Divine Steel

In the heart of Thermatheon, a world reshaped by the Independence Sector to serve a singular purpose, rivers of molten metal flowed like arteries through the planetary crust. This was no mere forge world – it was the apotheosis of metallurgical possibility, a celestial body whose very existence had been reconfigured to amplify the art of creation. Heat shimmered across vast adamantium platforms that jutted from magma seas, creating a horizon that wavered between material and immaterial, between the possible and the divine.

Vulkan, the Promethean Fire given demigod form, stood before the great forge-altar, his obsidian skin glistening with perspiration that evaporated almost instantly in the furnace-like atmosphere. His massive shoulders, capable of bearing the weight of mountains, now slumped with the burden of repeated failure. Around him, scattered like offerings to some ancient god of metallurgy, lay the discarded remnants of countless attempts – alloys that would have been considered miraculous on any other forge world, here deemed unworthy.

The Primarch's crimson eyes fixed upon the latest failure – a twisted mass of metal that had cracked under stress testing, despite incorporating materials that should have rendered it nigh-indestructible. His massive hands, each finger as thick as a mortal man's wrist, clenched and unclenched rhythmically, as if trying to grasp the solution that continued to elude him.

Perturabo, approached with the measured stride of one who understood precision as religion. His slate-grey armor was unadorned save for the Iron Warriors insignia etched upon his pauldron – stark practicality in a galaxy of ornate excess. In his Tyranimite gauntlet, he held a data-slate displaying incomprehensibly complex formulae and stress calculations.

"Brother," Perturabo's voice was like gravel grinding against steel, emotionless yet carrying undeniable authority. "We have reached the limits of material science. Even with my calculations and your craft, we cannot exceed what the universe permits."

He handed the data-slate to Vulkan, who accepted it without looking up. The screen displayed failure simulations across every conceivable permutation of known materials – a mathematical proof of impossibility.

"Necrodermis. Auramite. Tyranimite. Wraithbone. Ceramite. Blackstone..." Perturabo listed them like a funeral dirge. "These represent the pinnacle of what is possible within the material universe. Anything beyond is... impossible."

Behind them, surrounded by Automata, Support Staff and Tech-priests who maintained a respectful distance from the demigods in their midst, Fabricator-General Belisarius Cawl's mechanical appendages clicked and whirred as he analyzed the latest failure. His augmented voice, processed through vox-grilles and vocal synthesizers, carried the artificial precision of one who had long ago sacrificed biological imperfection for mechanical certainty.

"The Iron Lord's analysis is correct," Cawl intoned, mechadendrites extending to gather microscopic samples from the failed alloy. "Perhaps Necrodermis offers our only viable alternative. Its properties mirror Tyranimite, albeit one organic in nature, the other metallic in composition. The atomic structures share remarkable similarities one regenerates through nutrition the other regenerates through billions-strong swarms of nanoscarabs using energy conversion to regenerate infinitely"

Vulkan finally raised his gaze. His voice, when it came, rumbled like distant thunder across the forge-chamber.

"No."

The single word carried unshakable conviction. Vulkan rose to his full height, his massive form casting long shadows across the assembled minds of the Imperium's greatest craftsmen. Heat radiated from him in palpable waves, as if his legendary resilience had transmuted into pure determination.

"Limits are for those who lack vision."

It was not said with arrogance, nor with the dismissive tone that characterized so many of his brother Primarchs. It was stated as simple truth, a fundamental axiom upon which Vulkan had built his existence. His gaze swept across the assembled technicians, lingering for a moment on Perturabo's impassive features.

"This is no longer merely for my brother Franklin," Vulkan continued, voice deepening with emotion. "Though he requested this armor, something greater drives me now. I feel it in the core of my being – the potential to forge what has never been forged, to create what even the ancients deemed impossible."

Perturabo snorted, but made no move to depart. His presence was acknowledgment enough – criticism and challenge would be offered freely, but he would not abandon his brother in this quest. For beneath the Lord of Iron's cold exterior beat the heart of a creator who understood the compulsion to transcend limitations.

