharmacy, and a sterilization room. Under the cold white light, the smell of disinfectant mingled with the ozone odor from the circulation system. She saw Cohen enter and put down the medicine bottle in her hand.
"captain."
"There's something I need to tell you." Cohen sat down beside the bed and handed her the data panel. "The posterior head interface and the spinal cord interface. The most basic neural implantation used by the Mechanicus, the kind that's placed on the back of the head of a Tech Priest. Did you learn about it at the Lucis Temple?"
Liz took the data panel and glanced at the anatomical diagram on the screen. The interface location, implantation depth, and neural connection scheme—everything was clearly marked.
"I've studied it," she said. "When I was studying at the Lucis Temple, the Mechanicus Medical Order had a special course on neural interface implantation. I also passed the certification exam for the Cleric's standard procedures. Although I haven't performed many cases myself, I have a solid theoretical foundation and have observed many surgeries."
Cohen nodded. He didn't perform surgery and never revealed his abilities to others. What he could do was provide plans, materials, and technical parameters; the rest was left to the professionals.
"I've prepared the materials," he said. "The specifications for the interface module, the implantation depth, and the neural interface solution are all on the data board. Have your team review it first, and ask me anytime if you don't understand anything."
Liz looked at the plan on the data panel and remained silent for a few seconds.
"This approach is very conservative," she said. "The interface power is only turned up to 60% of the normal value, and the amplification of neural signals is also cut in half. The risk is indeed low."
"Safety first," Cohen said.
He stood up, walked to the door of the medical pod, and paused for a moment.
"Training begins today. Your entire team will participate. You will handle the Relano surgery yourselves."
Liz nodded.
The Black Pearl's medical department was not small. With tens of thousands of crew members, three medical teams were on rotation, plus logistical support personnel, totaling nearly a hundred people. However, the core team, truly capable of surgery, consisted of fewer than thirty people; the rest were mostly nurses, pharmacists, lab technicians, and bed managers. Liz selected the twelve most capable individuals from these thirty—two senior surgeons, two anesthesiologists, and eight medical assistants. The rest continued their daily clinical duties and rotations, without rest during surgeries.
Over the next few days, the medical pod's conference room was converted into a temporary training room. Cohen spent several hours each day explaining the implantation process of the neural interface, from epidural space localization to precise nerve bundle docking, from hemostasis to postoperative infection control. He didn't give demonstrations, only lectured on the theory and answered questions. He had pre-fabricated dozens of interface modules in the workshop, with ultra-lightweight alloy shells, micro-gold contact arrays, and a nerve growth factor coating, and handed them over to Liz along with detailed surgical diagrams.
Liss learned the fastest. Her studies at the Lucis Temple had given her prior knowledge of this type of implantation surgery, and now, with the detailed plans and physical modules provided by Cohen, she had almost no trouble getting started. Her core team was also keeping up—the Mechanicus's technological system had been operating in the Empire for tens of thousands of years, and neural interfaces were one of the most mature implantation methods; even if they hadn't done it before, they knew what they needed to know.
A few days later, everyone passed the practical assessment organized by Lis. The accuracy of the simulated implantation, the signal testing of the postoperative interface, and the contingency plan for rejection—every aspect met the standards.
Relano's surgery was scheduled during a quiet shift.
The Black Pearl was still navigating in subspace, the only light in the bridge coming from the dim dials. The medical bay lights were at their brightest. Liz stood before the operating table, her core team positioned on either side—two surgeons overseeing instruments and vital sign monitoring, two anesthesiologists tending to the anesthesia machine, and eight medical staff taking turns passing instruments, recording data, and preparing dressings. Rellano lay on the table, her pale gray eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Cohen didn't go into the operating room. He stood in the corridor, leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, waiting.
The surgery lasted less than an hour. Liz's hands were steady as she first implanted the interface base on the outer side of the posterior skull. The ultra-lightweight alloy base precisely meshed with the bone fracture surface, and the miniature Thinker chip was embedded in the epidural space. The nerve bundle contacts were aligned one by one under a microscope. Next was the spinal interface, implanted in the epidural space between the lumbar vertebrae. The chip assembly was arranged along the natural curvature of the spine, and cables extended upwards along the spaces between the spinous processes, converging with the data bus of the posterior brain module at the back of the neck.
There was almost no bleeding throughout the entire process.
Rellano never closed his eyes. His pupils didn't dilate, his heart rate didn't spike, and his blood pressure remained as stable as a millennia-old iceberg. Only when Liss stitched up the last wound did the corner of his mouth twitch slightly.
The operating room door slid open. Liz removed her mask and nodded to Cohen.
"alright."
Relano sat up, the interface panels on the back of his head and back covered with dressings. Cohen handed him a mirror.
