Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor
Chapter 349 - 350 – It’s Over… That Was an Apocalypse-Level Battlefield!

At the corner of the hallway, the door bore an embossed Type-I icon — a stylized skull set into a holy seal.

It was the symbol of the Imperial Cult.

Beyond the door stretched a corridor several meters long, its walls covered in bas-reliefs of saints in suffering and stories of salvation.

Each carving was lifelike, as if recounting a sacred and eternal legend.

One couldn't help but feel reverent.

At the end of the corridor was a large prayer chamber centered around the God-Emperor's shrine. The air was thick with incense, candles flickered, illuminating a gleaming ossuary tower and the Emperor's statue.

It was a bit ornate.

And felt somewhat out of place compared to the rusted, grimy environment outside.

At this moment—

The chapel was filled with people.

Veteran Astra Militarum soldiers had come to pray and now gathered around the central brazier, recounting their years of service.

Each trying to outdo the other with tales of glory.

An old Ministorum priest leaned on his crozier and listened with a kind, gentle smile.

To speak one's loyalty and service to the great and merciful Emperor — this too was a sacred ritual.

All he needed to do was listen quietly.

"Maybe others don't believe it, but I've seen those abominations. They're real."

This came from a gruff-voiced Cadian veteran in green carapace armor with a white insignia on the shoulder.

"If you'd ever been to my homeworld — Cadian — well, not that there's any chance now..."

He stared into the flames, sorrow in his eyes.

The others around him fell silent.

They all knew the veteran's home had been obliterated by the traitors spilling from the Eye of Terror.

The Cadian soldier took a breath, then continued:

"If you had ever set foot there, you'd know what total militarization looks like. I was born on the front line against Chaos heretics — our lives were war from the start!

Ever since I could remember, I followed my father and brothers, using makeshift lasguns to hunt down those corrupted by Chaos.

At eighteen, I enlisted with the Guard. Over thirty Terran years, I've fought in over ten major campaigns across the galaxy, all under the Emperor's command.

My only regret is not being there for Cadia's final stand — not dying on my homeland."

"We'll wipe out those damned heretics eventually."

Seeing the man grow somber, a stormtrooper from the Conserquet Guard, named Drenin, clapped his mechanical hand on the veteran's shoulder.

Others nodded in solemn respect.

"Alright, my turn."

A hulking Catachan in a plain uniform and a red headband took a swig of foul-smelling liquor.

He spoke in a gravelly tone:

"Catachan's a cursed hellhole. Jungle's filled with death, though the screaming wheat and biting fruit ain't bad eating."

He toyed with a massive combat knife.

"I lived there till I came of age, then joined the Jungle Fighters. First time I left the trees.

Turns out — even a war zone is safer than Catachan. At least I can sleep without a tree trying to eat me."

"In over ten years of service, I've fought greenskins, faced Chaos, and marched across countless battlefronts with my regiment..."

The gathered soldiers whistled in awe.

Then—

Several more veterans shared their own stories.

Drenin, however, was distracted.

He flexed his bionic arm — its machine spirit seemed agitated.

He inwardly cursed.

"That damned scrap-dealing grease priest must've ripped me off — gave me a second-hand limb stripped from a corpse for five thousand Thrones!"

Fortunately, before leaving, he and his Conserquet brothers had swiped plenty of spare parts from that same tech-priest. So maybe it wasn't a total loss.

Technically, he even made a bit of a profit.

Because…

The Conserquet Guard were dirt poor.

An illegally formed regiment, they had a notoriously dark reputation.

For a time, the Departmento Munitorum only issued them supplies for company-level forces and then sent them to the worst battlefields — infested with every type of heretic and monstrosity.

Clearly, the hope was to get them wiped out.

And yet, the Conserquet survived. Even by the end of M42, they still had twenty full regiments, nearly 200,000 strong.

A living legend among the Guard.

Though… a legend with a heavy note of sarcasm.