Vulkan turned toward the central forge-pit, where the heart of Thermatheon pulsed like a living entity. Suspended above it on gravitic tethers hung the Hammer of Prometheus – a tool both of creation and destruction, forged with Vulkan's own hands. Unlike other weapons or tools, this hammer bore a legacy that transcended its physical form. Its haft and head gleamed with a brilliance that defied conventional metallurgical understanding, seeming to shimmer between reality and unreality, the boundary of the Materium and Immaterium.

The idea for the hammer had been seeded long ago, during one of Vulkan's rare moments of counsel with his brother Franklin. At the time, Vulkan had been content with crafting tools of unmatched utility and beauty, but Franklin, ever the Maverick, had pushed him toward something greater.

"Make a hammer that could be wielded by a god," Franklin had said with his characteristic smirk, his tone both jesting and serious. "The galaxy doesn't just need a smith, brother. It needs a Prometheus."

Vulkan had initially hesitated. The notion of crafting such an object felt indulgent, not to mention the ban of religion by their father and, it is even arrogant. Yet Franklin's words lingered. In the preserved histories of Terra, painstakingly safeguarded in the archives of Nova Libertas, the story of Prometheus resonated deeply.

A titan who defied gods to gift fire to humanity, who suffered for his rebellion yet stood as a symbol of creation and sacrifice. It was an archetype that spoke to the best of Vulkan's ideals – to forge not just for himself, but for the betterment of all.

When the hammer was complete, Franklin was the first to see it. He examined it with an appreciative grin, turning it over in his hands as though weighing its mythic significance. "We'll call it the Hammer of Prometheus," Franklin declared with finality, his voice tinged with pride. "A fitting name for a tool of creation—and, if necessary, destruction. You'll wield it to shape the future, brother, just as Prometheus shaped humanity's destiny."

As he lifted the Hammer of Prometheus from its gravitic tethers, Vulkan could feel its potential coursing through him – a reminder of Franklin's influence, of the stories that shaped their shared humanity, and of the role he was destined to play.

The forge itself seemed to awaken. The molten rivers surrounding the central platform surged higher, their incandescent light casting Vulkan's features into sharp relief – a god of creation preparing to challenge the very laws of his universe.

Vulkan closed his eyes and began to work.

Perturabo maintained his vigil, offering neither encouragement nor further discouragement. Instead, he ran continuous calculations, adjusting variables with each new attempt, seeking patterns within failure that might illuminate the path to success. His expression rarely changed, save for the occasional tightening of his jaw when particularly promising approaches fractured under stress-testing. He had calculated the impossibility of success with mathematical precision, yet something within him – perhaps the same spark that allowed him to instinctively create technological and architectural marvels that defied conventional understanding – resonated with Vulkan's defiance.

Is this not the essence of humanity? he thought, though his expression betrayed nothing. To discover, to push beyond, to refuse the boundaries set before us? This is what separates us from the xenos, from the machine. The indomitable will to exceed our limitations.

Cawl's analytical processes never ceased, his augmented cognition tracking every variable across multiple dimensions of possibility. His interest was more than professional – it was the fascination of an immortal being witnessing the boundaries of creation being tested by one born to transcend them.

Days blended into weeks. Weeks stretched into months. Months accumulated into years. The rhythmic clanging of Vulkan's hammer became the heartbeat of Thermatheon, a metronomic reminder of stubborn defiance against impossibility. Failed experiments piled higher with each passing season – some surviving for microseconds longer than their predecessors before succumbing to the fundamental laws of physics, others revealing new avenues of approach through the manner of their failure.

Throughout it all, the hammer fell. Again and again and again, each strike sending cascading harmonics through materials pushed beyond their natural properties. Failure followed failure, yet Vulkan persisted, his determination transcending mere stubbornness to become something elemental – the unbending will of a being created to forge the future of humanity with his bare hands.

On the nine hundred and ninety-seventh day, as Vulkan worked a promising blend of Wraithbone and a Tyranimite-Auramite alloy, something unexpected occurred. As his hammer descended upon the material, his consciousness seemed to expand beyond the physical confines of the forge. The sensation was not entirely unfamiliar – he had experienced similar phenomena during particularly intense creative periods – but this was different. More focused. Directed.

