manynovel Chapter 89 Istvan III
Chapter 89 Istvan III
Chapter 89 Istvan III (5)
The sixth month.
The transport ship returned at low altitude along the route it had come from. He needed to deal with the Dreadnought at the bottom of the pit—he had confirmed before leaving that the life support pulse on the iron coffin was still active and had not deteriorated.
The sinkhole was tens of kilometers away. The transport ship swept across the barren wasteland, passing through the gray-black volcanic ash and dust.
Three days later, the transport ship hovered at the edge of the sinkhole. A thin layer of dark purple crystals had grown on the bottom of the pit, like living moss. His consciousness pierced through the sediment layer, touching the metal wall nearly a hundred meters below. The energy field of the sealed prayer was still there, perhaps for another thousand years.
Cohen jumped out of the transport plane, ordered the Castellan mechs to deploy defenses outside, and slid down into the crater alone, deploying the field. It crystallized into an atomic cloud. The vertical tunnel extended ninety meters downwards, passing through layers of rock, volcanic ash, and shattered metal debris.
The sealed prayer on the metal wall pulsated slowly. The runes, hastily carved ten thousand years ago, were mostly blurred by the corrosion of chaos, yet they still functioned. It wasn't how long the prayer itself could last, but rather the presence of the fearless machine spirit within the iron coffin. That machine spirit was an ancient, almost transparent being, worn down to its core, like a candle flame flickering for millennia in a storm, weak but not extinguished. With each heartbeat of the iron coffin, it supplied energy to the seal, sustaining the prayer's operation. It wasn't the prayer protecting the fearless, but the fearless protecting the prayer.
Cohen stood before the wall, paused for a moment, then reached out and pressed the heel of his hand against the metal. Standing here, he could accomplish everything.
The area unfolded. A 25-meter radius covered the entire tomb. He first cleaned the environment: the air inside the tomb, the dark purple crystals on the rock walls, and the corrosive dust that had accumulated over thousands of years were all decomposed. Toxic gases were transformed into harmless molecules, radiation sources were stripped away, and the temperature dropped from several hundred degrees to a suitable range. The entire tomb became clean and breathable.
Then his consciousness penetrated the wall, through the slumbering, millennia-old Defiant Dreadnought, and into its interior.
The disassembly command was issued. The Defiant Dreadnought's iron coffin, armor, hydraulic system, reactor, weapons, and drive system all transformed into an atomic cloud, flooding into the warehouse. Armor formulas, energy conduit routes, hydraulic sealing structures, planetary gear parameters, and a massive amount of technical blueprint fragments unfolded in higher-dimensional space.
Following the Engineer Power Armor, the Cardia Pistol, and the Starfortress Mech, a fourth Mech Soul Blueprint has emerged—"The Defiant Fearless Mech Soul Blueprint".
His consciousness continued to penetrate deeper into the iron coffin. The body, withered for ten thousand years—dried-up muscles, calcified bones…
Loss of elasticity in the blood vessels unfolds layer by layer in perception. Decomposition, atoms stored in the library. Not destruction, but stripping away.
Those limbs, corroded by chaotic radiation and long since rendered useless, were stripped away and removed at the atomic level. Only one thing remained—the brain.
The atrophied brain throbbed slowly to the low-frequency pulses of the nutrient solution. For ten thousand years, it had never stopped. It wasn't that it didn't want to stop, but rather that the loyalty bestowed upon its warriors by the Emperor was etched into the synapses of every neuron, into the base sequence of the gene helix, and into every fold of the soul.
Cohen probed the depths of the brain with his consciousness. At the atomic level, he saw structures beyond human capabilities—a density of neural synapses far exceeding human limits, an extra-strong neural network in the memory center, and a natural barrier against psychic energy. These were traces of Astartes modification. The pre-installed neural modifications in the gene seed had long since lost their activity, but the blueprints of those structures—the proliferation and arrangement of neurons, the crystallization of memory, and the molecular framework of the mental barrier—remained intact within the folds of the brain.