They were seen as cowards by some, surviving through cunning and grit — the Emperor's own dodging angels, experts in battlefield scrounging and looting to resupply.

New recruits' first lesson?

How to stay alive on a death world.

How to find cover, how to drop prone, how to identify threats — and when to run.

Their commander even once said:

"These survival lessons? That's the true treasure of the Conserquet."

The local Munitorum despised these rats — but couldn't do a thing.

They followed orders. Fought on the bloodiest front lines.

"Your turn, brother!"

Drenin's shoulder sank under a heavy slap from the Catachan brute.

He looked up, finding everyone's eyes on him.

Guess it was time to speak.

He flexed his bionic arm again and said evenly:

"I'm a veteran of the 14th Conserquet Guard. Fifteen years in service. I've fought in over twenty campaigns, against almost every known enemy of the Imperium.

Before boarding this ship, we assisted the Emperor's Angels in purging a Chaos pirate band that had invaded an Imperial world. I was lucky enough to take down a Chaos Astartes using a melta gun..."

The room buzzed with gasps.

Faces filled with shock and admiration. Voices erupted in awe.

To kill a Chaos Space Marine — as a mere mortal — was the stuff of legend among the Guard.

"Praise the Emperor! Your soul shall surely return to the Golden Throne!" said the old priest in heartfelt blessing.

Everyone agreed.

Drenin had lived a truly legendary soldier's life.

Deserving of the highest respect.

Drenin, however, barely reacted.

He'd never admit it...

That melta shot had missed — accidentally hitting the Chaos Marine's head just as he was about to fall.

Stealing the Emperor's Angel's kill.

But really—

In the Conserquet, no one cared much for medals.

What mattered was surviving.

Within the regiment, status was earned by how long you lived. His two dozen battles barely scratched the surface of the internal rankings.

In truth—

Drenin had only boarded this ship for this mysterious mission by chance.

After their last campaign, his unit was sent to a nearby world to recover in a medicae facility — and hopefully secure some extra supplies.

But then—

While they were lying in hospital beds, Departmento Munitorum officers barged in and forcibly conscripted them aboard this ship.

Not just them.

Even the local planetary defense forces were conscripted.

From his experience, Drenin suspected something serious was happening — a war so sudden and dire, they needed every warm body they could find.

They hadn't even bothered to screen them.

Now—

All he hoped was to survive this mess, and get back to the regiment.

Just as the group was praising Drenin...

"Hey, brother, you haven't spoken yet, have you?"

The Catachan brute pointed to a small figure in the corner.

This soldier sat quietly in the shadows, wrapped in a thick coat, cradling a long, finely-crafted spear.

A helmet and gas mask concealed their face entirely.

They had not spoken once.

"Why don't you tell us about your service?" the brute offered warmly.

"Yeah, come on, let's hear it!" the veterans cheered.

But the soldier remained stiff and silent.

The Catachan moved closer and threw an arm around him, handing over his flask of rotgut.

The drink did the trick.

The figure finally spoke, their voice stiff and robotic:

"I… I'm a new recruit. Not much experience. I trained in the irradiated dust of Krieg. Officially enlisted two years ago.

I've only fought in one campaign..."

"Hey, that's okay! We all started as rookies!" the Catachan tried to reassure him, clearly trying to help the awkward trooper feel at ease.

Trying to keep the mood up—

He asked again, "I heard you Krieg boys are tough. Tell us about that battle — did you get a kill or two?"

The Krieg soldier paused, searching for words.

"I can't remember… the officer said it was an Apocalypse-level engagement..."

At those words…

The atmosphere in the prayer hall froze.

Everyone stared, eyes wide in disbelief.

These battle-hardened veterans had all heard of apocalypse-level wars — in legends, in whispers passed from regiment to regiment.

It was the most brutal, catastrophic tier of warfare the Imperium could face.

