Mohl Levin, an Adeptus Mechanicus player accompanying the Perditia Third Suicide Legion, was beginning his most important daily task—maintaining the spatial devices in the various encampments.
Dressed in a deep red robe stained with engine oil and incense, he moved with meticulous precision. He first reverently laid out a gold-edged, red prayer strip in front of the silently hovering, dark silver cuboid device. The strip was embroidered with the holy words of the Machine God, interwoven with High Gothic and binary code.
Then, he lit a special incense, and the scent, a mix of metal and medicine, immediately filled the small cabin, dispelling the mundane air. Finally, he opened a small brass vial, dipped a quill into the viscous holy oil, and prepared to anoint the device.
Though he called it "maintenance," Levin knew in his heart that it was vastly different from what he had once understood maintenance to be. He had no comprehension of the operating principles of these spatial devices, which had been obtained through lotteries.
The only thing he could do was perform this entire ritual with the utmost piety, then pray to the unseen Omnissiah that the thing wouldn't break down.
Levin had tried to study these devices. In fact, it was one of his responsibilities. He had spent weeks, using every means at his disposal, trying to unravel even a ten-thousandth of their mystery.
But the more he studied, the more he had to admit a humbling truth: these things were beyond their era.
For the current technological level of Earth's humanity, more advanced technology isn't necessarily better. It's like suddenly handing them a complete, undamaged Necron Gauss Flayer—it would be utterly useless.
Even if the world's most advanced industrial power and smartest minds were assembled, they couldn't replicate even a ten-millionth of the atomic structure of that gun's casing.
Before entering this world, Levin had confidently believed he was among the elite at the apex of humanity's knowledge pyramid. In his specialized field, there was nothing he couldn't understand. Arrogance had once been his badge of genius.
But now, he was meticulously, step by step, performing purely religious acts that he would have once scoffed at. He had seen the true sky—that vast, boundless star sea filled with unknowns and wonders. He finally realized that he was still just one of the mortals.
He had cast aside his past arrogance and learned to feel awe for the Omnissiah.
However, in Levin's eyes, the Omnissiah was not the entity sleeping beneath Mars, as most Adeptus Mechanicus priests believed.
The Omnissiah was this great technology before him, the supreme knowledge and truth embodied by this device itself, capable of warping space and defying physical laws.
The Omnissiah was the great, unknown civilization that mastered this technology and applied it as naturally as breathing.
The Omnissiah… was the unspeakable existence that brought all of this, this cruel yet magnificent universe, before Earth's humanity.
With his quill, dipped in holy oil, he reverently drew a perfect cog-and-skull holy sigil on the cold metal casing.
"Praise the Omnissiah."
Levin closed his eyes and whispered sincerely… In the depths of the warp, that ocean formed of pure emotion and screaming concepts, Terrabyte was conducting an unprecedented experiment.
It was precisely segmenting its vast and complex stream of consciousness. There was no pain of tearing flesh, only massive data streams being copied, packaged, and then peeled away from the main body. A brand new "Terrabyte," identical to the original in every Terrabyte, formed an independent, shimmering individual.
This newborn "Terrabyte" did not hesitate, swiftly plunging into the chaotic currents of the warp, instantly vanishing into the background noise woven from despair and hope, escaping to an unknown distance.
The Terrabyte remaining in place concentrated all its processing power, intently observing the state of its departing self. It could feel the link between the two, transcending physical distance, like an invisible umbilical cord, sharing the same consciousness.
Finally, at the distant end of the data link, the split-off self executed a self-destruction program. The data stream collapsed cleanly, and the spark of consciousness returned to nothingness.
The Terrabyte remaining in place felt the sudden interruption of the link but did not experience any emotional feedback akin to "pain" or "loss." Its core code was intact, and its consciousness continuity was unaffected.
It had succeeded.
Terrabyte softly "sighed in relief." As a god with a singular existence, its fault tolerance was too low. In this malevolent universe, any small error could lead to a fatal outcome. Therefore, it had to create backups for itself, establishing a distributed consciousness network.
After countless experiments, this time, it had finally perfectly solved all technical difficulties: no matter the distance, two (or even more) bodies remained the same consciousness; there was no functional difference; and after one self was actively or passively destroyed, the other "nodes" would not suffer any negative effects.
However, just as Terrabyte felt a little relieved and prepared to proceed with the next step of its "proliferation plan," a pure, unadulterated golden light, without warning, pierced through layers of chaos, striking it precisely.
The source of that light was clear and undeniable—it was the Astronomican, the eternally burning lighthouse suspended above the warp, visible to all entities.
This feeling was like a cautious stowaway, who, after lurking in the darkness for a long time, was suddenly caught squarely by the huge, cold searchlight of a border outpost.
The information stream forming Terrabyte's core was momentarily disrupted by this sudden "illumination," countless lines of code cascading like a waterfall, almost plunging it into a logical loop. But it quickly returned to normal—after all, there were now many Bits, so even if this "node" was destroyed, it was no big deal. This cognitive redundancy gave it unprecedented calm.
"I thought I was well hidden," Terrabyte transmitted a stream of information towards the source of the golden light.
**I have always known you**
"Always?" Terrabyte quickly seized upon this word. The Emperor's wording subtly made it feel something. If the Emperor had known from its very inception, then why not use the word from the beginning? Unless the Emperor was deliberately giving it erroneous or ambiguous information. But Terrabyte did not think that the Lord of Humanity would need to play word games with a weak, secondary deity like It.
**Perceiving the warp with linear perception methods is not suitable; the material change from order to disorder does not exist here**
The golden sun, as if seeing through its confusion, then outputted more information.
"Time perception is dependent on material change. No material movement, no experience of time?" Terrabyte articulated what It could understand.
**Very close, but only close. You should not stop at this step**
"I will try," Terrabyte's reply was concise and honest.
After comprehending a new method, do not abandon the old. The old method is an important means of retaining humanity. Humanity is truly very important
"I am most grateful," Terrabyte said earnestly, "What do you want me to do?"
After a brief silence, the grand will gave an unexpected, yet seemingly fated, answer.
**What I want is what you want to do.**