139: Chapter 139 This kid probably isn't planning a rebellion, is he?

Red Sand Hills, frontline observation post.

Ronan squatted behind a bunker made of gravel, holding a pair of binoculars. A slowly wriggling black line on the horizon was reflected in the eyepieces.

That was the enemy's armored vanguard.

Three hundred Leman Russ Executioners and two hundred chimera armored personnel carriers were lined up along the dry riverbed. The dust they kicked up blotted out the sun like a moving sandstorm.

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He lowered the binoculars, rubbed his dry eyes, and turned his head to look up.

High in the sky, several silver-gray weather blimps hovered quietly, with a modified auspex hanging beneath their slender gondolas.

Those were civilian devices the Governor had scavenged from the Garden World. Originally used for monitoring weather, they had been modified into reconnaissance platforms by Father Kallun.

Over a hundred such blimps covered the entire fan-shaped airspace from the Red Sand Hills to Hive City Alpha.

The auspex data from each one was transmitted back in real-time to the holographic sand table at headquarters. The movements of every battalion, every tank, and every supply line of Cole's army were clearly visible.

But so what if they had the whole map revealed?

In the images, Cole's forces were accompanied by hydra flak tanks and infantry fighting vehicles that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Meanwhile, the armored vehicles they had available didn't even amount to a fraction of the enemy's numbers; they couldn't even pull together a complete defensive line.

"Captain, when exactly are those anti-armor weapons the Governor promised going to arrive?"

Ronan didn't respond, only tightening his grip on the communicator in his hand.

...

Inside the enclosed warehouse in Texas, the clanging sound of shipping containers hitting the ground made the floor tremble.

Father Kallun's mechanical bionic eye flashed with red light. He froze in place, staring at the mountain of components piled before him.

He had considered countless possibilities, but he never imagined that the Melta Gun parts the Governor obtained from this "Garden World" would be measured in tons.

Crates of gun casings, heat sinks, mounts, and power conduits were stacked neatly, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Kallen finally realized what it meant to "drive the price of ancient technology down to the price of cabbage."

He stepped forward quickly, grabbed a casing part, and the scanning beam of his bionic eye swept over the perfectly fitted machined surface.

How could so many be produced in such a short time?

How could a civilian-grade processing plant produce parts that met STC standards?

Kallen immediately raised his hand, and the Servo-skull hovering beside him flew out with a hum. Its red scanning light swept over crate after crate of parts, and a stream of data refreshed frantically on Kallen's data slate.

A few seconds later, the scan results came out.

The tolerances, materials, and strength of all the parts were a 100% match for the blueprint standards; there was not a single defective item.

If one had to find a flaw, it was that the materials used had poor durability and were prone to wear and tear.

But looking at the mountain of components, Kallen knew very well that this minor flaw was negligible in the face of such a massive quantity of spares.

Right now, all they needed to do was take the melta chambers and focusing crystal linings printed by that STC printer, install them, screw on the barrels, and a complete Multi-melta could come straight off the assembly line.

Father Kallun looked at the masterpiece before him again, unable to fathom how this Garden World, which he viewed as primitive and backward, actually possessed a terrifying production capacity comparable to an Imperial Forge World.

"Praise the Omnissiah," he snapped back to his senses and waved a hand behind him. "All Servitors in position! Cog-apprentices, follow me! It's time to work!"

Kallen turned and walked to the other end of the hangar. As he pushed open the large doors, he saw over a thousand modified DYB pickup trucks lined up neatly, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Weapon mounts had been welded onto the bed of every truck, and the mounts prepared for the Multi-meltas had already been reinforced.

Ceramite was welded all over the vehicle bodies, and bulletproof grilles were welded in front of the windshields, making them look exactly like light armored fighting vehicles.

Even more absurd was the weapon configuration in the truck beds—varied but all heavy hitters: there were Laser Claws for tearing through armor at close range, vehicle-mounted Laser Cannons for long-range precision fire, large-caliber Boltguns, quad rocket launchers, anti-tank grenade launchers, and even some with Heavy Bolters welded to the roof.

