“You’re really taking this?”
Phillips adjusted the monocle in his eye socket.
His gaze circled around the bulky suppression lasgun, his face filled with unconcealed disdain.
“This thing is more powerful than an ordinary lasgun, sure, but it’s far too delicate.”
He tapped the weapon’s oversized capacitor pack.
“I’ve never been on a battlefield, but even I’ve heard about this thing’s reputation for high malfunction rates.”
“This thing has gotten plenty of people killed.
Third Company used to have a big guy who loved using one of these too.
Then it jammed during an encounter, and he was cut in half by a Tyranid Warrior.”
Phillips shook his head.
His tone carried a bit more advice from someone who had seen enough records to know better.
“I suggest you switch to a durable lasrifle instead.
On the battlefield, if this thing fails at a critical moment, your life is gone.
The M36 might be weaker, but at least it’s sturdy.
Even if you swing it like a fire poker, it won’t break.”
Rod did not answer immediately.
He weighed the weapon in his hands, feeling the heavy pressure of it.
Altogether, this thing was probably over ten kilograms.
Even holding it in one hand made his wrist ache.
Carrying it around normally would practically count as weight training.
Perfect.
He could train his Strength skill too.
“Delicate?”
Rod smiled.
His fingers slid over the weapon’s body, and the pale golden translucent panel in the corner of his vision flickered slightly.
[Passive Skill Triggered: Mechanical Affinity]
“Any gun under my hands will learn to behave.”
Since the system recognized Mechanical Affinity, even if this machine spirit was some spoiled young lady, it would still have to obediently listen to him.
Phillips looked at Rod’s completely unpersuadable expression and shrugged, returning to his businesslike indifference.
“Fine.”
He stopped insisting and turned to tap rapidly on the data-slate, entering the withdrawal record.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Since you chose it yourself, I can only comply.
Pray that you resonate with this gun’s machine spirit.
Hopefully, it won’t throw a tantrum when you’re facing an Ork.”
After saying that, he beckoned.
“Come on.
We’re going to the ammunition depot next door.
The captain approved three basic loads of ammunition for you.
That’s a generous amount.”
A few minutes later.
Rod walked out of the ammunition depot.
Right now, he was practically a walking armory.
A field pack full of magazines and power cells was strapped to his back.
On one side of his waist hung the heavy bolt pistol, while a string of grenades hung on the other.
In his hands, he carried the suppression lasgun.
“Mr.
Phillips.”
Rod called out to the adjutant, who was about to return and report.
“Where is the Iron Jaw sergeant the platoon leader mentioned?
I’d like to see if he can teach me some maintenance.”
Phillips stopped and pointed with some disgust toward a temporary workshop nearby, one that was belching black smoke and steam.
“Over there.
The place that reeks of machine oil.”
He added, “But that man’s temper stinks worse than a Squiggoth.
Good luck.”
Rod thanked him and walked toward the workshop.
Before he even got close, a thick stench of industrial exhaust, burnt rubber, and old machine oil rushed into his face.
The light inside the workshop was dim.
Only a few work lamps gave off a pale white glow.
Disassembled gun parts, track plates, and armor fragments were piled everywhere.
In the middle of that heap of scrap metal, Rod spotted Platoon Leader Karl at once.
This battlefield tough guy was currently standing with his back slightly hunched.
Opposite him stood a burly sergeant.
The sergeant wore oil-stained red work overalls.
The most eye-catching thing about him was his jaw.
It was not flesh, but a crudely made iron jaw.
Several hydraulic tubes were exposed on the outside, extending and retracting with his speech while making a zzzk, zzzk sound of mechanical friction.
“The energy chamber has already melted and fused with the gun’s parts.”
Iron Jaw Sergeant Hack held the half-disassembled plasma gun in one hand and slapped the weapon hard with his large calloused hand covered in machine oil.
“It has to be removed.
The heat-dissipation coils on this thing are all sintered.
If we don’t take it apart, the entire breech can’t be repaired at all.”
“The energy chamber can’t be removed!”
Platoon Leader Karl leaned forward.
“This is the last energy chamber we have.
Old Hack, you know the supply situation right now.
Once it’s removed, this gun has no ammunition left!
Without the energy chamber, this gun is nothing but a scrap metal club!”
“Hmph.”
Sergeant Hack snorted coldly, and his mechanical jaw sprayed a puff of white vapor.
“Not remove it?
Would you dare use it?
This thing is a ticking bomb now.”
He slapped the heavy plasma gun back onto the table.
“Are you going to feed it with the blood of the boys under your command?
Huh?
Say something!”
Platoon Leader Karl was left speechless.
It truly was a dilemma.
If they removed it, the gun could be repaired, but without ammunition, it would be as good as useless.
If they did not remove it, every pull of the trigger would be a gamble, betting that the sintered energy chamber would not blow the shooter to pieces.
And even then, there was no guarantee it would actually fire the plasma charge.
The atmosphere froze for a moment.
Only rainwater dripping from the workshop roof into an iron bucket could be heard.
Drip.
Drip.
Steady footsteps broke the awkward silence.
Rod walked over.
Sergeant Hack turned and swept a cold glance over Rod.
His gaze paused for one second on the bolt pistol at Rod’s waist.
The focus of his augmetic eye zoomed in slightly, as if he were a little surprised.
Then he saw the bulky suppression lasgun on Rod’s shoulder.
On the sergeant’s oil-stained face appeared a meaningful smile, one tinged with mockery.
