Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor
Chapter 350 - 351 – Huh? Are We Really Going to War?

Late at night.Inside a troop transport ship, in the veterans' quarters.

This six-man bunk room was rusty and reeked of sweat. The thunderous snoring of old soldiers echoed throughout, occasionally interrupted by a long, drawn-out fart—clearly, they were sleeping well.

For these veterans, such accommodations were already top-tier, a safe place to sleep.

At least they weren't resting amid the roar of artillery, the shrieks of xenos, or the whispering of Chaos, constantly fearing they'd be murdered in their sleep.

Experienced soldiers knew to seize every chance to rest while en route to the frontlines.

Once they arrived, rest would become a luxury.This might very well be the last peaceful sleep they'd ever get.

However...One person in the room couldn't sleep no matter how hard he tried.

Drenin stared at the rotting, squeaky iron bunk above him, worrying whether it could support the hulking brute lying on top.

Normally, he'd fall asleep easily. But ever since he learned they were heading into an Apocalypse-class warzone, sleep had eluded him.

It wasn't fear. It was regret. Regret that he might never live to see eighty and make it onto the Consecate Guard's longevity honor roll.

"If the Captain were here, maybe I'd last longer... Damn it, why did our entire company have to be unlucky enough to get drafted?"

Drenin tossed and turned, gritting his teeth."If I make it out of this alive, I swear I'll put a las-bolt through the bastard who conscripted me."

Under normal Imperial procedure...Soldiers like them, just finished with a campaign and still recovering from their wounds, wouldn't be thrown back into another battle so soon.

But it was their misfortune to be in the path of an Apocalypse-class war, and unlucky enough to be caught by the press-gangers.

Still, Drenin was just venting. He knew full well his odds of returning were slim. Most likely, he'd give his life for the Emperor.

He only hoped the Emperor would be merciful enough to guide his soul to the Golden Throne, not let it drift into the Warp to suffer eternally.

Flexing his augmetic arm again, he grimaced. The machine-spirit still hadn't fully recovered. Its joints were stiff, the interfaces aching.This sort of malfunction could easily lower his survival chances on the battlefield.But there was no one left to fix it.

Everyone on this ship had been stuffed in without thought—there was practically no logistics to speak of.They'd only received rations once today; many were already going hungry.

"At least we got something to eat..."

Drenin sighed deeply.

He could feel it—Imperial Guard logistics were getting worse by the day.The food sometimes came out green or purple, with bizarre chunks of bone and mystery meat mixed in. Enough to make one retch.

Veterans could tell the Imperium's growing hardship just from the rations.But he didn't keep thinking about it.That wasn't a soldier's concern.

Unable to sleep, Drenin finally got up and went to the chemical toilet to take care of things.

But just as he stepped out of the reeking latrine—

Boom!

The whole ship shook violently.He slammed into the wall, while the others rolled and tumbled from their bunks.

"By the Emperor—what the hell's going on?!""Damn it! Did we arrive at the front?!"

The veterans quickly leapt to their feet and grabbed their weapons, ready to fight at a moment's notice.

Drenin retrieved his hot-shot lasrifle and started checking over his gear.

"Our ship's stopped!"

He could feel it—no more motion. They weren't flying anymore.

Suddenly—A piercing alarm sounded.Warning lights flashed red, bathing their faces in grim crimson.

Before anyone could react, the vox system blared:

"Attention all personnel. Attention all personnel!This is Commander Raul. This is an emergency order—ALL soldiers report to the deck with your officers immediately. Repeat, all soldiers, report to the deck with your officers. Move now! May the Emperor be with us all!"

Bang!

The thin metal door was kicked open.

A squad-level officer yelled from the corridor,"All soldiers, grab your weapons and follow me to the deck—or face court martial!"

He moved to the next room and repeated the same words.The urgency was clear.

Drenin and the others didn't hesitate.They fell in behind the officer.

In truth—At least a third of this ship's crew didn't belong to any standard regiment. They'd been hastily cobbled together.

Still, the Departmento Munitorum had done its best to organize them into working squads with a chain of command, enough to avoid total chaos.