The decomposition command locks onto those structures. Atoms are stripped away, information is archived. In higher-dimensional space, new entries emerge—"Astartes Neural Modification Synaptic Enhancement Model Fragment," "Astartes Memory Lattice Data Architecture Fragment," "Astartes Mental Barrier Anti-Psionic Barrier Fragment." Not a complete blueprint, but sufficient for future enhancement of the mental resistance of mortal warriors.
Then he began to repair the brain. The neurons, corroded by chaos, were peeled away and rebuilt one by one. The atrophied brain tissue swelled again, cracks in the blood vessel walls were filled, and areas where myelin had peeled off were repaired. Oxygen and nutrients from the nutrient solution were delivered to each neuron through newly formed capillaries. The brain began to beat steadily within the life-sustaining sac.
Cohen separated the brain from the iron coffin and suspended it in a microgravity environment. He constructed a temporary life support sac at the atomic level—a transparent, soft organic membrane that precisely interfaces with blood vessels. Nutrient solution circulated, and oxygen permeated in.
The brain survived.
Atoms were retrieved from the warehouse and coalesced in the void to form a normal human body. A man in his early thirties, standing 1.85 meters tall, with a robust physique and handsome, masculine features. His bone density, muscle mass, and cardiopulmonary function were sculpted according to the Mechanicus's standard of peak human potential—a purely healthy, peak-physique, free of genetic modifications and implants. He had light wheat-colored skin, short dark brown hair, and a resolute face. Rellano. Not Astartes, the son of the Emperor, but merely a mortal.
The life support sac opens. The brain is transferred into the cranial cavity of the new body. Blood vessels are reconnected, and neural synapses establish connections with neurons.
The nerve bundles within the spinal cord and vertebrae connect segment by segment. The respiratory center in the brainstem sends the first signal—the chest rises and falls, the lungs expand, and air is inhaled.
My heart started beating.
Cohen took a step back, looking at the naked body. He spoke, his voice booming from the power armor's speakers: "Rellano. Wake up. Your wait is over."
The body's eyelids fluttered three times. He opened his eyes.
His light gray eyes still held the bewilderment of someone awakening from millennia of darkness. He gazed at the tomb's dome, at the blurred seals and prayers on the rock walls, then his eyes settled on the figure clad in power armor.
"————Who?" The voice was hoarse, as if squeezed out from between pebbles.
Cohen crouched down, and the HUD inside the mask projected lines of vital signs—all normal.
"Cohen Severus. Fifth-order Forging Sage of the Mechanicus," he said. "I came here because someone told me your name. Perhaps it was the Emperor, perhaps it was Om Messiah, perhaps it was a power I cannot explain. I know you are here, waiting in a fearless iron coffin that has been silent for millennia. Rellano, Son of the Emperor, Third Legion, Ritual Master, one of the nine Terran warriors."
Rellano's eyes slowly focused. He stared at Cohen for a few seconds, his lips moving.
"Did the Emperor send you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Cohen shook his head. "But you're alive. There's no need to wait any longer."
Rellano slowly sat up, looking down at her hands. Those weren't Astartes' hands; they lacked reinforced bones and a second heart. They were ordinary human hands, with thick knuckles and broad palms, like those of a well-trained mortal warrior.
"What is this?" His voice trembled. "My body—where is my power?"
"A mortal body," Cohen said. "You were not born an Astartes; mortal is your root. You are no longer the son of the Emperor, no longer have the Third Legion."
Rellano's hand froze in mid-air. He closed his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"A mortal," he said softly, his voice devoid of anger, only filled with a hollow emptiness. "I waited ten thousand years—only to receive a mortal's body."
He opened his eyes and looked directly at Cohen.
"Then why did you save me? A powerless mortal, a weak and helpless soldier, a body incapable of revenge. What more can I do for the Emperor?"
Cohen reached out and helped him to his feet. Rellano's body was unsteady at first, but he quickly adapted. Walking for the first time in ten thousand years, his gait was steady, his back straight, still bearing the bearing of a soldier.
"Mortals can fight too," Cohen said. "Put on power armor, pick up a gun, destroy the aliens, punish the traitors. I will transform you not into an Astartes, but into a completely new kind of warrior, a transformation that any healthy mortal can undergo."