And any warrior who emerged alive from such a hell was a living saint, revered whether they were a mere guardsman, a Space Marine, a Knight pilot, or even a Princeps of a Titan.

If human life was the Emperor's currency, then an apocalypse-level war was the mint — grinding it into dust.

In those wars…

Guardsmen were issued a lasgun, a battery, and a single melta grenade.

There was no need for tactics, no need for intel or orders, no need to identify the enemy.

No need to aim.

Because both the sky and the ground were filled with enemies.

If a guardsman emptied their battery — that was a commendation.

If they threw their melta grenade — they were a hero.

If they lived for six hours — they were a legend.

In reality—

Each regiment was deployed to radioactive, bio-contaminated trenches to fight tooth and nail against the enemy. Strategic missiles pounded the battlefield indiscriminately.

Each regiment's expected lifespan? Six hours.

But their standing orders were to hold the line for fifteen minutes. Relief would arrive afterward.

In theory.

In practice, the regiment would be dead long before replacements arrived.

And those replacements?

They'd march across charred corpses nuked into ash — piled layer after layer.

Soon enough, they'd become another layer.

From the trenches, guardsmen could witness the true scope of war:

In orbit—

Void battles raged non-stop, macro cannons and lance strikes lighting up the void. Every minute, another battleship blossomed into a dying star.

When ammo ran out, ships rammed each other, dying in fire and glory.

In the skies—

Imperial aircraft and enemy fliers dueled endlessly. Lasers, missiles, and flak stitched the heavens with flame, and planes fell like burning rain.

On the ground—

Super-heavy tanks thundered across every front. Beyond them, Warlord Titans and Emperor-class God-Machines loomed like moving mountains — dozens of Titan Legions unleashed at once.

Yet even these divine engines couldn't last.

One by one, they too fell.

Closer still—

Imperial Knights fought in desperate melee. Whole Knight Houses had already perished. More Houses were still en route.

The Emperor's Angels — humanity's finest transhuman warriors — fell by the squad, by the company. Whole Chapters vanished into the abyss without a single vox-transmission.

The Sisters of Battle, too — cathedral after cathedral was hurled into the fire, leaving no ripple behind.

Even Living Saints fell from the skies.

Only to rise again, blazing anew, casting themselves back into the flame.

No one knew what truly raged at the war's heart.

As the battle dragged on—

Guard regiments turned to scrap and ruin by the tens of thousands. The thunder of endless cannonfire deafened every man still breathing.

Scorpius missiles, once prized, now launched in salvos. Vortex warheads fired with no safety protocols, leveling entire swaths of land.

The Guard's numbers were counted in the billions.

Every defensive wave cost millions of lives. Countless soldiers were reduced to nameless ash on the killing fields.

Eventually—

There was no more orbital bombardment to call for.

Because the wreckage of warships and aircraft slamming into the surface struck harder and more often than orbital fire ever could.

The Tech-priests of Mars began deploying every forbidden, heretical technology they possessed — poisons, radiation, black hole generators — no one cared anymore.

No one would survive long enough to be judged anyway.

On the field—

Those who lived beyond three hours witnessed sights not meant for mortals:

Murderous Necrons, Chaos demigods, shrieking Daemon Engines, endless xenos monstrosities.

So many titanic war machines and falling starships slammed into the planet that its mass increased. Geography shifted. Mountains vanished. Oceans boiled away.

Even the climate was warped.

One hemisphere — once locked in winter, snowbound and frozen — turned blood-red under a new heatwave. The freshly-arrived troops in greatcoats were left cursing as they roasted.

By the mid-stage of the war—

Neither side remembered their objectives.

They just kept shooting.

Kept dying.

That was all.

But if fate allowed…

Some veterans would see even more.

The core front would eventually reach them.

And with it, came the true legends of the Imperium:

Grey Knight Grand Masters.

Chapter Masters of Astartes.

Emperor's Champions.

Chosen of the Throne.