The corridors were getting crowded as more soldiers joined the rush toward the landing deck.

Drenin held his gun tightly and marched with the crowd.He knew he still had about a kilometer to go before reaching the landing zone.

In the tense atmosphere, he thought silently:Are we really being thrown into that apocalyptic warzone?

Then—He spotted a familiar face.His expression twisted in rage.

His augmetic arm shot out and grabbed the man's shoulder:

"You bastard, I finally caught you—remember me?!"

He'd never forget that face.This was the guy who had marched into the hospital with an armed press-gang and dragged him and his squadmates out of their beds and onto this ship.

"W-Who are you? What do you want?!"

The former recruiter panicked, confused and scared. Clearly, he didn't recognize the stormtrooper.

The augmetic fingers tightened—bones audibly cracking.Then the man seemed to understand, grimacing in pain:

"L-Look, if this is revenge—you've got the wrong guy! I was just following orders!""Look at me! I got dumped on this ship too! What more do you want?!"

After the draft, even the conscription teams had been thrown into the troop transports.Such an unusual move...Made this ex-recruiter realize just how serious things were.This war... it was going to be far worse than he'd imagined.

Drenin gave one final squeeze, then let go. He wasn't really after revenge. It was the Departmento Munitorum's orders, after all. Those conscription teams had no better options.

And what, blame the Munitorum? With xenos and heretics hellbent on burning the Imperium to ash, how could they not raise armies to resist? Should they just stand by and watch planets die?

Humanity's war against Chaos and the alien breeds was one of mutual annihilation.There was no compromise.

No one could sit it out.

Drenin had seen what happened when a world was overrun.And he hoped that when it was his home's turn, the Imperium would come to its aid.

That was why the veterans kept fighting.

They followed the Munitorum's orders...But their loyalty was to the Emperor.They fought for humanity itself.

If anyone deserved blame—it was those damn xenos and heretics.

Besides...This poor bastard would be dead in minutes on the battlefield anyway.

Drenin gave him a heavy slap on the shoulder:

"Do me a favor and take down at least one enemy before you die. Don't waste that gear."

He didn't expect the guy to last ten minutes.But every piece of gear on a Guardsman—even the cheapest—was paid for with the blood and taxes of Imperial citizens.

With that, Drenin turned and marched on.

Soon, he and the others reached the landing deck.It was brightly lit, chaotic and noisy.

At the landing bay—Numerous small drop ships waited, their hulls marked with unfamiliar symbols: golden suns and winged warriors.

These ships weren't from this transport...Weren't from any regiment Drenin knew.

Must be local forces?The Imperium was vast.Even a scholar studying military heraldry his whole life wouldn't know all of them.

As soon as each ship filled up, it lifted off from the bay, its thrusters blasting roaring wind through the hangar.

"Move! Board now!"

Officers, gripping their caps, screamed at their troops to hurry.

Drenin didn't waste time.With the wind in his face and officers shouting, he jogged up the ramp into one of the landing craft.

Moments later—It took off toward an unknown destination.

In the cramped compartment, shoulder to shoulder with other veterans, weapon in hand...Drenin calmly awaited his fate.

On the landing deck—The boarding continued in orderly fashion.Nearly a million soldiers aboard this troop transport were being transferred this way.

And if any soldier looked up through the ceiling panels...They'd see a colossal silhouette hovering in the void above.

A massive shadow covering multiple transport ships.

It was...A behemoth tens of kilometers long.Its bloated shape lacked any visible weapons.

This was a super-heavy transport ship from the Savior's domain.

Built by the Erth Mechanicus Shipwright Institute, it was custom-made to the Savior's specifications.Stripped of any weapons or systems that took up space, its surface was layered with space-fold modules to maximize cargo space.

It was a sitting duck in space—zero offensive capabilities.But it was massive, fast, and nearly indestructible.Its dual void-shields alone could withstand almost any attack.

At optimal load, it could carry 30 million people.At max capacity—100 million.It was practically a floating city.

Normally, ships like this traveled only under fleet escort.With its tough defenses, it could survive so long as the fleet remained intact.