Another reckless fresh recruit treating a big gun like treasure.
Platoon Leader Karl heard the movement and turned around.
Seeing that it was Rod, his tense shoulders relaxed a little.
“Oh, you’re back.”
He forced out a smile, silently reached out, reassembled the half-disassembled plasma gun, and slung it back onto his own back.
The movement looked incredibly heavy.
“Sir.”
Rod stood at attention and saluted.
Then he turned toward the sergeant whose face practically said strangers should stay away.
“Sergeant Major.”
Rod’s voice was neither humble nor arrogant.
It carried none of the timidity a recruit usually showed before a veteran.
“I’m Rod.
I just received new equipment, and I’d like to ask for guidance on the routine maintenance points for this suppression lasgun, and this…
bolt pistol.”
What did the platoon leader call him earlier?
Hack?
Still, this man probably was not the walking heavy bolter who strangled a Tyranid Ravener with his bare hands.
Just a repair sergeant with the same name.
Sergeant Hack casually grabbed a blackened rag and wiped his hands.
“There’s nothing much to say about a bolt pistol.
It’s an iron brick.
As long as you don’t drop it into lava, it’ll work.
As for this…”
He pointed at the lasgun on Rod’s shoulder.
“Hand it over.”
Rod handed it over as told.
The sergeant took the gun.
Click.
Clack.
Right there on the oil-covered workbench, the sergeant’s fingers flew.
In only a few movements, he dismantled the complex lasgun into a pile of parts.
“Watch closely.
I’m only teaching this once.”
He explained while reassembling it, speaking so quickly that he did not care whether Rod could understand.
But Rod understood.
Not only did he understand, but an unusual light flickered in his eyes.
[Skill Triggered: Rapid Firearm Maintenance LV2]
[Analyzing target structure…
Analysis progress 100%]
The moment the sergeant finished assembling the gun and tossed it back, Rod did not say a word.
He immediately started working.
Click!
He dismantled the gun too.
Although his movements were not as smooth as the sergeant’s, every step was precise and correct.
A faint “huh” escaped Iron Jaw Sergeant Hack’s mouth.
Rod ignored it.
His full attention was focused on the pile of parts in his hands.
Among the complicated circuits and crystals, his finger stopped on an inconspicuous black cable.
It was inside the handguard, close to the trigger.
At first glance, the cable seemed perfectly intact.
But Rod’s fingertip lightly nudged the insulation layer.
There was a tiny crack.
It was extremely small.
If one did not look carefully, it would be impossible to notice.
But once the handguard was installed…
Rod picked up the handguard and simulated the gripping motion.
When the palm clenched the handguard tightly, the inner side of the guard would press exactly against that crack.
The compressed cable would bend outward, causing the crack to open.
The exposed wire would then directly touch the metal heat sink beside it.
A short circuit.
This was the real reason this gun did not jam on the training range, but malfunctioned the moment it reached the battlefield!
“Sergeant Major.”
Rod raised his head, pinching the cable in his hand.
“The sickness of this gun is here.”
He showed the cable to the sergeant and demonstrated the compression-induced short circuit.
“You couldn’t find it during normal inspection because the cable wasn’t under stress after disassembly.
But once the user grips it tightly under pressure, it shorts and loses power.”
Iron Jaw Sergeant Hack froze.
His mechanical jaw opened with a clack, then forgot to close.
He snatched the part from Rod’s hand and brought it close to his eyes for careful inspection.
After a long while…
“Omnissiah above…”
The sergeant muttered.
“I knew there was a reason this batch of guns kept losing power for no reason…
So many Tech-Priests said it was because the machine spirits were irritable.
Turns out it was this flaw!”
He suddenly raised his head.
The way he looked at Rod no longer carried the contempt one showed a fresh recruit.
“Kid…
No, Brother Rod, you have eyes blessed by the Machine God.”
To verify it, the sergeant immediately reassembled the gun.
“Try it.”
Rod raised the gun and aimed at a discarded armor plate in the corner of the workshop.
He gripped it lightly.
Zzt!
Dazzling laser beams instantly pierced the air, leaving several charred holes in the armor plate.
[Lasgun Shooting Experience +2]
Then Rod took a deep breath, clenched both hands tightly around the handguard, and simulated the tension of battle.
He pulled the trigger.
Zzt…
zzzt…
The muzzle only flashed a few faint red glimmers, then fell completely silent.
Exactly as expected!
“Hahahaha!
Good!
Good!”
Iron Jaw Sergeant Hack burst into loud laughter.
“So many people couldn’t find the sickness in this gun, and somehow a fresh recruit like you found it!
The machine spirit recognizes you!”
He turned and rushed to a locked cabinet deep inside the workshop, rummaging through it.
A moment later, he returned solemnly with a small metal box held in both hands.
Opening the box revealed a coil of red cable that carried a faint scent of incense.
Dense prayer script was faintly engraved across its surface.
“This is a consecrated Attas-pattern heat-resistant cable.
It was removed from the fire-control system of a scrapped Land Raider.”
As the sergeant spoke, he gently cut away the faulty cable, replaced it with this higher-grade one, and deliberately adjusted the cable routing to prevent it from contacting the handguard again.
A few minutes later, the gun was reassembled.
Iron Jaw Sergeant Hack patted the weapon’s body, listened with satisfaction to its crisp echo, then handed it to Rod with both hands.
“Take it.”
“Go punch some holes in those Greenskin bastards.”