Warhammer: My buddy has too many secrets!

At the Mother of Tears' command center, Lancelot hadn't yet figured out how to negotiate with the Weeping Ones. So, after completing the cleanup of the Cobra frigate, Lancelot suggested they rest for a while, leave this dangerous area, and recuperate before engaging in dialogue.

Lancelot was then led into a lounge.

Ten hours had passed, and even the commander of the Malakin Warband was afraid that the mysterious Dark Angel would suddenly leave without saying goodbye.

After all, according to the rumors, the Dark Angels always suddenly appear on a ship to carry out a mission, and then suddenly disappear.

Moreover, the Legion's intelligence database also told him that this Dark Angel was definitely not simple. He seemed to possess some kind of sacred object that could directly stabilize the real world, and in terms of psionic energy, he could hardly see any trace of this Dark Angel.

The other party possesses a sacred artifact... This is understandable for the ancient dark angel. Perhaps the other party could have solved those problems on the ship by himself back then, but it was just a coincidence that he was able to fight alongside him.

A rare act of kindness... a rare brother in arms.

A rare friendship.

Is it really going to just disappear quietly like this?

Malakin was also worried about this situation. The Weepers had been lost in the Warp for too long, and now they had finally managed to come out of the Warp and finally be able to fight alongside their friendly comrades...

If this Dark Angel were to suddenly disappear without a trace… even if the Lamenters didn't say much, after all, they were all loyal to the Imperium. But Space Marines aren't machines, and if that were the case, they would still feel a sense of loss.

It was under these emotional circumstances that Malakin finally received news from Lancelot.

"Commander, Lancelot, the Dark Angels' battle comrade, invites you to our armory for a meeting," said one of the lamenters. "He has already gone ahead."

"To meet in the armory?"

A hint of doubt flashed across Malakin's face. Before, things were alright; the Cursed Army had left them with a considerable amount of resources, and the losses from previous small-scale battles were still acceptable. However, after the Battle of Corilia, the Weeping Legion suffered huge losses and could be said to be penniless.

The most valuable items are the genetic seeds of the warband brothers, while the equipment in the armory... is almost all broken and dilapidated, with very few bullets left for explosive guns. Going to the armory will only reveal a desolate scene.

Many factors determine whether a chapter is wealthy: its homeworld, the star systems it governs, its status... but none of these apply to the Cursed Army's Lamenters.

The only saving grace is that, although the Mechanicus of the warband suffered heavy losses, it is at least still able to maintain operations...

However, this should also be considered a result of my poor management as the chapter leader... It's truly a disgrace. Is this Dark Angel visiting the armory to assess the value of the Weepers?

On the road, each step the armor took on the cold floor echoed with a chilling sound. Walking through the monastery, the Hades-type Terminator armor he wore was, in fact, the last vestige of dignity the chapter had left.

In the monastery, most of the weeping men's equipment was in a terrible state. Some had grotesque rips in their shoulder armor, others had dents in their breastplates, and some were covered in scratches. Their once proud chapter insignia were worn and blurred.

We don't have enough manpower.

The supplies are too few.

Due to the curse that led to the establishment of the army, even the accompanying Mechanicus priests were few in number, making resupply and repairs difficult, and the armory had no storage whatsoever.

With these mixed feelings, Malakin avoided the others and walked alone towards the armory.

The heavy iron gate closed.

The armory lights came on, but Malakin's expression suddenly turned blank.

The sight before him shocked him; his tired, dull pupils contracted sharply, and an unbelievable shock instantly swept over his entire body.

The warehouse, which should have been empty, was now filled with a torrent of silver steel.

Hovering motorcycle vehicle.

These are not crudely made battlefield vehicles, but exquisite war machines that resemble works of art. Their streamlined bodies are forged from mithril and star steel, and their jet-black surfaces are shrouded in a dark blue energy, making them look like living behemoths.

The front of the vehicle was covered in heavy armor, which constantly shone with a blinding light.

Behind the array of hovercraft were rows of powered armor, not worn by the warriors; they were silent steel giants, broad-shouldered and imposing.

They exuded a chilling aura of majesty, their jet-black alloy armor gleaming with a cold, matte finish. Stretching from one end of the warehouse to the other, the densely packed power armors seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see!

They stand silently, like steel tombstones, or like guardians waiting to be reborn. Each one is so perfect, full of energy, and exudes a heart-pounding sense of oppression!

What's even more chilling is the mountain of guns and cannons.

As far as the eye could see, there was a dazzling array of weapons, neatly arranged and categorized. Ammunition boxes were piled high, and magazines were arranged in orderly rows. Every weapon had undergone the most precise forging, without a trace of rust or wear, as if it had just been taken out of the furnace and was still hot.

In the corner, some Red Cross medicines were quietly placed, but even so, the air was still filled with a strong metallic and energetic aura, cold and piercing yet stirring the heart.

The faint glow of the hovercraft, the cold gleam of the power armor, and the sharp light of the guns intertwined, reflecting in the gradually igniting eyes of the warband commander.

That deep-seated sense of loss and despair was completely crushed at this moment, replaced by bewilderment.

Who...who put this in my boat?!

Commander Malakin thought he was seeing things and couldn't help but touch the armor of the hovercrafts. When the real touch was transmitted through his nerves, Malakin felt as if something was churning inside him.

These creations are so perfect, so exquisite, as if they were just assembled in a forging factory, yet they have none of the cumbersome patterns of mechanical engineering, but instead possess a simple, technological quality.

Even though the Lamenters weren't a band that was good at using vehicles for raids, they had seen their White Scars bandmates come to their aid.

Back then, the white-scarred combat brothers roared along on their motorcycles, constantly weaving through the battlefield thanks to their high mobility.

But even the White Scars, who specialize in this tactic, felt that their vehicles were nowhere near as perfect as the hoverbikes in front of them!

It's normal for the human empire to be in a state of technological regression, because the Space Marine standard weapon forging template that Lancelot currently possesses has a vehicle named the Brock Jet Motorbike listed on it!

During the Great Crusade, it was just standard equipment, but now, in the 40k era, it has become a rare and precious artifact! It has even become a sacred relic of the White Scars Chapter, only allowed to be used by warriors with outstanding achievements!

Despite these thoughts, Lancelot stepped out from the shadows and approached the Commander of the Malakin Chapter.

He then spoke directly:

"Commander Malakin, the Lamenters have just emerged from the warp and are in need of supplies. I happen to have some in stock, so please accept this small gift."