The immaterium recognizes no linear time. What is, was, and will exist simultaneously within its churning depths. As Vulkan's soul burned with creative fire, the conflagration echoed across dimensions, rippling backward and forward through what mortals perceived as time.

Sixty-five million years prior, when the Aeldari Empire stood at its zenith when gods walked among their children, an entity perceived the distant flame.

Vaul, the God Smith of the Aeldari pantheon, master of artifice and creation, paused in his eternal labors. His awareness, vast beyond mortal comprehension, detected the psychic resonance of a kindred spirit – a being not yet born but whose essence called to him across the infinite gulfs of time and space.

Through the obscuring veil of futurity, Vaul perceived fragments of what would come to pass – the fall of the Aeldari, the shattering of their pantheon, the rise of She Who Thirsts, and the birth of these curious half-god creatures that would inherit the stars. He glimpsed his ancient enemy Khaine, changed and diminished yet somehow preserved, bound to one of these demigods in symbiotic partnership.

Most clearly of all, he perceived Vulkan – a being of flesh and spirit whose devotion to the forge mirrored his own, struggling to create what should not be possible.

"Let me help you create this miraculous alloy, young god," Vaul murmured across the vast chasm of Eons, his words rippling through the immaterium, seeking resonance with his distant successor.

In the shadowed corridors of the Webway, where time held even less meaning than in the material realm, another god perceived this interaction with amusement. Cegorach, the Laughing God, last of the Aeldari pantheon alongside the shattered Khaine, giggled at the irony of it all.

"Vaul," the Harlequin God whispered, his voice echoing through crystal passageways where no mortal walked. "Even in death, your hammer strikes. Even in oblivion, your craft endures. How delicious that one of the mon-keigh's demigods should be your inheritor."

His laughter rippled through the infinite labyrinth, a sound that could drive mortals mad with its implications – for in Cegorach's mirth lay the bitter acknowledgment that even gods were as mortal as their children.

Back on Thermatheon, in what mortals perceived as the present, Vulkan suddenly straightened. His hands, which had been mechanically repeating the same motions for months, froze in mid-strike. His eyes widened as knowledge blazed through his consciousness – not as a voice or vision, but as pure inspiration that seemed to originate from the deepest recesses of his being yet somehow came from beyond.

"Of course," he whispered, the words barely audible over the roaring forge-fires. "Not combination... transformation."

Perturabo, who had been reviewing a tactical deployment map nearby, glanced up sharply. Something in Vulkan's tone had changed – a note of certainty where before there had been only determined experimentation.

With renewed purpose, Vulkan began gathering materials that had previously failed individually,

"Necrodermis," he called out, his voice cutting through the ambient roar of the forge. "Bring it to me."

Perturabo's brow furrowed. "You dismissed that option previously."

"I was wrong, the one from the Phaeron Franklin killed" Vulkan replied simply, not looking up from his work.

The Lord of Iron exchanged glances with Cawl, then signaled to the attendant tech-priests. Containers of the self-repairing "living metal" were brought forward—materials recovered from Necron tomb complexes across the galaxy.

As the containers were opened, revealing the silvery substance that seemed to writhe with malevolent intelligence, Vulkan was already reaching for additional components: Tyranimite-Auramite, the organic crystalline material from a Tyranid that had consumed and Integrated Auramite. Blackstone or Noctilith is the substance which the Necrons use to create their star-spanning tetrahedral zones of stable space and is known to be highly resistant to the powers of the Warp or can be tuned by specialized devices to either amplify or nullify the Warp.

"What are you attempting?" Cawl inquired, his mechanical appendages twitching with scientific curiosity.

"Not an alloy," Vulkan responded, his voice distant as his focus remained on the work. "A synthesis. A union of opposites. Matter that exists simultaneously in multiple states."

Perturabo stepped closer, his genetically-enhanced intellect analyzing the components. "Impossible," he muttered, but the word lacked its previous conviction. "The fundamental molecular structures are incompatible. They would repel each other at the quantum level."

Vulkan's hammer descended, striking the amalgamated materials with force that would have shattered a planetary crust. "Only if they remain separate entities," he replied. "But if they become something new entirely..."