Now, over twenty such ships had been dispatched by the Savior to speed up the redeployment of Imperial Guard forces to Baal.To preempt disaster—Tyranids had already ambushed and wiped out several smaller convoys.

They had to get the soldiers off these vulnerable ships fast. Before the same fate struck them.

In the boundless starscape—Thousands of landing craft swarmed like bees, flying into the gaping entry ports of the colossal Savior transport ships...

...

Landing Hall.

The lander shuddered slightly as it touched down on the hangar platform.

Drenin's body swayed with the motion of the craft. He instantly perked up, gripping his weapon tightly.

He had no idea what kind of terrifying battlefield awaited him next.

But oddly, even now, he hadn't heard any artillery fire—just the occasional electronic chime.

Soon enough, the landing ramp lowered, and he disembarked along with the other veterans.

And in that instant—

Drenin breathed in a surge of fresh, crisp air—no longer the stale, recycled atmosphere filled with engine oil, dust, and the stench of bodies that had been filtered millions of times.

Then—

What he saw left him stunned.

A colossal plaza, nearly two kilometers across. At its center stood a massive golden statue over twenty meters tall, flanked by giant banners of honor and battle glory.

Bright internal lumens lit the pristine plaza like daylight.

The sudden brilliance made him squint involuntarily.

Drenin tried to read the inscriptions on the towering banners. He murmured out some of the words he could piece together:

"Savior… Storm Group…"

He suddenly realized—

He had arrived at the domain ruled by the Savior.

That newly-returned Primarch, the Hope of Mankind.

Though not as widely known as the Lord Regent or the Primarch of the Ultramarines, stories of his deeds had nonetheless spread throughout the Imperium.

Many seasoned veterans had heard his name in whispered awe.

The Savior had returned in humanity's hour of need, bringing deliverance.

Among his legendary accomplishments:

– Aiding the Lord Regent in saving Macragge and driving off the dreaded daemon Ka'Bandha.

– Driving out the traitor Primarch Magnus during the Battle of Luna.

– And more recently, defeating a powerful daemon demigod and saving the Charalton region.

His return had brought renewed hope to the Imperium.

Then Drenin remembered something—

Those Krieg soldiers he had met earlier... this was the great being they spoke of.

He looked at another banner and read its inscription. This one left him dumbfounded:

"Commander Arye of the Storm Group—slayer of Chaos Titans in a Knight suit?"

He couldn't even imagine—

What kind of warrior could pilot a Knight and bring down a Chaos Titan, those nightmarish war engines as tall as mountains?

"What are you staring at? Get moving!"

Before he could study the banner more, a superior officer shoved him forward.

A new assembly order had been issued.

He followed the other veterans and gathered at the plaza.

Once the Astra Militarum troops were in formation, a sacred hymn began to play.

A towering projection of the Savior, several dozen meters high, appeared in the plaza.

The Savior's thunderous voice echoed through the space—his speech was short, but it brimmed with respect for the soldiers, praising their courage and loyalty.

Every word struck like a sacred bell, resonating deep in their hearts.

He promised to stand with them.

The appearance and encouragement of the Emperor's son, the Hope Primarch, was like sunlight piercing through darkness—it lit up their weary spirits.

They had witnessed a legend with their own eyes.

Their nerves were gone—replaced with newfound strength and pride.

"For the Emperor! For the Savior! For the glory of the Imperium!"

The soldiers of the Astra Militarum roared in unison.

Drenin's depression vanished.

With fervent energy, he joined the others in saluting with the Aquila, praising the mighty Savior.

They swore to fight to the death!

…Though none of them realized—

That projection had only been a recording.

The Ecclesiarchy and the Departmento Propaganda had countless such videos, each tailored to different occasions.

The Savior had far too many duties to attend to.

He couldn't possibly be present for one small troop transport.

After the projection faded, the transport ship's commanding officer addressed the assembled troops.

Due to operational needs—

All soldiers here would be reorganized under a new command structure.

Shortly after—

A swarm of drone servoskulls descended from above.

