28: The technical name for this is: Warhammer-type load-bearing structure optimization engineering.

[star-glory - Sector B-4: Bridge Core Defense Line]

Silence.

It was a silence that strained the nerves, like a bowstring drawn to its limit, about to snap.

Commander Sarriel stood on the suspended crystal command platform.

His fingers desperately gripped the edge of the platform, his knuckles bloodless from the excessive force, appearing particularly pale beneath his translucent blue skin.

His gaze was like a pinned viper, fixed firmly on the closed Mithril blast door ahead.

That door was the final barrier on the ship.

Currently, it was completely sealed by three layers of the highest-grade Arcane Force Fields.

Pale blue Runic Chains flowed slowly across the metal surface like living vines, emitting heart-stopping magical fluctuations.

Behind the door were two full squads of Crystal Energy Guards.

They had long since set up Heavy Magic Cannons, the muzzles inlaid with high-energy crystals now radiating dangerous heat, locking onto every gap in the door.

This was a trap.

A meticulously designed Death Pocket with no blind spots.

"Even an Obsidian Golem crawling out of the Abyss, if it dares cross this threshold, will be reduced to basic particle dust by the Arcane Torrent in a thousandth of a second."

Sarriel silently repeated this sentence in his heart.

He gripped it like a drowning man clutching a final straw, trying to suppress the uncontrolled pounding of his heart.

"They can't get in... the design of this ship is perfect, every vent has sensors, every corridor is under surveillance..."

However, amidst this suffocating silence.

Zzz—Gah—

A sound abruptly rang out.

It was very faint and muffled. It didn't sound like an explosion, but rather a blunt object scraping against bone, or a rusty saw cutting through a hard skull.

In the bridge, where you could hear a pin drop, the sound was like a ghost crying in the night, piercing the eardrums.

Sarriel abruptly raised his head, his long, pointed Elven ears instinctively twitching, catching the faint vibrations in the air.

"Where?!"

His voice became sharp due to tension.

The guards below exchanged glances, cold sweat trickling down their foreheads, but the muzzles of their guns remained rigidly pointed at the door, refusing to shift even slightly.

"Sir... perhaps it's noise from the pressure regulation system? The ship just sustained an impact, structural stress..."

"Shut up! Idiot!"

Sarriel sharply cut off his subordinate's speculation.

The abnormally keen hearing unique to the Elven Race told him that it was definitely not the sound of airflow.

It was the lament of metal.

It was the scream produced when a substance far exceeding the structural strength of the ship forcefully squeezed, tore, and penetrated another crystalline material.

Gnash—Bang.

The sound grew louder.

And closer.

Furthermore, the source of the sound... was not the heavily guarded door at all.

Sarriel slowly raised his head, his gaze moving up inch by inch, finally settling on the luxurious, exquisite Crystal Dome above, carved with intricate patterns.

Behind the dazzling light and shadow, and above the seemingly indestructible ceiling.

Something was squirming... [star-glory - Upper Technical Interstice]

This was the ship's vascular system.

Countless blue-glowing Energy Conduits and anti-gravity coils were tangled like a messy knot in this narrow space, only 1.5 meters high.

For the Elven Technicians, who wore silk robes and had light, elegant physiques, this was their backyard—narrow, but passable.

But at this moment, a group of Uninvited Guests had broken in.

A group of Steel Thugs, 2.3 meters tall, as wide as door panels, and covered in hundreds of kilograms of Ceramite armor.

"Advance."

D-01's voice sounded in the Comm Channel.

Muffled, distorted, accompanied by the background noise of screeching static and grinding metal.

He wasn't "crawling" at all.

For an Astartes Prototype wearing Mk II heavy power armor, this space, which could only accommodate a Mortal sideways, was like a damned straw.

He was "battering" his way through.

Using his shoulders, knees, and elbows, he was forcibly squeezing a path between the complex mass of pipelines and metal plates.

The massive, turtle-shell-like Mk II power armor's Backpack Cooler pressed firmly against the metal deck above, emitting a series of grating "zzzz" sounds, and sparks flew everywhere in the darkness.

Every step he took was accompanied by the snapping and deformation of surrounding pipes.

Psh—!!!

An innocent Cooling Pipe was forcibly crushed and snapped by his heavy shoulder armor.

White High-Pressure Steam instantly erupted, carrying scalding heat, immediately turning the narrow interstice into a pressure cooker capable of boiling a person alive.

The temperature reading flashed wildly on the helmet display, instantly surpassing 60 degrees Celsius and still climbing.

If it were an Ordinary Human, they would likely have fainted from burn shock by now.

But D-01 didn't even blink.

His body had undergone the brutal modification of Gene Alchemy, his skin was tougher than rhinoceros hide, and his nervous system had long learned how to screen out this level of "discomfort."

For the giant inside the power armor, this was merely "a bit warm."

In this cramped, dark, steel intestine filled with steam and noise, only five pairs of eerie green Tactical Lenses flickered, coldly scanning everything around them.

[Distance to Target: 5 meters vertically below.]

[Structural Scan: Floor thickness 15mm. Material: Reinforced Crystal Glass. Structural Strength: Medium.]

[Heat Source Reaction Below: High. Quantity: 35+.]

D-01 stopped.

He adjusted his posture, pressing his heavy chest plate against the floor below.

Through the faint light seeping through the floor gaps, he could even clearly see the bald head of the Commander below, his trembling fingers, and the guards staring foolishly at the door.

"How... arrogant."

D-01 coldly commented internally.

This was the so-called Higher Civilization.

They were accustomed to two-dimensional Planar Warfare, accustomed to lining up for execution on open ground like gentlemen, accustomed to solving problems using so-called "formations" and "defense lines."

They never considered that Death might not use the front door.

Sometimes Death would tunnel above their heads like a rat, and then smash the ceiling onto their faces.

D-01 laboriously flipped over in the interstice, his movement as clumsy as a brown bear trying to turn around in a wardrobe.

The adjacent Metal Keel let out a painful groan, squeezed inward and dented.

He stretched out his large hand and retrieved a gray block from the Magnetic Attachment Point on his waist.

[Directional Demolition Charge]

An industrial-grade demolition tool specifically designed by the Empire for cutting high-strength hull structures during the inevitable future space boarding battles.

D-01 did not randomly stick the explosive charge onto a single point.

As a warrior proficient in the art of destruction, he placed the explosive charges along the load-bearing connections of the ceiling keel, forming a circle that, while irregular, was sufficient to cause structural collapse.

Everything was ready.

"Three."

He counted down softly in the Comm Channel.

The four brothers behind him tacitly pulled down their Anti-Flash Visors, curled their bodies, and prepared for impact.

"Two."

The Commander below seemed to finally notice the increasingly clear strange noise above his head. He looked up in confusion, his pale blue eyes filled with bewilderment and unknown fear.

But—it was too late.

"One."

D-01 expressionlessly pressed the detonator...