He paused for a moment.
"I need your help. Train my warriors. Gather strength."
Rellano looked down at his bare toes.
"I need power."
“I can give you anything except the Geneseed,” Cohen said. “What Astartes can do, mortals can do as well. What the Emperor needs is not the Geneseed, but loyalty. During the Great Crusade, the Sun-Assisted Army, with its laser rifles and flesh and blood, conquered more worlds than Astartes. The Emperor has never forgotten them. You shouldn’t either.”
He slowed down his speech.
Do you hate it?
Rellano's fingers clenched.
"—I hate." The voice was deep, like magma rising from the earth. "I've waited ten thousand years, just for this hatred."
"Then come with me," Cohen said. "I won't send you to your death. When I've created strong enough warriors, when we're powerful enough to crush traitors, I'll personally take you to the Eye of Terror. Forgrim is still there. Those traitors who slaughtered your comrades on the Istavan River, their warbands are still rampaging."
He stretched out his hand.
"Rellano. Warrior of the Emperor. With mortal body, to fulfill the Emperor's will. Are you willing?"
Rellano stared at the hand. A mortal hand, clad in grey power armor gloves. He remained silent for a long time, so long that the air in the tomb seemed to freeze.
Then he stepped back, placed his right fist against his chest, and performed a standard Eagle Salute. The movement was slow, but extremely steady.
"I'll go with you."
Cohen nodded slightly.
Cohen walked out of the tomb, took a CMC-100 power armor set from the Thunderhawk cargo box, and placed it in front of Relano.
"Put these on. There's toxic gas, radiation, and chaotic pollution outside. Without these, you won't be able to get out."
Rellano looked at the dark gray terracotta armor and stroked the cold, hard surface of the breastplate.
"I've worn an iron coffin for ten thousand years. It's good to change into something else."
He donned it. The power armor's lining automatically adjusted to fit his body. The joint servo motors hummed softly before falling silent. He moved his fingers, clenched his fist, and opened it, the movements fluid and seamless.
"How are you feeling?" Cohen asked.
"It's different. It's definitely not the same as the Fearless Iron Coffin."
Cohen turned and walked outside. "Come with me."
Rellano followed him out of the tomb. Once outside the cave entrance, standing at the bottom of the pit, he paused, gazing up at the dark yellow starlight that forever hung low in the sky.
Ten thousand years. Ten thousand years of waiting in darkness, awaiting a rebirth. Following a sage among mortals, to avenge the traitor, for the sake of the emperor.
Cohen started the engines, and the four thrusters spewed out dark blue flames. The transport ship lifted off. Dark yellow starlight streamed through the portholes, casting a deep shadow on Relano's face. Cohen pushed the control stick, aligning the ship with the Black Pearl's trajectory.
Behind them, the edge of the sinkhole gradually shrank. The tomb was empty. The fearless iron coffin of the scorner, the millennia-old sealing prayers, the dark purple chaotic crystals—all were disintegrated and archived. Only a clean rock remained.
Cohen pressed the communication button: "Black Pearl, transport plane has entered orbit, requesting docking."
Marcus's voice came through, brief and steady: "Roger. Guide lights are on. Welcome back."
The airlock closed. Cold white spotlights illuminated the hangar of the Black Pearl. Veteran soldiers on duty lined both sides, watching twenty mechs file out. Their three-meter-tall steel bodies gleamed a cold gray under the lights, the energy channels of the atomic deflection shields at the armor seams emitting an almost invisible glow. No one spoke; only the heavy footsteps and the low hum of the servo motors echoed through the hangar.
Then Rellano came out.
He wore a CMC-100 power armor, dark gray in color, with a robust build, a steady gait, and a straight back. His face was expressionless, but his light gray eyes were exceptionally sharp. He walked through the group of mechs, following behind Cohen.
The veterans exchanged glances. It wasn't a mech; it was a living person. Some tilted their heads slightly, trying to see the unfamiliar face clearly; some whispered, "Who is that?"; most simply watched silently, their right fists pressed against their left chests, giving a standard Eagle Salute to Captain One and everyone he had brought back.
