48: Chapter 48. Kaul was riding towards Vulcan-IV.

On the other side of the armor plating, the light of the Warp tunnel grew increasingly incandescent. Under the protection of the Geller field, The Inquisitor slowly sailed into the chaotic mists of the Warp, speeding toward Vulcan-IV. Inside the cabin, only the cold light of the console remained, illuminating Cawl's resolute profile.

An expedition that would alter the fate of the Adeptus Mechanicus and change the future of the Imperium of Man had begun—all of this stemmed from a single gaze from the Emperor, a letter from a remote Forge World, and an Archmagos who longed to break through stagnation and pursue reason, along with the four soul companions within his consciousness.

Cawl remained silent, his gaze fixed on the closed viewport armor plating—that heavy alloy isolated the horrors of the Warp and also shut out all light and shadow from the outside. Inside the cabin, only the data streams on the console pulsed, along with the cheerful humming of the machine spirit.

This was a scene he had witnessed countless times over the past ten thousand years. Every Warp jump was a violation of reality, a betrayal of reason, and a poison that the Imperium had to swallow for the sake of survival.

But this time was different.

His metal, precise hand, which had worked tirelessly through ten thousand years of time, was still clutching that letter. The golden light on the letter was slowly fading, but the warmth remained.

That warmth did not belong to the material realm; it came from the Golden Throne, from that existence who had been silent for ten thousand years, and from a will he had finally understood.

It was permission; it was expectation.

"Go."

The machine spirit of The Inquisitor was still chattering—it had just awakened from ten thousand years of dullness and was currently planning the route as excitedly as a child: "Master, I was thinking, after we arrive at Vulcan-IV, could I upgrade my attitude adjustment system?"

"I heard the machine spirits there have performance optimization patches. My current attitude control response speed is 0.3 seconds. If I can optimize it to 0.1 seconds, then in battle..."

Cawl did not interrupt it. He was just listening.

Listening to a ten-thousand-year-old child who had just learned to speak express its own thoughts.

True thoughts—it was "I want," "I think it could be better," and "I want to go see."

Hester sighed softly in the depths of his consciousness, a sound that carried something Cawl rarely heard from him—tenderness.

"Do you remember when you first wanted to disobey my orders?"

Cawl's memory core began to recall. "Trisolian. You ordered me to destroy that batch of clone data. I didn't destroy it. I hid it."

"How old were you then?"

"By Terra standard calendar... twenty-three."

"At twenty-three, you already knew how to lie to your mentor." Hester's voice carried a hint of a smile. "It took you ten thousand years to learn how to lie to the Imperium. Your rebellious phase has been quite long."

Sedayne laughed out loud. Her laughter held her characteristic, carefree happiness, but it also contained something else—a sense of relief.

"Hester, you have it backward. He didn't know how to lie before; now—he just can't be bothered to lie."

Ten thousand years. Cawl could no longer remember how many times he had dismantled himself into parts and put himself back together, again and again, until he could no longer distinguish what was flesh, what was metal, what was a mission forced upon him by others, and what he truly wanted for himself.

What did he want?

He looked toward the closed viewport armor plating, his fingertips gently tapping against the cold alloy surface. The chaotic energy of the Warp surged violently outside the armor, and the faint tremor of the Geller field came through the bulkhead; the sensation was like the aurora he had seen on Trisolian ten thousand years ago, distant yet real.

Back then, Hester was still alive, had not yet betrayed him, and was standing by his side, pointing at the sky and saying: "Cawl, look. The universe doesn't need to be understood; it just needs to be seen."

Sedayne was also still alive, and she would expound her strange ideas to Cawl, which often terrified him, making him feel she was a heretic.

He didn't understand back then.

He thought understanding meant dismantling, analyzing, calculating, and then finding a tiny probability, acting within the framework.

Now he understood.

Understanding meant—you didn't need to dismantle it; you just needed to stand before it, bring a cup of tea, and say nothing. It was about breaking the framework to innovate and develop.

In the depths of his consciousness, Timothy's voice rang out.

This time, it wasn't those sentences about sacrifice and loyalty that had been repeated for ten thousand years in the darkness.

It was just a simple sentence: "Bring a cup of tea."

Cawl smiled. On that face, half flesh and half machine, that expression which had not appeared for ten thousand years was finally complete.

This time, there were no calculations, no weighing of options, no politics, and no risk assessments.

It was the smile of a twenty-three-year-old under the auroras of Trisolian, who did not yet know what the Imperium was, what a mission was, or what probability was.

He turned and walked toward the command console. His metal feet stepped on the floor of the meditation hall, each step steady, resolute, and without hesitation.

The machine spirit of The Inquisitor was still planning the route and calculating time, asking excitedly: "Master, after we arrive, can I shake hands with the satellite tower there first? Not a physical handshake, a protocol handshake—just saying hello."

He placed the letter stained with the Emperor's psychic power on the console, next to the pulsing data streams, beside the spot where that piece of Blackstone had once hovered.

Then he spoke, his voice not loud, yet clearly echoing through the entire The Inquisitor: "After we arrive, you go ahead and greet the machine spirits there first. Ask them what it feels like to be understood."

"And then—" he paused for a second, the curve of his mouth widening a little more, "then help me ask if they can lend me one of their conveyor belts. I want to transport something too."

"Transport what?" the machine spirit asked curiously.

Cawl looked toward the closed viewport armor plating, his fingertips feeling the faint tremor from the Geller field—the Warp jump tunnel was already stable, and the Astronomican seen in the navigator's feedback had never been so clear; it was He who pierced through the chaotic mists of the Warp, guiding the way.

He placed his hand on the console, feeling the pulse of The Inquisitor's machine spirit—that pulse was no longer the dull, mechanical humming that required prayers to appease, but something warm, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

"Transporting some faith," he said, his tone as calm as if stating a physical law, "and trading for a conveyor belt in return."

From the gaps in the armor plating, an eerie, faint glimmer of the Warp could be seen seeping out, but it was firmly isolated by the Geller field.

Cawl knew that in the direction of Vulcan-IV, something was glowing, but he did not need to see it with his own eyes; the reason and warmth of that light had already passed through the navigation signal into the depths of his consciousness.

"Vulcan-IV," he said softly, "I am here."

His machine spirit of The Inquisitor was cheering, Sedayne was laughing, Hester was calculating a risk-free conveyor belt, and Hester said softly in the depths of his consciousness: "This is what we should be doing."

Timothy said nothing. He was just thinking, after the machine spirits awaken, how should humans conduct themselves?