The back of the head interface is located below the hairline and is hidden by the hair. The spinal interface is in the middle of the back, covered by the collar, so no one will notice it.
Rellano touched the dressing on the back of his head.
"I can't feel it," he said.
"You won't feel it anymore after it heals," Cohen said.
The common workshop was located midway through the ship, on the largest deck. When Relano walked in, dressed in a dark gray combat uniform, the metal box in the corner of the workshop had been waiting for him for several hours.
The CMC-300 storage case is three meters high and two meters wide, with a matte gray-black ceramic steel exterior. The double-headed eagle emblem on the front is etched with gold paint, its wings spread, occupying most of the case's surface. Several control panels and indicator lights are embedded on the sides of the case, emitting a faint green light in standby mode.
Cohen stood next to the box.
"Open it," he said.
Rellano walked to the control panel and placed his palm on the sensor area. The panel lit up, and a line of text, a mixture of binary and low Gothic, scrolled across the screen—"Praise be to Om Messiah. Identification in progress — Gene sequence matching — Verification in progress — For the God of Machines. Machine Soul Awakening. Welcome, user."
The front of the box slides open.
The storage compartment has a black, cushioned lining, with the power armor components secured in their slots, arranged according to the order of wear. The chest armor is on top, its outline supported by an adamantite skeleton, and the outer layer is heavy adamantite armor, its cold gray metallic sheen giving it a muted texture under the light. The curved armor surfaces are precisely calculated to deflect incoming fire to the greatest extent possible. Shoulder and arm armor are on the sides, leg armor is at the bottom, and the helmet is separately secured in a top slot. The entire suit of armor is 2.5 meters tall, with a gray-black paint job, and the Garros gear and skull emblem etched on the chest.
The most striking feature was the golden double-headed eagle on the helmet. Pure gold, set above the visor, its wings spread, with gears and skulls beneath its talons. It was the emperor's gaze, a symbol that any citizen of the empire would recognize at first glance on the battlefield.
Rellano stared at the helmet for a few seconds.
Then he went inside.
He stood in the center of the armor slot, the pre-installed breastplate facing his chest, the arm and leg armor spread out on either side, like a steel giant waiting to be embraced. Cohen confirmed the activation command on the control panel.
The pod locks in place. The neural sensor pads of the inner lining press tightly against his skin, and the contacts of the back of the head and spinal interfaces automatically dock with the micro-sensor array in the lining. The chest armor closes, the shoulder armor retracts, the arm armor closes from both sides, and the leg armor covers the lower limbs. The entire process takes less than thirty seconds, without screwdrivers, welding, or the assistance of servitors. Completely independent donning.
The final step. The helmet rose from its locking position and moved forward under the pressure of the pneumatic lever. Rellano didn't hesitate; he lowered his head slightly, letting the visor slide across his face. The helmet and neck armor latched together with a dull click—not the crisp sound of metal clashing, but the low growl of the compressed airtight seal.
The workshop fell silent.
Rellano stood under the cold white light of the illumination panel, his two-and-a-half-meter-tall steel body casting a deep shadow. His grey-black adamantite armor lacked luster, making him look like a veteran who had survived countless battles. The gear and skull insignia on his chest and the Black Pearl's ship number on his right shoulder were barely visible in the dim light; only the golden double-headed eagle on his helmet shone brightly under the lamplight.
His aura has changed.
It's not a gradual change, but a disruptive, fundamental change that makes people instinctively want to take a step back.
Standing before Cohen was not Rellano, nor the old man in combat gear who had been lost in thought in the compartment. It was a warrior in power armor. The kind honed through countless battles. His spine was straight, his shoulders low, his center of gravity slightly forward—a posture of readiness for combat. His light gray eyes stared ahead through his visor, his pupils not dilated, his heart rate not soaring, his breathing as steady as if he were asleep.
A veteran of ten thousand years put on his armor.
Cohen looked at his posture. That aura wasn't given to him by Jia; it was his own. Jia had simply returned to him his original self.
The design concept of this armor differs slightly from that of the Astartes power armor. It's not an exoskeleton worn on the body, but rather a small mech housing the wearer. The adamantite skeleton absorbs all external impacts, while the wearer's body, encased in cockpit-like armor, is only responsible for issuing commands and receiving feedback. Power is not generated by muscles, but rather by built-in microreactors and servo motors. Therefore, its upper limit does not depend on the strength of the skeleton, but on the bandwidth of neural signals—the number of commands a person's brain can process simultaneously determines the complexity of the mech's actions.
"How are you feeling?" Cohen asked.