Even… the Primarchs.

Fighting their dark equals in mortal combat.

The old soldiers would suddenly find themselves mere meters from these sacred figures — able to see the divine runes etched into their armor, and the blood-slick, unyielding faces behind their helms.

They had never been so close to living myth.

And then…

They would either go mad from the sight of Chaos abominations…

Or die instantly in the shockwaves of these titanic duels.

But even so—

They had fulfilled their duty.

Lived a life of legend.

At least, they hadn't died without seeing the face of their enemy — unlike the unlucky masses who were wiped out the moment they arrived, their souls dragged screaming into the Warp.

The war raged on.

The chosen warriors still fought.

More were thrown in by the minute.

No one knew how it would end.

All they could do was pray for the Emperor's mercy.

That… was an apocalypse-level war.

A battle that would decide the fate of a sector, a sub-sector…

Or the Imperium itself.

Any soldier who survived one…

Was a walking legend of the Imperium — hailed by all with reverence and awe.

Inside the prayer hall—

After several minutes of utter silence, the veterans erupted in thunderous cheers, clapping and chanting praise for the Krieg soldier.

He was, without doubt, the most legendary figure among them.

One by one, they approached him, saluted with the Aquila, and embraced him.

The Krieg trooper stood there awkwardly, stiff as a statue.

To him, war was just… war.

Krieg-born.

He had no concept of retreat, surrender, or fear of death. He was the Emperor's weapon. His life was the price to be paid.

And sacrifice was the highest honor.

To him, all he had done was obey the Emperor's will — to fight in a war.

There would be more wars.

He would fight until he fell.

That was not glory.

That was destiny.

At the entrance, the squad commander who had been silently listening now stepped forward. He offered the Krieg soldier a rare Terran cigarette and lit it for him with solemn respect.

The other veterans followed suit, offering gifts.

The old priest approached and muttered sacred benedictions over him, then pressed into his hand a blessed plasma pistol — consecrated by the Ecclesiarchy itself.

Even the usually stingy Drenin came forward, handing the Krieg soldier a gem-encrusted pocket watch.

It had once belonged to a planetary governor's concubine.

He'd nearly gotten the whole regiment into a war with the local PDF over it.

But suddenly—

Drenin's face darkened. His expression turned grave — even pale.

He turned to the Krieg soldier.

"Brother… why are you here?"

Normally—

A veteran of an apocalypse-level war wouldn't be anywhere near the rest of them.

Such elites were reserved for missions of the highest danger. For battlefields of equal or greater magnitude.

As he spoke—

The room fell quiet once more.

The Krieg soldier, oblivious to the tension, replied plainly — like he was responding to an order:

"My commander said… we're to join a great being and fight in a war even more difficult."

There was no fear in his voice.

Only matter-of-fact obedience.

An even harder war?

As his words sank in—

The veterans' faces turned chalk white.

The hall went dead.

The only sound was the crackling of incense logs in the brazier.

Click.

The squad commander's hand trembled as he lit another Terran cigarette, inhaling deeply — forgetting to exhale.

The Cadian veteran sat back down, silently polishing his homemade lasgun.

The Catachan brute emptied his flask and began scrubbing his knife again and again.

The old priest clutched his staff and dropped to his knees before the shrine, whispering desperate prayers to the Emperor.

The Krieg soldier, seeing no one talking anymore, finally relaxed — and returned to silence.

"...We're screwed. This is an apocalypse-level war."

Drenin nearly collapsed to the ground, eyes dull.

"Why the hell is this happening to me?"

He knew now.

There was no surviving this time.

If he could last even an hour or two — that would be divine mercy.

After all—

In Conserquet Guard's archives, there were records of three regiments that had once participated in apocalypse-level wars.

Not a single one came back.

He didn't believe for a second that he was stronger than those more experienced veterans.

And Drenin's suspicions had been right all along.