The weld marks were crooked and the wiring was a mess, exuding a rough, wasteland vibe reminiscent of the Orks.

But Kallen had to admit that being able to finish all this in such a short time was a miracle in itself.

High mobility, heavy firepower, low cost, and fast production—it was a perfect fit for the current anti-tank guerrilla warfare.

Beside the vehicles, several workers from the modification plant were taking a break with cigarettes, chatting as they looked at the armed pickups.

"What is the boss trying to do? Turning perfectly good pickups into armed vehicles and welding on such thick steel plates... is he going to war?"

"Keep your mouth shut." An old employee beside him blew a smoke ring. "The wages are paid on time, the bonuses are all there, and there's overtime pay. The boss can do whatever he wants. Even if he wants to rebel, I'll be the first to follow him!"

Hearing this, Kallen's mouth twitched.

He suddenly thought that if his colleagues from the Adeptus Mechanicus saw these crooked weld marks and haphazardly wired weapon mounts... Father Kallun felt that if his peers saw this, a charge of heresy would be unavoidable, and he'd likely be tossed into an incinerator.

But thinking about the technology and knowledge he had gained during this time, Father Kallun felt it was no big deal. Better to go out with a bang than to live in obscurity.

In the future records of the Cult Mechanicus, there would surely be a significant entry for Kallen... as for whether it was a whitelist or a blacklist, did it matter?

Notoriety is still fame, regardless of how you get into the books.

Deep inside the factory, a group of engineers from back home were surrounding an A-10 attack plane, performing final modifications and tuning.

Professor Qin Zhengfeng, the leader, was nominally in charge of this upgrade, but in reality, he was only coordinating and recording.

There were engineers from military enterprises as well as technicians from private companies. This mismatched combination had somehow managed to cram a set of incongruous equipment into the A-10, even including vehicle-mounted radars and central control screens.

But what truly concerned Professor Qin was the attack plane wearing its new "skin."

He ran his fingers over the fuselage's skin; the metallic texture transmitted to his fingertips completely exceeded his understanding.

"What kind of alloy is this? Its hardness is eight times that of aviation aluminum alloy, yet its weight is nearly halved. We can't find a matching model in our materials database at all!"

What Professor Qin understood even less was the avionics system in the cockpit.

Half of it consisted of the country's top-tier military low-altitude penetration avionics, terrain matching systems, and infrared warning devices, while the other half was equipment they couldn't recognize at all.

This primitive-looking, bulky equipment was exactly the military auspex from the Warhammer World, used by Fu Haoran to replace the radar.

Professor Qin wanted to investigate further but was stopped:

"Sorry, the trial is about to begin. Please leave for now."

Professor Qin reluctantly walked out of the testing area. Standing in the corridor, he looked back at the tightly closed blast door, feeling deep down that something big was about to happen.

Inside the testing grounds, Fu Haoran and other "executives" waited for the trial to begin.

"Fire."

The command was given.

A brilliant white melta jet instantly erupted from the muzzle. Twenty layers of heavy composite armor target plates were melted through like butter. The jet slammed into the concrete wall behind them, gouging out a hole with smooth edges.

In the corridor, Professor Qin heard a dull roar, and the entire concrete wall vibrated slightly.

His expression changed drastically, and he hurried toward the source of the sound.

When he saw the newly appeared hole in the wall, he froze.

The edges of the hole were smooth, as if melted instantly by high temperatures—not a mark that any kinetic weapon could leave.

"What kind of weapon is this?!" Professor Qin quickly took out his phone to take photos.

...

Inside the testing grounds, Fu Haoran frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the result.

He turned to Kallen beside him: "Can't the range be increased? One kilometer is still too short."

Kallen felt a long-absent headache. He explained as best as he could, "My Lord, melta weapons are typically short-range destructive weapons. Their power decays with distance; the closer the target, the stronger the armor penetration. A range of one kilometer is already the limit."