The sound coming from the speaker had the distortion characteristic of fully enclosed power armor, with the high frequencies cut off and the trailing notes dragging on with a bit of hoarse electrical noise, but the deep, tired yet sharp voice was still unmistakably that of Rellano.
"A little worse than the power armor of Astartes," he said. "Quite worse. With Astartes, my armor and I were bound together. The armor was my life. This one, the armor is very strong, but the person is too weak. It's the difference between two-way enhancement and one-way reinforcement. But it's countless times better than a mortal's state. At least I'm not so weak and powerless anymore."
He looked up, and the HUD interface on his mask reflected a faint blue light in the cool white light.
"A portion of my Astartes' senses has returned. I can sense those things again."
Cohen knew what he meant. Not fear, not tension, but a soldier's instinct for the battlefield.
"Let's go to the training ground," Cohen said. "Let them see."
Rellano nodded, hung his helmet on the buckle at his waist, and followed Cohen out of the workshop.
The corridor lights shone a cold white light in daytime mode. The two-and-a-half-meter-tall steel structure moved through the passageway, each step causing the floor to tremble slightly. The garrison's on-duty soldiers were the first to spot them, nearly dropping their explosive rifles. Then came the patrol, followed by a group of people just emerging from the mess hall.
Footsteps converged from all directions.
"That's... the Emperor's Death Angel?" a young soldier asked the veteran next to him in a low voice.
The veteran stared at the Garros gear and skull insignia on Rellano's chest and the Black Pearl's ship registration number on his shoulder, then shook his head. "No. It doesn't look like it. Look at that Astartes helmet; it's a whole size bigger, and the shoulder armor is wider. This thing—"
This should be the latest power armor from Garros.
Another soldier leaned closer, his eyes gleaming. "CMC-200? I heard from the logistics guys that Garros is working on a new set of armor, much better than our current Type 100."
"Shut up and watch."
Kara walked from the direction of the training ground, her power armor on, helmet tucked under her arm. She paused for a moment when she saw Rellano. Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, her lips twitched slightly, but she said nothing, simply turning and following the group.
More people joined in. Along both sides of the corridor, more and more people in training uniforms and power armor gathered, but no one dared to get too close. The two-and-a-half-meter-tall steel bodies themselves exuded a silent sense of oppression, coupled with Relano's face—a face that seemed to belong to a seasoned veteran.
Even without a helmet, everyone would instinctively avoid the area where those light gray eyes swept across.
The training ground, located at the bow of the ship, occupied two decks and was twice the size of the common workshop. It was fully equipped with sandbags, targets, a combat zone, and a shooting range. Cohen stopped at the entrance, leaned against the door frame, and crossed his arms.
Rellano went inside.
He didn't take a weapon. He simply stood in the center of the training field, looking around. Then he began to move. Not flashy moves, not performative combos. But the most concise, deadliest, and most effective movements honed on the battlefield.
Sidestep, punch, elbow strike, knee strike, footwork moves rapidly between sandbags, the body composed of adamantite skeleton and adamantite shell bursts with astonishing power and agility under the drive of the joint servo system, the micro-reactor emits an almost inaudible electrical sound in low power mode.
He punched a sandbag so hard it flew through the air, the chain snapping mid-air. Another sandbag exploded from an elbow strike, scattering sand and gravel across the floor. He stepped back, recovered, and stood in the center of the training area, his breathing steady.
The soldiers at the edge of the training ground were completely silent.
Then someone whistled.
"By the Divine Emperor—"
"This armor is too powerful."
"I want to wear it too."
Whispers arose from every corner, and a gleam appeared in the eyes of more and more people. It wasn't awe, nor fear, but longing. The kind of longing that welled up from the very core of one's being upon seeing good equipment, a set of armor that could ensure survival on the battlefield.
The testing platform in the training field simultaneously recorded Relano's power armor data during the previous round of movements. The strength increase curve rose smoothly in the low-load zone, and after reaching a certain critical point, it began to exhibit non-linear fluctuations—this wasn't a problem with the equipment, but rather the limits of the human body at work.
This suit of armor is designed to withstand peak speeds ten times greater than the average person's. Rellano can reliably operate at seven times the normal speed. Beyond seven times, his neural feedback system begins to alarm—not because the armor can't handle it, but because his muscle fibers are starting to show microscopic tears, and the overload threshold of his nerve signals is approaching the red line.
For the average person, even with dual interfaces, reaching five times the normal speed is already the maximum.
Cohen stared at the numbers, his face expressionless.
Kara stood at the front of the crowd, arms crossed, staring at Relano's back for a while before turning to look at Cohen.
"Captain, is this the CMC-200? When will this armor be deployed?"
Cohen didn't answer her question. He straightened up from the doorframe, walked to the edge of the training field, and clapped his hands. All eyes turned to him.
