21: The Treasury of Flesh and Blood

This was an extremely cruel "Necrotic Technology."

In the orthodox 41st Millennium, this was the cornerstone of the Astartes Legions' continuity, a sacred heritage. But in M29, during this chaotic and barbaric era of the Unification Wars of Terra, it was still merely a mad biological hypothesis.

Its essence was not to make warriors stronger, but to turn them into recyclable consumables.

Li Cang stared at that node, a flash of decisiveness crossing his eyes.

If he had this, Arik Taranis would no longer be a disposable product. Even if he died tomorrow from a genetic self-detonation, this gland could "bequeath" his combat talent to the next Mortal.

A new warrior inheriting the power of the deceased would rise from the remains.

"Though cruel, on this wasteland where resources are exhausted, this is the only form of immortality."

"Confirm research and development."

Li Cang pressed down hard with his finger.

[System Prompt: BP deduction complete, remaining 400 BP]

[Analyzing...]

[Warning: Detected that the current civilization lacks a core carrier (Pure Primarch Gene Sample). This technology currently cannot create perfect Astartes and can only be used as a "Data Record" and "Crude Recovery Method."]

Li Cang scanned the red warning text expressionlessly.

He knew exactly what was missing.

Building a house requires more than just blueprints; it requires bricks. To host a gland capable of recording divine combat data, one needs extremely high-purity Primarch genes. As for the Mortals in his hands, their genetic sequences had long been riddled with holes by thousands of years of nuclear radiation and biochemical pollution, making them utterly unable to withstand such violent modification.

"So, we need to go stock up."

He waved his hand to close the technology tree and pulled up the tattered map captured from the Black Basalt Fortress. The holographic projection spread out before him, filled with noise and glitches, large areas shrouded in black fog.

Li Cang's gaze crossed the continuous belts of radioactive dust, locking firmly onto the northwest.

The Caucasus Wastes.

In that region wrapped in death storms, a heart-stopping blood-red coordinate was marked—

[Ethnarchy of Naduwak]

In the incoherent, fear-filled confessions of the prisoners of war, this name represented an absolute taboo.

The Naduwak people entrenched in the Caucasus Mountains did not build high walls, hoard gold, or fight for water sources. Their ruler, who called himself the "Lord of Races," was a complete eugenics madman.

They hoarded genes.

They frantically collected pure human sequences left over from the Golden Age, using millions of slaves as living incubators for experiments to create genetic monsters known as the "Ur-Khasis."

In Li Cang's eyes, that wasn't a country at all.

It was a walking, dripping-fat warehouse of raw materials. There lay the "bricks" he urgently needed to create gene seeds, the perfect flesh capable of carrying the power of thunder.

"Arik."

Li Cang whispered the name, his gaze seemingly piercing through the barrier between reality and data to see the loyal warrior currently enduring the agony of genetic backlash in the isolation pod.

"Endure a little longer."

"In the next battle, we won't fight for territory, we won't take prisoners, and we won't care for those hypocritical honors."

Li Cang reached out and slashed a savage crimson line across the coordinates of Naduwak. The movement was like slitting a beast's throat.

"We are going to steal their blood to extend your lives."

At this moment, the dim light reflected Li Cang's pale yet excited face. He was penniless now, but he held a freshly sharpened knife in his hand, and behind him stood a pack of starving wolves.

Since he couldn't afford to buy meat, he would hunt the fattest bear on the wasteland.

[System Prompt: Strategic Objective Updated]

[Target Locked: Naduwak (Resource Plunder/Genetic Theft)]

[Generating deduction environment...]

Hiss.

The sound of the air valve closing rang out.

Li Cang lay back into the cold pod, letting the chill soak into his spine.

The neural interface aligned with the back of his neck once more; that shivering sensation of connection was about to arrive.

"Come on."

The stench of sulfur and ionized ozone hung thick in the air, a scent unique to the Caucasus Wastes.

This was the ugliest scar on the surface of Holy Terra.

The radioactive dust was as thick as a burial shroud, completely obscuring the pale, turbid sun, forcing the entire world into a sickly, hazy yellow.

Screech.

The harsh sound of metal grinding dryly broke through the wind.

Arik Taranis stopped abruptly, his heavy magnetic boots sinking deep into the grey, desolate gravel.

He looked down, his gaze scanning his left knee joint. The servo-hydraulic rod there was jammed; the piston had failed to retract.

It could have been a stubborn grain of sand, congealed low-grade engine oil, or perhaps his own blood, which had turned viscous as it seeped from his leg armor.

Without the slightest hesitation, he raised his right hand—covered in tattered Ceramite—clenched it into a fist, and slammed it hard against the joint's locking pin.

Thump!

A violent reset.

The servo motor let out a wail, forcibly breaking through the jam.

"Commander?"

A trembling voice came from the shadows by his feet.

Arik turned his stiff neck.

Through a tactical eyepiece filled with cracks, he saw a soldier from the Seventh Auxiliary Regiment, Karl.

The thin Mortal was wrapped in an ill-fitting hazmat coat, looking up at him through a fogged-up gas mask.

In Karl's eyes, the figure standing before him was not a human, but a collapsing yet still towering brass fortress.

Heat waves vented frantically from the power armor's cooling grilles.

That wasn't the waste heat of a micro-reactor; it was Arik's own body temperature.

He was burning.

Every muscle fiber was screaming, the sound of gene strands snapping, recombining, and snapping again.

If not for a willpower that exceeded Mortal limits locking his flesh in place, this shell would have already turned into a puddle of boiling organic soup.

"Distance."

The voice came through the external speakers, torn to pieces by severe static interference, carrying a heavy metallic echo.

"According to... according to the Auspex signal, three kilometers left," Karl stuttered in reply, his gaze fixed in horror on the dark red liquid seeping from the gaps in Arik's armor.

"The Naduwak outpost is at the end of the canyon."

Three kilometers.

In his prime, this was just the distance of a single charge for a Thunder Warrior, taking less than two minutes.

But now, it was a forced march to hell.

Arik did not speak, he only tightened his grip on the Chainsword, which had several broken teeth.

"All units, advance."

Behind him, the gale tore through the dust. Thirty iron colossi silently revealed themselves.

They were no longer the polished and glorious "Lightning Legion" from the early days of the Unification War.

These thirty Thunder Warriors were like undead knights crawling out of the underworld.

Their power armor was covered in bullet holes and acid-etched scars; some shoulder pads were even crudely welded from the wreckage of enemy tanks, devoid of any paint, showing only exposed, rust-stained bare metal.

At the feet of the giants were two thousand ragged soldiers of the Mortal Auxiliary Army.

They hunched their bodies, dragging heavy, empty supply crates, every step leaving deep furrows in the sand. Those boxes were empty, but in their eyes, they were holy relics.

Because they were the vessels meant to hold the future.

[System Directive: Seize Ur-Khasis Essence]

[Note: That is the only fuel to sustain the civilization]

The directive in his mind overrode the physical agony.

Arik growled, his voice sounding like it was grinding over frosted glass:

"For Unity."

"For the Emperor!!"

The roars of the Mortals echoed through the wind and sand, as they tried to use this fanaticism to dispel the freezing chill of death...