Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor Chapter 456 - 457: Savior – This Damn Rotten Holy Terra Need

According to the latest intelligence—

The D15764 sub-route of the Webway encountered an unknown assault, leading to the collapse of local nodes and port structures.

Even a significant number of Orks were killed.

All evidence pointed to the use of so ancient, forbidden weapon—its destructive power was terrifying.

The laws of physics in the affected region had been distorted. The stationed Redemption-class Titan had been torn apart, reduced to a heap of twisted scrap tal.

"An enemy capable of operating within the Webway… and wielding ancient weapons…"

Eden's expression turned grim.

For over half a century, the Webway had remained secure and unthreatened.

He had grown complacent, believing this stretch of the Webway to be beyond danger.

But this attack served as a harsh reminder.

The Webway did not belong to the Savior alone—nurous other forces still lingered within, and the threat of sudden catastrophe was ever-present.

They could lose control of the Webway at any mont.

Eden's territory had risen to prominence because of the Webway. Too many production chains and expansion efforts were dependent on these high-speed routes.

It wasn't just a convenience—it was the cornerstone of the Savior's future.

If the Savior's domain lost access to the Webway, its potential for developnt would collapse. It would be reduced to a powerful regional force—perhaps a bit stronger than Ultramar.

But that outco was unacceptable.

"I hope this is an isolated incident… and not the start of a coordinated assault by so ancient power."

Taking a deep breath, Eden issued his commands.

The Intelligence Departnt was to locate the attacker at all costs, and the Webway defense forces were to remain on maximum alert.

Webway construction had to proceed without disruption.

It was the key to the next phase of developnt—not only for Eden's realm but also for the future recovery of the Imperium.

"My Lord, it's ti to change."

Head Maid Linda stepped into the room, offering a gentle reminder.

She had served the Savior for nearly a century. While many other maids had co and gone, she remained ever-present.

Thanks to blessings and advanced biotech maintenance, she retained her youth and vitality.

Eden had never once considered replacing her.

After all, it was rare to have soone truly loyal—soone who understood him, soone who cared deeply.

He nodded and switched off his data-slate, rising from his seat.

A group of maids entered with immaculate precision, bearing a regal, dark-gold robe and a selection of ornate accessories.

Linda stepped forward, assisting him in changing, adjusting every detail with practiced care.

She wanted her lord to face the Imperium's citizens with nothing short of perfection.

Nothing needed to be said.

After decades of silent understanding, Linda could handle every aspect of his daily life—down to the finest nuance.

Once dressed in his magnificent dark-gold attire, Eden departed with his Thunder Guardians and boarded a shuttle for the surface of Holy Terra.

The war was over—at least for now.

Now began the long and drawn-out era of ceremonies, social gatherings, and diplomacy.

Countless Imperial nobles, rulers, elite warriors, and clergy awaited an audience with the Primarch of Hope.

They all longed for one thing: the coveted Webway Access Permit issued by the Savior.

…

City of Petitioners. (OC)

Located in the outskirts near the Imperial Palace, this vast complex was a bureaucratic fortress. It contained countless offices and housing for the Adeptus Administratum.

Towering spires stretched endlessly skyward, yet the internal space was claustrophobic. Tens—if not hundreds—of billions of administrative personnel worked and lived here, generation after generation.

For many, their families had served Holy Terra for nearly ten thousand years.

Even so, the most they could hope for was a tiny living cubicle.

That alone was considered a monuntal blessing.

Land on Holy Terra was so valuable that one square ter could cost more than a whole planetary governor's palace on other hive worlds.

Fortunately, the Administratum's workers had long since adapted to their cramped dwellings and the relentless, soul-crushing workload.

Dying at one's desk was common.

No one mourned. No one paused.

When a colleague disappeared, the only response was a quiet nod—perhaps even celebration.

The departed had returned to the Throne.

Perhaps one day, they too would be honored with the sa fate.

These bottom-rung bureaucrats received just enough food and water to stay alive. Personal belongings were rare. Leisure ti was nonexistent.