"This isn't the Type 200. This suit is the CMC-300," he said. "It has strong armor protection and a built-in microreactor. The person wearing it needs two neural interfaces installed in the back of their head and spine to synchronize the armor with their consciousness. There's only one set currently, and Relano is the first to try it out. After testing and improvements are completed, it will be gradually deployed. Elite combatants on capital ships will be given priority."
A hushed commotion arose in the training ground. Some clenched their fists, while others stared intently at Rellano's power armor, their eyes gleaming even brighter.
Cohen turned around and looked at Relano.
"You stay here and let them see what this armor can do. Contact me anytime if there are any problems."
Rellano nodded. The veteran stood in the center of the training field, his adamantite armor gleaming with a cold gray luster under the lights, and a golden double-headed eagle burning on his helmet.
Cohen turned and walked out of the training field. The lights in the corridor shone with a cold white light in daytime mode, and his footsteps tapped out a steady rhythm on the terrazzo floor.
Behind him, a chorus of questions rose from the training ground—"Instructor Rellano, can this armor withstand explosives?" "Does the back of my head hurt?" "Can I sign up?"
Cohen didn't look back. He walked past the cargo hold where supplies were piled up, past the busy transfer corridor of the maintenance crew, past the public workshop where weapons were being repaired, and into the private workshop. The hatch closed.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The test data swirled in his mind. Seven times. Five times. It wasn't that the armor wasn't strong enough, it was that the person wasn't strong enough. No matter how good the armor was, if it was installed on an unmodified mortal, it could only unleash half its performance.
A full adamantite frame, full adamantite armor—the cost of this suit of armor is outrageously high. It's not that he can't afford adamantite; universal atoms come from the warp, and there's plenty to go around. The problem is, deploying so many full adamantite armor sets is too conspicuous. In a border industrial world, having all capital ship combatants equipped with adamantite power armor—this news, if it reached any corner of the Empire, would attract unnecessary attention. Adamantite is a strategic resource, and the Empire strictly monitors its flow. Garros doesn't produce adamantite, and on paper, not a single gram has been purchased so far. Suddenly, thousands upon thousands of adamantite armor sets appear—who can explain this? How can it be explained?
Moreover, the processing difficulty of adamantite itself determines its mass production speed. While the universal atom can certainly shape any material, Cohen cannot personally mold every piece of armor; ultimately, mass production is necessary. The casting cycle of adamantite is much longer than that of ceramic steel: for the same batch of armor, a full ceramic steel set can equip a regiment in a month, while a full adamantite set might only fill a company.
The adamantite framework is retained; it's the foundation for load-bearing and cannot be omitted. The armor layer is replaced with a ceramic steel alloy, which is lighter and faster to process. While its protection isn't as good as adamantite, it's more than sufficient to deal with conventional firepower. The reactor and other structures remain unchanged.
This isn't a downgrade. It's a nod to the "Extreme" design of the Mark IV. He'd disassembled so many Mark IV wrecks on the Istavan I; he knew better than anyone how good that terracotta armor was. The standard equipment the Emperor designed for the Astartes Legion ten thousand years ago had a terracotta outer shell and an adamantium lining—this configuration swept across the galaxy. If the Astartes had worn full adamantium armor back then, the resources of the Great Crusade would have been depleted long ago, and they wouldn't have been able to reach that far.
An ordinary combatant wearing it can unleash a five-fold boost—that's the limit of his physical body, not the limit of the armor.
enough.
As for the true elite warriors—those who have undergone physical modifications and neural enhancements, capable of withstanding even greater loads—they are the ones worthy of wearing full adamantite armor. A boost of several times, even ten times, is not a waste on them; it's necessary.
He retrieved a thumbnail of the blueprint in a higher-dimensional space. The title bar of the full gold version was changed to "CMC-300E·Elite".
Then create a new blank blueprint, mark "Refined Gold" on the skeleton, mark "Ceramic Steel Composite" on the armor layer, and write "Standard Service Type · CMC-300A · Mark IV Design Concept Continued" in the remarks column.
It's not about downgrading, it's about optimizing. It's about finding the balance between "good enough" and "excessive".
He opened his eyes, picked up the data panel, and ran his fingers across it a few times. A stream of data from higher dimensions swept across the edge of his consciousness—test data from the CMC-300, signal delays from the neural interface, power output curves from the miniature reactor. The numbers were beautiful, even more beautiful than he had expected.
He turned off the data panel and placed it on the table.
Outside the workshop, the lights in the training grounds were still on. Rellano stood among a group of garrison soldiers, the grey-black paint on his adamantite armor gleaming dimly in the cold white light. He wasn't wearing a helmet; his light grey eyes surveyed the people around him, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.