Kara stood at the hangar entrance, arms crossed, power armor on her body, helmet tucked under her armpits. She looked at Rellano, her gaze lingering for a few seconds before turning to Cohen.
Marcus stood in front of the bridge porthole, and the blue halo of his right mechanical eye shrank slightly.
Cohen descended the gangway. Marcus approached.
"Captain." He stopped, his gaze falling on Rellano. "This is..."
"I found him down there," Cohen said calmly. "Buried in an underground bunker, frozen in hibernation. I don't know how many years he'd been lying there. He was a veteran, a skilled commander. Bring him back to help us train the garrison."
Marcus looked at Relano. Relano calmly looked back.
Marcus paused for a moment: "Veteran. What's your name?"
"Rellano".
Marcus nodded, asked no further questions, and turned to walk toward the bridge.
Cohen waved to Kara. Kara came over.
"Kara, this is Rellano. A veteran we just found. He'll be training with you in the garrison from now on. Take him to familiarize himself with the environment, the cabins, the training grounds, and the mess hall. Tell him about Garros."
Kara looked at Relano and extended her hand. "Relano. I am Kara, commander of the garrison."
Rellano took her hand. "Hello."
Kara squeezed for a moment, then released her grip. "Come with me."
Rellano followed her. The corridor lights shone with a cold white light. The two walked one after the other through the airtight door, past the training area, and past the cafeteria entrance.
Kara stopped in front of an empty cabin and pushed open the door.
"Your cabin. The officers' mess is next to it, and the training grounds are further ahead. The Black Pearl isn't that strict; just come to me if you need anything."
Rellano went inside. It wasn't large; there was a bed, a table, a chair, and an imperial icon in the corner. He stood before the icon, not praying, just standing there.
Kara leaned against the doorframe: "How many battles have you fought?"
Rellano was silent for a moment. "A lot."
Kara didn't press the matter. She had met many veterans.
"Alright. Tomorrow morning at six, at the training ground. I'll see how good you are."
She turned and walked away. The sound of her footsteps faded into the distance.
Rellano closed the hatch and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at his hands—mortal hands, clad in power armor gloves. He removed the gloves and examined his hands. Thick knuckles, broad palms, without any signs of modification.
He closed his eyes.
It's been ten thousand years.
Marcus swiped data across the holographic projection table. The outbound route had been entered, and the Mandeville point coordinates were locked. On the communications panel, Hera Worth's channel indicator light flashed.
"Captain, the interstellar communication array is ready."
"Roger that." Cohen stood beside the commander's seat, looking at the gray-black planet on the holographic platform. "Accelerate cruise and head towards Mandeville Point."
The routine voyage lasted for more than a day. The silhouette of the Istavan River I slowly shrank outside the portholes. Cohen pressed the ship's intercom: "All departments, approaching Mandeville point. Subspace engines warming up, all personnel in position. Porthole armored covers closed."
.
The corridor lighting panels switched to emergency mode. The armored porthole covers fell one by one, the heavy ceramic steel plates sliding over the bulletproof glass with a dull thud.
Sierra's voice came from the navigation module: "Geller position stable. Starbeam signal locked."
"receive."
Hera Worth's voice came through the communications channel: "Star-language communications array is ready. Subspace communications environment silent."
Cohen pressed the communication button: "Start."
Sera's finger hovered above the navigation panel. The Void Shield activated at full power, the warp engine's auxiliary loop was cut off, and the ship's vibrations turned into lower, shorter tremors.
"Geller position stable. Pressure readings normal. Subspace engine preheating complete." Her voice was as steady as reading a manual. "Start-up."
The ship shuddered violently. A rift was torn in the physical laws of reality, and the chaos of the subspace poured in through the fissure, the Geller Force supporting a fragile bubble. The porthole armored covers were tightly shut, with only the faint glow of the instrument panels and indicator lights flickering in the darkness.
The Black Pearl jumped into subspace.
Purple chaos churned beyond the armor plating. Cohen leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The database contained tens of thousands of entries; the basic framework of military technology from the Great Expedition era had unfolded in higher dimensions.