While their lives were certainly better than Terra's serfs, compared to nobles or planetary governors, they lived in misery.

And yet—these were the people who held imnse power.

Every day, endless waves of data and requests flooded into the City of Petitioners from across the Imperium.

Each docunt they processed could determine the fate of billions—or the rise and fall of entire worlds.

They decided whether docunts were passed forward… or lost forever in the void.

The Imperium's vastness created an infinite stream of issues. Rebellions. Wars. Chaos incursions. Xenos invasions. They never stopped.

The High Lords could only focus on the most critical cases.

The rest fell to billions of scribes below them.

And even then—it was never enough.

So worlds rose and fell without anyone on Terra even realizing it.

Even if they had submitted reports and paid the tithe for centuries.

It didn't matter.

The bureaucratic machine churned forward, blind and indifferent.

Sotis, a clerical error would assign triple taxes to a compliant world, triggering rebellions and Chaos incursions—resulting in sector-wide catastrophe.

Eventually, such disasters would reach the attention of Terra's elite—prompting an Exterminatus.

Whole populations vanished in silence.

But no one blad the clerks.

They had given everything—faith, effort, even their lives.

And thankfully, most of these mistakes were rare.

The Imperium could afford to lose a few worlds.

The administrative engine remained one of the Imperium's few enduring strengths.

Ka-chunk.

"In the Emperor's na! I finally got one right!"

Naresen sighed in relief as she finalized the latest docunt batch, blinking her aching bionic eyes.

Her cubicle was two square ters—generously spacious by Administratum standards.

Theoretically, at least.

In practice, the space was dominated by a clunky tal desk and outdated cogitator systems. Even turning around was nearly impossible.

All she could do was stretch her neck a little.

Looking up, all she saw was the cold, blinding office light—uncomfortably close to her face. Her cybernetic eyes flickered from the exposure.

Decades of nonstop illumination had long since blinded most scribes.

Thankfully, the Administratum offered a rcy: free replacent of natural eyes with bionics.

That eliminated the need for rest, increasing productivity.

"Praise the Emperor."

Naresen prayed silently, grateful for everything she had.

Grateful to serve the Master of Mankind.

She and others like her were the lucky ones—entrusted with maintaining the Imperium's machinery.

The departnt housing tens of thousands of workers remained dead silent, save for the whisper of paper and the chanical clack of stamps.

Bzzz…

A faint hum echoed nearby.

Naresen imdiately straightened, her fingers resuming their rhythm over the files.

It was the servo-skull.

One of her cubicle walls was open to allow unobstructed surveillance from the ancient unit—a machine crafted from the honored remains of a fallen supervisor.

It had patrolled the office for centuries.

It maintained order. It relayed commands.

Thankfully, it didn't reprimand her for mistakes or issue alerts.

It floated past her—heading for another cubicle.

Naresen let out a slow breath of relief.

Hours passed. She completed another pile of forms.

She lifted the heavy bronze grill and pressed the tiny transmitter button.

Monts later, the docunt chute whirred to life, and a new batch of forms arrived.

"Four hours left. I can finish these in ti."

Her years of experience made her timing precise.

After a brutal year of mandatory overti, her departnt had over-delivered.

This month, there were no additional hours.

Today, she had worked fourteen hours. Four more, and she could return to her dwelling unit.

A rare joy.

Naresen hadn't left the building in years.

By day, she lived in her cubicle. At night, she slept in a larger one-room cell—just a bed and one possession: a wooden statue of the Emperor.

Her shrine for prayer.

Trips to the lavatory and dining room were strictly tid. Once a month, she was allowed to visit a chapel.

And on occasion, she was summoned to the supervisor's office—a place that inspired fear in all.

Luckily, she was often praised.

Since inheriting her father's position at age fourteen, she had never seen the sky.

Her understanding of the outside world ca only through the docunts she processed—endlessly, every day.

She had sworn to surpass her father.

Over the years, she had made almost no mistakes—and was frequently rewarded.