The Imperium had officially classified the Battle of Baal as an apocalypse-level conflict — and one of the most extreme kind.

After all, Baal was about to face the most powerful Tyranid Hive Fleet in the galaxy, with no room to maneuver.

If they gave an inch—

Hive Fleet Leviathan would surge forward and devour entire sectors of life, plunging the Imperium into a crisis from which it might never recover.

Humanity would slide into an even darker abyss.

Faced with such dire stakes—

Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Commander, and the Savior Eden — two Primarchs — were both forced to confront the Hive together.

It was no exaggeration—

This was one of the most critical battles the Imperium had seen in millennia.

To make things worse—

The Imperium could not afford to send any more reinforcements. Its coffers and reserves were dry.

So the Departmento Munitorum had no choice but to forcibly conscript billions of soldiers and send them into the void.

To expedite the recruitment process—

They even executed slow or inefficient recruiting officers, then issued absolute kill-on-failure orders to the rest.

With pressure from above and impossible deadlines—

Recruiters went to every extreme to gather any force that could be sent to Baal.

That's why dozens of regiments were now crammed together onto the same ship in total chaos.

And these troop transports didn't just carry soldiers…

They were packed with terrified Imperial citizens — many of whom had no idea why they were even here.

Some were seized from their homes.

Others were dragged away in their sleep.

To the recruiters, it didn't matter.

If they could fill the headcount — the job was done.

The Munitorum turned a blind eye.

After all—

On a battlefield like that, there was little difference between a trained guardsman and a random citizen.

If they could pull a trigger or throw a melta bomb—

That was enough.

If they could kill just one or two Tyranids — that was profit.

Even just delaying the swarm for a moment so the bombers could arrive—

That alone was a worthy death.

The atmosphere in the prayer hall grew even heavier.

Then—

The company commander's stern voice rang out:

"Let me remind everyone — no one is to speak a word of this. If you do, you'll face trial."

It was a sharp warning to the veterans:

Keep your mouths shut.

If the truth leaked early, it would cause panic across the ranks.

In truth—

Many of the Imperium's forces involved in apocalypse-level campaigns had no idea what they were being sent into.

Even up to the moment they died.

Only after the war—

When the survivors were honored, standing before the banners of triumph—

Did they learn the magnitude of what they had done.

How trillions of lives had survived… because of their sacrifice.

The old soldiers nodded quietly.

This was as it should be.

They were on the ship now — there was no turning back.

And besides—

After years of service, they had long come to terms with the idea of death.

To die on a battlefield like this—

That was a kind of glory.

One by one—

The commander and the veterans took their leave.

Drenin stomped his numb leg, forcing himself to his feet and staggered over to kneel beside the old priest.

He turned to him, voice trembling:

"…Could you… pray for me?"

"Tell the Emperor a loyal follower begs for His mercy…"

As a stormtrooper, he felt the priest's prayers would carry more weight.

His own heart was… far too black. The great and merciful Emperor might not listen to the likes of him.

…

Soon—

Tension blanketed the entire transport ship like a shroud.

The quartermasters marched down the decks distributing weapons — to soldiers, civilians, even penal slaves.

Even the madmen who loitered near the chapel were issued lasguns.

In the flea-infested, overcrowded bottom-deck bunks — where dozens shared a single toilet—

The former Imperial citizens — now newly-forged conscripts — clutched their lasguns, eyes wide with growing dread.

All they could do was pray…

For the Emperor's protection.

On the bridge—

The young officer sat in silence, deep in thought.

The unbearable tension of the coming battle weighed down on every mind aboard the ship.

Suddenly—

The vox-officer received a transmission.

It was from the Savior's fleet.

Under the command of the Hope Primarch himself.

They issued a warning: reports of potential Tyranid activity nearby.

And—

They would be dispatching ships to provide cover.

However—

Not long after the message ended…

A vast shadow swallowed the entire transport fleet.

Blotting out the stars.

(End of Chapter)

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