War does not begin on the battlefield.
It begins here — where the vaults roar and the air tastes of iron flame, where the tithe-barges dock in unbroken sequence and leave heavier than they arrived.
The forge is the pulse. The furnace is the breath. The Pistons are the beat of the drum. Without the forge, the frontlines fall silent; without silence, the forge burns ever brighter.
Every rivet, every armored keel, every barrel and blade is cast with the same intent: to be spent in service of destruction. The engineers do not mourn this. To them, war is not a cycle but a constant state — the forge is simply its heart, and they its faithful servants.
So the bound suns bleed, the Crucible Engines drink deep, and the black sky above shivers with the heat of endless production.
This is not industry. This is the making of war itself.
[End of record]