125: Chapter 126 How Many Steps Does It Take to Create a Space Marine?

Li Cang stared at the list on the screen, his fingers clicking rapidly across the calculator interface.

He had 2,365 GP remaining at hand.

This was a massive sum of money; if used to maintain the existing 127 ordinary Thunder Warriors, it would be enough to sustain them through two or three months of the deteriorating genetic collapse phase.

But he couldn't do that anymore.

The rendering of the Plasma Macro-cannon sent by the Adeptus Mechanicus was still hanging nearby. That thing had a fifteen-day countdown. Even if a thousand ordinary Thunder Warriors went, they wouldn't be enough to fill the gaps in the macro-cannon's charging array.

He needed a sharp blade that could reach the base of the cannon barrel against strategic-level firepower.

He needed Astartes.

He opened the back-end of the Primarch Gene Laboratory.

Twenty-six gene seeds lay in the inventory.

These were exchanged for the lives of thirteen fallen members of the First Legion. As long as these seeds were implanted into new recipients, they could catalyze a full set of Space Marine organs.

The problem was that turning a mortal into an Astartes required nineteen surgical procedures.

According to the manual previously provided by the Adeptus Mechanicus, the prerequisite materials included fifty tons of Refined Adamantium and five Astartes-specific medical pods.

He pulled up the base inventory panel.

323 units of abyss alloy, 420 units of Refined Steel, and 340 units of High-Energy Batteries.

Refined Adamantium: zero.

Specialized medical pods: zero.

Li Cang took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

This was the system, always telling you that you had to pawn your own underwear just to survive the moment you thought you could catch your breath.

He clicked on the system's trading house.

Strategic materials like Refined Adamantium were priceless in the trading house; the few scattered tons listed there were priced so exorbitantly they could bankrupt the greediest goblin.

He didn't hesitate and directly swept the market.

After dropping 2,000 GP, the Adamantium in the inventory jumped to forty-two tons.

Still short eight tons.

He glanced at the spoils stripped from the Cyber Federation.

The damaged composite armor plates of twelve heavy mechs.

He dragged these armor plates directly into the base's smelting furnace interface. The system prompted that there would be a thirty percent loss during decomposition and recasting.

He clicked confirm. The rare metals smelted from these armor plates happened to convert into the equivalent of eight tons of Adamantium.

Fifty tons of Adamantium gathered.

That left five specialized medical pods.

These couldn't be bought in the trading house; they were a unique craft of Mars.

He opened the communication channel of the Adeptus Mechanicus and bundled the three cases of Nano-Medical Gel supply crates along with the analysis permissions for the basic tactical AI core, throwing them into the trade box.

"Exchanging for five High-Efficiency Medical Pods capable of performing neural remodeling surgery," he sent a message.

The reply came quickly, only two words.

"Deal. Delivered."

The teleportation array in the base's material receiving area lit up, and five heavy metal crates were sent out.

All prerequisite conditions turned green.

Li Cang switched back to the Primarch Gene Laboratory interface and dragged the twenty-six gene seeds into the implantation slots.

The system popped up a recipient selection box.

From the 127 active ordinary Thunder Warriors, he selected the top thirteen based on physical fitness and genetic anti-rejection indices.

Confirm.

A progress bar jumped onto the screen. Estimated time: 168 hours.

Seven days.

With a fifteen-day macro-cannon countdown, subtracting the seven-day surgery period, he still had eight days to take these thirteen recruits and raze that damned Facility Three.

Barely enough.

Base Sublevel 4, Primarch Gene Laboratory.

The air was thick with the smell of ozone and disinfectant, bone-chillingly cold.

The five newly delivered medical pods were lined up, and along with the original equipment, it was just enough to process thirteen people simultaneously.

Thirteen chosen Thunder Warriors lay naked on the cold operating tables, their limbs held fast by wrist-thick Adamantium shackles.

No one spoke, no one struggled. They knew what was about to happen; the First Legion Captain, C-19, had walked off these very tables.

Several medical Servitors sent by the Adeptus Mechanicus glided into the room, their metal tentacles clutching various models of laser scalpels and syringes.

The surgery required no anesthesia.

The manual stated clearly that the remodeling of the nervous system must be conducted while the recipient was fully conscious. Any anesthetic would cause neural docking failure, turning the recipient into a drooling lump of meat.

The indicator light on the first medical pod turned red.

"Surgical Phase One: Secondary Heart Implantation," a mechanical voice echoed in the sterile room.

The medical Servitor's mechanical arm lunged down. A laser knife sliced open the first recipient's chest cavity, the high temperature instantly sealing the blood vessels without a single drop of blood splashing out.

A heart that had been beating in a petri dish for a long time—twice the size of a human heart—was gripped by forceps and stuffed into the cavity in the chest.

Connection, suturing, electric shock.

The first recipient's chest suddenly arched, the Adamantium shackles strained with a tooth-aching creak. He opened his mouth, a ragged roar emerging from his throat.

His two hearts began to beat simultaneously.