Suddenly, from a nearby cubicle, a gentle hymn echoed.

The old servo-skull played a soft tune—one of the Emperor's sacred lodies.

Everyone paused.

They bowed their heads in silent prayer.

Soone had passed.

A coworker had returned to the Throne.

As was right—they offered their blessings.

Naresen closed her eyes, praying quietly as well.

She watched as two servo-attendants entered the neighboring cubicle and soon erged, dragging out a corpse wrapped in parchnt inscribed with sacred scripture. The Aquila—the Imperial eagle—was emblazoned on his chest.

This was the mont of greatest honor for him—receiving the silent reverence of every observer.

Even the supervisor erged to witness it.

Many people rembered his na and recalled fragnts of the life he once shared with them.

So did Naresen.

She suddenly recalled that her colleague—nad Weil—had once proudly told her he had a newborn son.

The boy was born on the Day of the Emperor's Ascension and had received a priest's blessing. Weil believed his son would grow up to be a loyal, intelligent servant of the Imperium.

That had been over twenty years ago.

Not far from here, another cubicle would soon be inherited by a healthy young man, stepping into the life his father left behind.

"…Maybe not."

Naresen's exhausted mind flickered with a realization—their office hadn't received any new recruits in years. Nor had any new directives arrived from higher up.

That was why their work hours had kept rising.

Sure enough, the mont Weil's body was dragged away, the supervisor issued a new command.

To maintain progress—

The twenty surviving workers in this section would each have to add thirty extra minutes to their workday to account for the loss.

"Our work is of utmost importance! For the Emperor! For Holy Terra!"

The supervisor shouted hoarsely, voice trembling with fanatic devotion.

He looked so frail, he might be the next one carried away—but still burned with zeal, driven by the sacred burden he bore.

"For the Emperor! For Holy Terra!"

Others echoed his cry with pride.

The Emperor needed them. The Imperium needed them. Even the faraway war zones depended on them.

This place—located several kiloters beneath the surface—was a war materiel audit office, part of the wider logistics command.

Their data was critical.

Clack!

The transmission hatch in Naresen's cubicle lifted again, delivering another stack of forms.

She realized she might no longer finish her work within the scheduled hours.

Quickly, she resud her tasks, not wanting to risk a single mistake.

Lives depended on her accuracy.

She trembled when she saw the cold, printed word: Tyranid.

The horrific xenos were advancing deep into the Imperium, devouring entire worlds—possibly even threatening the Sol System itself.

Her departnt's data would be critical for higher-level decision making.

To ensure precision—

Several ergency teams like hers had been ford.

Since more than twenty years ago, Naresen had worked on auditing these data, parsing oceans of numbers to deliver aningful results.

These were then passed upward to other departnts for more complex calculations.

Eventually, the finalized assessnts helped the Astra Militarum coordinate logistics for the front lines.

Naresen labored intensely.

She spotted and corrected a recent error, sealed the corrected form, and submitted it.

The servo-attendants would gather the docunts and deliver them to the upper levels.

But as she closed the hatch, her foggy brain suddenly jolted in panic.

"Emperor preserve … I made a mistake. The sa error was in a previous batch!"

She realized with a chill that an earlier set of docunts—possibly containing the sa miscalculation—had already been sent.

She couldn't rember if she had corrected it then.

Her face turned pale.

Should she report it?

Maybe it wasn't actually a mistake. Maybe the upper-level reviewers would catch it?

Still—her fingers trembling—she pressed the comm bead and reported the error.

"I understand. The matter will be processed accordingly."

The supervisor responded coldly.

Then after a pause, he added: "Naresen, you're one of the best workers in this office. You shouldn't have made such a mistake.

You must accept discipline and reflect seriously!"

He dispatched retrieval teams to reclaim the affected docunts for reevaluation.

Naresen took a deep breath and cald herself.

She had remained loyal to the Emperor—she had not concealed her failure. Even though this would bring punishnt.

She steadied her emotions and returned to work.

She couldn't afford to let one mistake cause more.

