Warhammer: Empire Reboot

Lawson began directing the assassins to clean up the workshop.

The disassembled tank engines, unfinished weapons, damaged armor plates, and the remaining legs of the walking mechs were all absorbed. Within half an hour, all usable metal in the workshop was cleared out.

[Steel reserves: +89.7 cubic meters]

Total reserves have exceeded 400.

Just as the cleaning was about to end, Number 4 sent a signal of consciousness from a corner deep inside the workshop.

P.S.: Brothers, please keep reading and vote!

Chapter 25 Taming the Little Wrench

Lawson switched to Number 4's perspective.

In a dark corner by the wall on the far right of the workshop, something was trembling.

One end of a thick iron chain was welded to the wall, and the other end was looped around the neck of a thin, green person.

What a fart-grubber.

But he was quite different from all the fart-mongers Lawson had ever met before.

This farting creature was smaller, about three-quarters the size of a normal farting creature. Its skin was a lighter yellowish-green, rather than the dark green of a standard green-skinned creature.

What's most eye-catching is its hands.

Those hands were longer and more dexterous than any of the perverts' hands.

The fingers are slender with distinct knuckles, and each finger bears various calluses and burn scars.

In addition to the iron chain around its neck, it also wore a collar made of twisted wire, with several small metal tags hanging from the collar, on which something was engraved in rough green characters.

"Tech-savvy slave workers" refers to individuals who occasionally appear in the group of sycophants and possess a faint technical intuition.

He's far less intelligent than a true tech whiz, but at least he can tell the difference between a wrench and a screwdriver.

The master craftsmen would chain them up in the workshop and use them as working tools.

This slave laborer trembled all over when he saw Lawson and his assassins approaching.

It witnessed the entire process of Techmaster being killed.

If it were a normal fart spirit living in a green-skinned tribe, it would never bow down to a human.

Under the influence of the Waaagh energy field, the greenskins only worship their own kind who are bigger, greener, and more powerful than themselves.

But this farting devil is not a normal farting devil.

It was chained to a corner of the workshop, where it had been kept for countless standard days.

It belongs to no tribe, participates in any Waaagh, has no protection from its own kind, and is not even spoken to by other bastards.

Long-term isolation from its community has thinned its Waaagh energy field to the point of almost non-existence.

It was merely a domesticated slave.

Whoever controls that chain is its master.

The mastermind is dead, but the chains remain. Now, the person standing on the other end of the chains has changed.

Moreover, the survival instinct of a fart-grubber is ingrained in their bones.

Faced with a group of armed humans who had just slaughtered eight orc boys in thirty seconds, any bastard, even the most fanatical Waaagh believer, could only make one wise choice.

So this farting slave did something that was perfectly logical given its circumstances.

It knelt down.

Two green knees slammed onto the metal floor.

The yellowish-green head was lowered as low as it could go, and its two large ears were almost touching the ground.

"Don't kill him! He's useful! He can work! He can pass things! He can tighten screws! He can clean guns! He can do everything!"

"Don't kill! Please, don't kill me!"

Lawson looked down at the little thing kneeling on the ground, trembling.

The fourth one, Katachon's Fang, has been raised.

"and many more."

Lawson crouched down and observed the farting slave closely for a few seconds.

These hands have indeed been engaged in precise mechanical operations for a long time.

There is a fundamental gap between human technological logic and the technological logic of the Greenskins. When a human engineer sees a Greenskin device, he will ask, "How can this possibly work?" But a Greenskin slave worker will instinctively know which kick to give it a start and which screw to tighten to prevent it from exploding.

This prior knowledge was useful to him.

"Keep it."

Number 4 put down the knife.

Lawson untied a two-meter-long monofilament rope from his belt and tied one end tightly around the neck of the slave, replacing the original thick iron chain.

He then handed the other end of the rope to Number 1.

"Tie it to your waist. If it runs away or malfunctions, you're responsible."

Number 1 tied the rope to his belt, his face expressionless.

Lawson looked at the kneeling slave and asked a question.

What's your name?

The slave laborer was stunned for a moment.

At the bottom of the green-skinned society, farts usually don't need names.

They were either called "idiot," "hey," or "that damn piece of trash."

However, the term "technician slave" is sometimes used to describe a tool-like function.

"Boss... call me... Little Wrench."

“Little Wrench,” Lawson repeated the name.

After the workshop was cleaned up, Lawson led all his men back to the base.

Over the next two days, a large-scale military expansion took place.

Steel reserves are plentiful, and life points are steadily accumulated through continuous hunting.

The number of suicide squad members quickly increased from thirty to one, two, and three batches.

Until the stronghold was filled with burly men.

Including number 6, there are sixty-one people.

There are six squads of ten men each, with one squad leader in each squad, who is the most experienced suicide soldier.

The 800-square-meter repair dock has become crowded, but Lawson has no plans to replace it for the time being.

The defensive advantages of this location, along with the surrounding network of traps, are worth far more than a more spacious area.

During the first rest period after the expansion of the military.

In a corner of the outpost, a small incident is taking place.

Little Wrench squatted beside a pile of scrap metal, trembling as he watched the assassins around him eating.

The ten assassins on rest day were squatting on the ground, cutting up roasted orc meat with the Fang of Katachon.

The smell of roasted orc thigh meat filled the repair dock.

The assassins chewed expressionlessly, the crunching sound, like metal cutting through a workpiece, was particularly clear in the quiet stronghold.

The little wrench's big eyes widened in surprise.

Its body was trembling, but it dared not make a sound.

The single-strand rope around its neck served as a reminder that any movement that displeased its leader could lead to its head separating from its neck.

Lawson noticed the little wrench's reaction.

He took a fist-sized piece of roasted orc meat from a bodyguard and casually tossed it onto the ground in front of Little Wrench.

"eat."

Little Wrench looked at the piece of roast meat, then at Lawson, then at the roast meat again.

Its body trembled even more violently.

Looking at its pitiful state, on the verge of tears, Lawson suddenly thought of something.

He opened the system panel and switched his attention to the scrap area.

That mass of Waaagh energy residue extracted from the orc's soul.

Lawson extracted a small clump of green energy residue, about the size of a fingernail.

The clump of residue condensed into a tiny green particle in his hand.

He wrapped the green thing around the piece of roasted orc meat.

Waaagh energy is almost a life-sustaining substance for the greenskins. For a hooligan starving and freezing on chains, encountering pure Waaagh energy residue is like a person who has been thirsty for three days in the desert finding a cup of water.

The little wrench's big nose twitched twice.

"Ow!"

The little wrench let out a sound completely different from its previous pitiful scream.

It pounced, its two green claws grabbing the roasted orc meat wrapped in Waaagh energy remnants.

Its tiny teeth bit into the tough orc flesh with a force completely disproportionate to its small size. The Waaagh energy residue acted like a seasoning, transforming this piece of its own kind's flesh into a kind of communion that transcended the meaning of food itself.

Chapter 26 The Orcs and the Chicken Cunning Fight

"Crunch, crunch, crunch!"