Then the second, the third.

"Surgical Phase Five: Ossmodula Implantation."

Countless metal tubes, a size thicker than syringes, pierced into their limbs and bodies. Ceramic-based growth hormones were pumped into the bone marrow under high pressure.

The sound of bones thickening began to ring out in the empty room, a crunching noise like a steamroller crushing a field of stones.

The screams of the thirteen men blended together, so loud that even the soundproof walls couldn't block them out.

In the control pod, Li Cang turned off the laboratory's audio output.

He didn't need to hear this.

He switched to another screen.

---

Manila Fortress, Port Warehouse Three.

TW-078 leaned the back of his head against the load-bearing pillar at the base of the wall.

The tactical bandage on his left knee had long since hardened into a shell. Every time his leg moved slightly, the faint sound of blood scabs cracking was clearly audible through his helmet's pickup.

The drive motor of the Chainsword in his hand had burned out, its teeth ground down into smooth iron plates. The anti-slip grip of the hilt was embedded with unwashable bits of flesh and bone fragments, making it feel slippery and greasy to the touch.

Outside the warehouse was the constant hiss of Plasma Halberds scorching metal.

The Golden Legion infantry were pressed against the firing blind spots, using high heat to slice through the warehouse's exterior wall bit by bit.

TW-290 lay prone on the second-floor ventilation duct. He pulled out the Bolter magazine to take a look—only four rounds left—and then shoved the magazine back in.

"Sir, the wall is about to give," TW-188 said hoarsely from the side.

The gash on TW-188's face hadn't been treated; the flesh was curled back, and blood dripped from his chin into the seams of his armor.

TW-078 peeked out.

A bright red ring had been melted into the center of the alloy gate directly opposite them, and dark blue plasma flames were burrowing inward along the metal's texture.

"Push the crates, block it," TW-078 said.

Several Thunder Warriors hoisted two heavy iron crates filled with scrap counterweights and braced them firmly against the glowing door panel.

Suddenly, the noise outside the door stopped.

The ear-piercing sound of plasma cutting cut off completely.

TW-078's fingers clenched tightly around the sword hilt.

Those gene-modified mad dogs of the Golden Legion wouldn't stop of their own accord unless they had brought in something that didn't require slow cutting.

In the open space outside the warehouse, floor tiles and concrete chunks flipped outward.

A hexapod walking vehicle crawled out of a collapsed underground tunnel.

Its shell was coated in a high-profile dark gold. There were some dents on the armor plates from falling rocks, but its eight sets of hydraulic mechanical legs were firmly pinned to the ground.

The most lethal part was the Thermal Main Cannon mounted beneath its head.

The energy-focusing rings at the muzzle began to light up one by one, and the surrounding air distorted and deformed under the extreme heat.

Blinding red light illuminated the ruins of half the port.

"Scatter!" TW-078 roared, his thigh muscles surging with power as he lunged toward the base of a crane on the right.

The red light flared.

There was no explosion.

The focused high heat drained the oxygen within a fifty-meter radius in a millisecond. The air in TW-078's lungs was sucked out, and he opened his mouth but could make no sound.

The main entrance of Warehouse Three, along with the two solid iron crates blocking it, collapsed directly within that extremely concentrated red beam.

The metal didn't melt into molten iron; it vaporized directly into pungent, toxic smoke.

Heatwaves carrying ash flooded into the warehouse. The two Thunder Warriors closest to the door didn't even scream; the outer layers of their armor carbonized instantly, and they fell stiffly to the ground.

The golden walking vehicle stepped through the still-smoking ruins with heavy strides and entered the warehouse.

Over forty Golden Legion soldiers, wielding Plasma Halberds, followed in, stepping over the ashes of their comrades.

TW-078 watched the massive mechanical foot step into the warehouse.

He propped himself up against the wall and raised the Chainsword, which didn't even have teeth left.

No ammo, and the door was shattered.

He had just taken a deep breath, preparing to give the order for a fight to the death.

Suddenly, an extremely sharp static burst through the communication channel as a high-power signal ruthlessly tore through the Golden Legion's electronic jamming.

"Heads down."

It was a low, flat male voice, cold and hard, heavy like a block of lead hitting the eardrum.

TW-078 kicked TW-188's shin to sweep him off his feet and then flattened himself against the floor covered in high-temperature ash.

Outside the warehouse, at the highest point of the port ruins, on the top platform of Crane Three.

A pure black iron tower crushed the concrete beneath its feet and stood tall.

C-19, having completed the full Astartes implantation surgery, had expanded to a dimension that made ordinary Thunder Warriors feel suffocated.

No serial number markings, no battle-damage scratches; the heavy, massive black armor swallowed all the surrounding firelight.

He single-handedly held a heavy Plasma Cannon that usually required three people to barely set up. He crudely rested the barrel on a remaining steel beam, the crosshairs locking onto the head of the golden vehicle.

"Cleanup beginning," C-19 said into the communicator.

He pulled the trigger.