Then she picked up another form.

A familiar na caught her eye: Primarch of Hope. Savior.

He was a hero of the Imperium.

Her heart swelled with reverence.

From the docunts she had processed and from the whispered conversations between coworkers, she had pieced together parts of his legend.

He was a hero—one of the Emperor's sons—who had earned unparalleled glory in the Luna Campaign and the Charadon Wars.

He had saved countless lives.

And when the Tyranids threatened, he led a fleet to Baal, howorld of the Blood Angels, to confront the horrors and protect humanity.

Naresen felt honored.

She too, in her own small way, was contributing to the war.

Her departnt had been assigned, decades ago, to handle logistics calculations for the Baal Campaign.

Their data fed the military supply chains, helping equip the Imperial forces defending Baal.

Since accepting this sacred duty, she and her coworkers had never once left the building.

For all these years—they had toiled endlessly.

Even now, they continued sacrificing everything for that war.

Naresen admired the Savior—his courage, endurance, and resolve. She even knew what he looked like.

Sotis, she even saw him in her dreams.

In those dreams, she stood before him, confessed her humble contributions—and received his blessing. A personal Aquila dallion.

She glanced sideways, ensuring the servo-skull was out of sight.

Then she quietly opened a hidden compartnt beneath the docunt chute.

Inside was a small image of the Savior.

He wore golden armor and radiated power.

And his face…

Was srizing.

She stared for a mont—then quickly sealed it away.

She had found that image years ago, slipped from an incoming docunt.

She had never reported it.

This was her one act of disobedience.

That portrait of the Savior had beco her most precious possession.

She returned to her tasks, but soon anxiety returned.

The retrieval team hadn't brought back the mistaken files.

"Could they have been delivered to upper levels already…?"

Her worry grew.

What if the error was caught and the entire office punished?

What if the mistake compromised the war effort at Baal?

What if it hard the Savior himself?

Eeee!

A sharp alarm blared.

It was an ergency signal.

Everyone froze.

Naresen turned ghostly pale, terrified the alarm was because of her mistake.

"Praise the Emperor—we are blessed by the Primarch…"

The supervisor announced with mad fervor:

"For the next three days, we will work extended hours.

On the fourth day, we will receive eight hours of non-work ti.

We will ascend to the surface to attend a grand victory parade.

There—our great Lord Regent and the Savior himself will appear in person!"

The announcent was t with cheers and worship.

Eight precious hours on the surface, to witness the ceremony—before returning to their posts.

No one questioned it.

Naresen did.

The Savior is on Holy Terra? But… what about the war on Baal?

But there was no one to ask.

Such questions had no place in the workflow.

Maybe… I'll find out at the celebration?

She hoped.

What none of them realized—was that the Baal Campaign had ended years ago.

They were like many other forgotten departnts, caught in the bureaucratic undertow.

Still processing docunts for wars long concluded.

Even though their work had beco aningless.

Had it not been for the upcoming victory ceremony and the planetary broadcast accompanying it, they would have continued in this loop—

Until the logistics chain was cut…

And they died alone and unknown in the dark.

…

A resplendent, dark-gold shuttle skimd across the skyline above the City of Petitioners.

Eden looked out over the dense sprawl of slum-like buildings and frowned.

It was hard to believe—

That this was one of the Imperium's nerve centers.

That policies deciding the fate of star systems were drafted here.

Truly, the Imperium was a junkyard chariot—held together by faith and duct tape.

Eden glanced at the smoggy sky—there wasn't a single cloud.

Natural water and the last remnants of Terra's clouds had been consud during the Horus Heresy.

"Rotten damn Holy Terra…"

His thoughts drifted back to the Webway—and his mood soured.

"This place really needs a full renovation."

He forced himself to think of sothing pleasant.

Like taking the chance during the renovations… to bleed this place dry.

It was said the sanctum archives here still stored ancient and dangerous knowledge—

Records of the n of Iron… and perhaps even the secrets of the Ymgarl Stone…

(End of Chapter)

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