These were servoskulls from the Savior's domain.

Structurally similar to the Mechanicus variant, but visually cleaner and more polished, built with ivory-like materials.

After all, the Savior's domain didn't have enough human skulls to build so many drones.

The servoskulls scanned each soldier's nameplate and facial data for identity verification.

Each was then issued a new card.

It was their new identity card—featuring name, number, portrait, and a chip containing personal data and their new unit information.

These records were directly uploaded into the population database of the Savior's domain.

From this moment on, unless they outright defected—they were officially registered citizens of the Savior's realm.

Among these Guard troops were many elite warriors:

Veterans from the Cadian Shock Troops, Catachan Jungle Fighters, and the Death Korps of Krieg.

The Savior had no intention of letting such valuable warriors slip away. Especially the seasoned veterans.

They would greatly enhance the combat strength of the Storm Group Army.

In truth—

The Departmento Munitorum had shoved these soldiers into the transports without any intention of bringing them back.

There was never a return plan.

Moreover—

The Savior's realm desperately needed people.

Its logistics systems, engineering corps, mining sectors, machine-repair divisions, and civilian institutions all required massive labor forces to operate.

Just the logistics personnel alone would need to outnumber frontline troops ten to one.

And it was still growing rapidly.

To achieve the Savior's goal of sustaining full-scale support for the Imperium, the manpower requirements were astronomical.

Drenin received his own identity card.

According to the staff, it was his new ID.

Once the registration was complete—

He was guided, along with the others, to board an internal rail transport called the "Metro" which would take them to their barracks.

Drenin sat in the bright, spotless carriage, completely overwhelmed.

Everything that had just happened… it amazed him.

He knew they were still inside a ship—

But everything around him felt both familiar and alien.

The ship bore the Imperial Aquila and sacred statues everywhere.

Yet the architecture and design lacked the usual grim, oppressive tone of the Imperium.

Instead, it felt clean, vibrant—full of life.

This was the architectural style the Savior's domain had settled on after much experimentation.

The Metro was fast.

Drenin had barely sat down when the destination announcement rang out, and he quickly got up.

Many others disembarked with him.

But more soldiers remained aboard—their camps were still ahead.

At last, Drenin arrived at his barracks and found his quarters.

Unlike the usual Imperial accommodations—

This room was clean and well-lit.

Each of the four bunks had a full set of green bedding.

A gentle breeze confirmed the presence of a climate control system.

On the wall were the Ten Rules of the Regiment, which all soldiers had to follow.

One rule stated:

Make your bed immediately after waking, according to regulations.

There would be regular inspections.

On the desk lay a thin instruction booklet, written in Low Gothic, explaining the functions and guidelines of each facility in the room.

"There's… a shower room?"

Drenin was stunned—and delighted.

He hadn't had a proper wash in over three months.

Only on rare occasions, like being on a habitable planet with rivers or a functioning colony, could he even dream of bathing.

The stormtrooper set aside his gear and stepped into the shower for a thorough wash.

And while he bathed, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt.

The water was ultra-pure, without any strange odor—fit for drinking, even by starship standards.

Its quality was shockingly high.

The wealth of the Savior's domain left Drenin deeply shaken.

When he stepped out wrapped in a towel—

He was pleasantly surprised to see three familiar faces.

He had seen them earlier in the chapel:

A grizzled Cadian veteran, a burly Catachan, and a silent Krieg soldier.

Apparently, they had all been assigned to the same unit—and the same room.

This coincidence puzzled them all.

Their combat styles were quite different.

Normally, they wouldn't have ended up in the same squad.

But they had a vague guess—

Perhaps it was because they were all hardened veterans.

They might have been selected to form a new elite assault unit.

During brutal wars, the Departmento Munitorum sometimes assembled mixed veteran squads to carry out critical missions.

Later—

Servoskulls delivered new briefing packets.

These battle-hardened veterans were informed:

They were honored to be selected into the Savior's new special forces unit, which would fight in powered combat armor.

In fact—

This experimental armor was officially called the Universal Mortal Combat Suit...

(End of Chapter)

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