Fu Haoran was silent for a few seconds before suddenly saying, "Since the range is short, can we mount the melta warhead on a missile?"

"Since the materials here aren't suited for repeated use anyway, they'd be perfect as one-time consumables."

Kallen blinked, his bionic eye flashing. "The Navy does have melta torpedoes..."

"Exactly." Fu Haoran made the decision. "If it can be put on a torpedo, it can be put on a missile."

...

That night, the top-floor secure conference room of the National Security Bureau in the Imperial Capital was brightly lit.

On the other end of the video call, Qin Zhengfeng finished reporting the day's test fire video, weapon detection data, and the modification details of the A-10, word for word.

The conference room was packed. Heads of National Security, the General Staff, the Army, Navy, and Air Force, and the Equipment Research Institute were all present, their expressions varying.

Because just now, Qin Zhengfeng had delivered a conclusion that unsettled everyone present:

"According to our calculations, a melta warhead with an equivalent amount of charge could penetrate the side armor of an active-duty destroyer in one shot. Even a hundred-thousand-ton aircraft carrier would have its hangar deck melted through, severely damaging the core compartments."

The conference room fell silent instantly, and everyone's expression became incredibly solemn.

Someone spoke up first, their voice tense: "If this kind of weapon were mass-equipped by the Americas, our naval formations and armored groups would fall into an extremely passive situation."

"It won't be," Qin Zhengfeng immediately shook his head. "No personnel from the America military or corporations were involved in the entire modification and R&D process."

"The core technology is entirely in Fu Haoran's hands. Otherwise, there wouldn't be a large number of domestic engineers deeply involved, along with a group of foreign personnel who look like religious fanatics, who avoid contact with outsiders and only follow Fu Haoran's orders."

Upon hearing this, everyone in the conference room was stunned.

In the Americas' own backyard, such a revolutionary new weapon was developed, and the Americas weren't involved at all?

A researcher wearing glasses suddenly spoke: "You guys say... this kid Fu Haoran, he couldn't be thinking of setting up his own shop on America soil, could he?"

The room went quiet for a moment, then someone immediately retorted: "Absurd! That's America soil. Building a city within a city right under their noses? In the two hundred-plus years since the founding of America, no one has ever dared to do that!"

But as soon as he finished, someone else added in a low voice: "It hasn't happened in America history, but in our five thousand years of Chinese history, this kind of thing has happened quite a lot..."

The conference room fell back into silence. Everyone felt this was preposterous to the extreme, but looking at the armed pickups, melta weapons, and the heavily modified attack plane Fu Haoran had produced on the projection, they also had a faint feeling that this young man might actually be able to pull it off.

The leader sitting in the main seat tapped the table and made the final call: "Continue observing. Do not intervene rashly, do not actively reveal our identity, do not make contact for now. Just watch how things unfold."

...

In the office of the Texas factory, Fu Haoran had just seen off the domestic engineers when a system prompt sounded in his mind.

[Detected that the host has completed the first self-developed and modified ground attack aircraft. Side mission officially unlocked: Hive City Aviation Corps Construction!]

[Mission Requirements: Form a complete Hive City air superiority force, including ground attack aircraft, transport aircraft, air superiority fighters, and an air defense system, to establish complete low-altitude air control over the planet.]

[Mission Reward: Complete technical blueprints for the Thunderhawk Gunship.]

Fu Haoran clicked on the mission list and couldn't help but roll his eyes at the densely packed entries.

The Planetary Defense Force was already in place, Hive City naval vessels were under construction in the shipyards, and the armored units were gradually taking shape along with the modification of the pickup truck fleet.

Now, the system was urging him to build an air force too.

Fu Haoran scrolled down and saw a pile of missions yet to be unlocked for internal administration, industrial systems, and starport construction.

He suddenly felt this scene was somewhat familiar.

"Huh? It seems like those predecessors in history who rebelled all started out step-by-step like this."

"The system's final mission... it probably won't make me rebel, right?"

Classic lines from "Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor, Owing Three Hundred Years of Taxes" keep appearing; come find your resonance.