The forge erupted with energies that caused warning runes to flare across monitoring screens. Tech-priests and automatons scurried to regulatory controls as power systems throughout the complex began to overload. The heart of Thermatheon pulsed with increasing intensity, its glow shifting through spectrums visible and invisible.

"Sempiternal Weave, the Technique used by Necron Nobles" Vulkan commanded, not looking up from his work. "We must bind the components at the subatomic level."

Perturabo hesitated only momentarily before moving to the forge controls. Despite his skepticism, the challenge of the impossible called to him as surely as it did to Vulkan. The Lord of Iron's fingers danced across Hyper-advanced control systems, initiating sequences that would generate the energy patterns necessary for the Sempiternal Weave—a technique for binding materials at levels beyond conventional molecular bonding.

Cawl joined him, the Archmagos's multiple limbs extending to manipulate additional systems. "The energy requirements are beyond sustainable parameters," the Fabricator-General warned even as he worked to implement Vulkan's directive.

"Then exceed them," Vulkan responded, his voice carrying absolute authority. "This forge was built to create what has never existed. Let it fulfill its purpose."

As the three worked in concert—Vulkan shaping with his hammer, Perturabo directing the energies of the forge, Cawl implementing the Sempiternal Weave—something extraordinary began to take form upon the anvil. It was not merely metal, not merely crystal, not merely living material. It shifted between states with fluid impossibility, properties blending and separating in rhythmic pulses that mirrored the heartbeat of the forge itself.

The initial framework of the mech-suit began to take shape—limbs forming, connections establishing themselves, systems integrating without the need for manual assembly. It was as though the material understood its intended purpose, cooperating with its creators in ways that defied conventional engineering principles.

Hours passed in a blur of concentrated effort. The air within the forge chamber became so saturated with energy that it manifested as visible currents of force, flowing around the working figures like tides around immovable stones. Warning klaxons sounded and were ignored. Containment fields strained and were reinforced. The very foundations of Thermatheon trembled as power was channeled in quantities sufficient to light entire star systems.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was complete.

The hammer fell silent. The energies receded. The blinding light of creation dimmed to a sustainable radiance.

Upon the anvil stood the frame of what would become Franklin Valorian's mech-suit—a masterwork unlike anything the galaxy had seen since the War in Heaven, or perhaps since the Dawn of Creation. Its surface gleamed with the golden sheen of Auramite, yet shifted like liquid mercury when observed from different angles. It pulsed with a rhythm that suggested life, yet remained definitively mechanical in nature.

Vulkan stepped back, his expression one of satisfaction tempered with awe at what he had helped bring into existence. Even he, architect of countless masterworks, recognized the singular nature of this creation.

"It possesses the strength of Auramite, the Regenerative Properties of Tyranimite" Cawl observed, his augmetic eyes scanning the material with increasing excitement. "Yet also demonstrates resistance to warp attack patterns consistent with Blackstone. The molecular structure suggests, the Hyper-adaptive nature of Necrodermis, while maintaining the quantum-inert properties necessary for psychic channeling, a Hyper-Alloy and in Theological Terms Divine-Steel"

"Impossible," Perturabo whispered, but this time the word carried reverence rather than dismissal. The Lord of Iron extended an armored hand, hovering it above the material without quite touching. "You've created matter that shouldn't exist. That couldn't exist."

"No," Vulkan corrected, a rare smile crossing his features. "We have created what had not existed before. There is a difference."

The Primarch of the Salamanders gazed upon their work, considering what to name this new substance that defied categorization. It had been forged in the heart of Thermatheon, shaped by the Hammer of Prometheus, conceived through an inspiration that seemed to transcend time itself.

"Aeternamite" Vulkan declared, the name echoing through the forge chamber with finality. "Worthy of a Primarch, and of the brother who requested it."

Around them, the forge of Thermatheon settled into a contented hum, like a predator satisfied after a successful hunt. The impossible had been achieved—not through violation of natural law, but through perfect understanding of it. Not through surrender to limitations, but through transcendence of them.

A/N: Namaste! Here's a Chapter I wasn't able to Release a Chapter Earlier, Jeber Ali has Problems with the Internet, Next stop Mundra, Unbelievable I had to declare the number of clothes I have to the last Underwear or else they would take it, What kind of Mafia shi is this my Indian Friends?