Byrne had accepted this job in the face of an "inhumane" monetary offensive, but repairing this core was not going to be easy.
The conduction pathways required star-iron powder for filling, and the energy interfaces needed reinforcement with refined platinum wire. These two materials were manageable; as long as he checked enough shops, he could source them. However, beyond those lay the most critical component: a metastable plasma constraint ring.
A constraint ring like that wasn't something easily found in the Underhive. Byrne would have to try his luck in the black market. Even if his luck exploded and he managed to secure the ring and gather all necessary materials within a few hours, the remaining time...
Byrne glanced up at the old mechanical clock on the wall. It was around 8:40 AM. By his calculations, he had nearly eight hours left. That simply wasn't enough time.
Conventional repair methods were clearly out of the question. Now, Byrne could only rely on a specialized method: Psychic Restoration.
Ever since his transmigration, Byrne had known he could channel psychic power to repair various mechanical constructs. The more complex the machinery, the more psychic energy it consumed, and the longer it took. As a psyker, however, Byrne's soul was constantly under threat from the Ruinous Powers of the Warp. The longer and more frequently he used his powers, the greater the danger.
Furthermore, he had to carefully hide his identity as a psyker to avoid becoming prey for the Inquisition and being hauled off by a Black Ship to serve as fuel for the Golden Throne. Consequently, Byrne never used his powers unless absolutely necessary.
But this time, he had to. The cowboy had simply given him too much to refuse.
Having made up his mind, Byrne immediately locked the shop door and hung a "Closed" sign in the window. He then grabbed the suitcase and headed to his second-floor bedroom. After tightly sealing the doors and windows, he took the core out and set it on the floor. He sat cross-legged beside it, suspended his hands over the device, and closed his eyes.
A moment later, two wisps of pale blue light drifted from his palms, slowly settling onto the metal core. Upon contact, the patterns on the surface lit up. Gone was the dull, lifeless metallic texture; instead, a warm halo pulsed in sync with the blue light.
Like a CT scan, Byrne used this manifested psychic light to peer clearly into the core's interior. Every broken trace, every loose energy interface, and even a hidden fracture deep within—one invisible to the naked eye—mapped itself perfectly in his mind.
With the aid of his psychic power, he guided the blue light along the damaged patterns, and the surface-level injuries quickly mended. Half an hour passed. The surface cracks healed, but as the light probed deeper, the restoration speed slowed. When the light reached the deepest fracture, it could no longer close the gap.
Beads of cold sweat formed on Byrne's forehead. The internal damage was more severe than he had anticipated; his current psychic output was insufficient. But if he ramped up the intensity, he risked drawing the attention of the "Four Small-Time Vendors" of the Warp.
Then, Byrne thought of the thirty Throne Gelt sitting in that pouch. He found his motivation instantly.
To hell with being afraid. Fortune favors the bold—I'm going all in!
As his psychic intensity increased, the deep-seated rift began to knit together, bit by bit. Ten minutes later, the innermost fracture was sealed. Byrne withdrew his power and exhaled a long breath. Fortunately, nothing had gone wrong.
However, just as Byrne stood up to return the core to its case, an anomaly occurred. A flash of green light erupted before his eyes. This point of light spread rapidly, like ink dropped into clear water. The air was instantly thick with a pungent, putrid stench—as if a corpse had been soaking in a summer sewer for three days.
Putrid...
Crap. This is the scent of Nurgle.
Byrne reacted quickly, throwing himself backward, but he was a step too late. Faint whispers began to nibble at his ears—the deceptive echoes of the Warp. The foul air crawled through his nostrils and into his lungs, forcing him to double over in a fit of violent coughing.
He looked down at his hands. Pale green slime was beginning to ooze from between his fingers. The hallucinations were intensifying. He could clearly feel something wriggling under his skin, like countless tiny maggots traveling through his veins. The whispers grew clearer, evolving from a single murmur into a cacophony of dying wails and the frenzied prayers of Nurgle's cultists.
Just as Byrne's mental state reached its breaking point, a sliver of soft light emerged from his chest. It came from the pendant he wore. The golden glow acted like a living thing, crawling up his neck and out to his limbs, forming a translucent film over his skin.
The stinging stench was instantly suppressed. The green slime stopped oozing and solidified into dark green scabs that crumbled into dust at a touch. The wriggling beneath his skin slowed, leaving behind only a slight itch.
The stalemate lasted for five full minutes before the physical hallucinations finally receded. By then, Byrne felt as though he had run a full marathon. He slumped to the floor, gasping for air, his hands still trembling from the sheer tension.
Thank the Throne for that pendant; it had saved his life. A second later and Nurgle's rot would have seeped into his very soul. That would have been a total wreck.
Byrne sat on the floor for a long time before he finally recovered. He took out the pendant to examine it. It was a silver teardrop-shaped piece, its surface carved with strange, spiral symbols. In the original owner's memory, his father had given it to him before being conscripted. Byrne hadn't thought much of it after transmigrating, keeping it only because it looked nice. He never imagined this ordinary-looking trinket possessed the power to ward off Warp corruption.
But as he watched, the pendant suddenly gave a sharp crack and shattered. Byrne stared at the fragments on the floor for a few seconds before saying helplessly, "What a shame. It was a one-time consumable."
Though the process had been treacherous, the risky gamble had paid off. Byrne picked up the core and packed it into the suitcase. Now, all he had to do was wait for five o'clock for the cowboy to collect his goods. Already, Byrne was fantasizing about how he would spend this small fortune once he secured a better life in the Upper Spire.
In the blink of an eye, the appointed time arrived. As the hour and minute hands overlapped at 5:00 PM, steady footsteps echoed outside the shop.
The door pushed open. The cowboy had arrived.