Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor-Chapter 345 - 346: Huh, Is This Still Baal?!

Monastery warehouse plaza.

Eden led the Chapter Masters into the plaza, followed by the Space Marines of their respective Chapters.

Blood Angels, Lamenters, Flesh Tearers, Angels Encarmine, Guardians of the Shroud, Red Wings, Black Templars—there were tens of thousands of Space Marines altogether.

As Eden put it, "It's only lively when more people come to share things."

If the goods were distributed secretly, it would lose its impact.

Just like some company parties in his past life—when generous bosses stacked rewards in cash for employees to grab as much as they could count, it was always spectacular.

He remembered feeling envious.

Now, Eden could finally experience what it was like to be that kind of lavish boss himself!

In fact, had it not been for the inappropriate timing, he would have loved to hand out rewards and blessings to outstanding warriors—a full set of master-crafted gear from head to toe, even a dazzling suit of golden Centurion armor.

But he thought better of it and decided to save that for the upcoming Emperor's Ascension Day celebrations.

Currently, the Tech-Magi within the Savior's domain already possessed the skills to craft master-grade equipment by hand.

This meant a limited supply of master-level gear could be distributed to elite warriors.

As for Eden himself, he possessed no shortage of legendary weapons—some picked up from dear old Guilliman, others scavenged from the Warp.

However, being a "melee psyker," he either used ranged psychic attacks or got up close and personal. Weapons were rarely necessary.

Most of the time, those legendary weapons were just for show—more accessories than tools.

Often he wouldn't even bother carrying them, instead having seven or eight retainers hold the relics behind him. At least the visual impact was impressive.

As the warriors from various Chapters arrived at the plaza—

Hummm—

A stir ran through the crowd, emotions surging, voices crying out in reverence to the Emperor.

The ruddy sunlight reflected off the holy oils and machinery, casting dazzling rays.

It was the color of divinity and wealth.

"The Emperor above…"

Lamenters Chapter Master Marakin widened his eyes, his entire body trembling. "So many sacred armors… how is this even possible?!"

And he wasn't the only one.

The elite warriors of the Imperium were all stunned, overwhelmed by the Savior's unfathomable resources.

Even those who had lived for centuries had never seen so many armaments amassed in one place.

In front of them, across a newly built plaza stretching kilometers wide, lay mountains of gear and vehicles.

Organized by type and purpose.

One-fifth of the area was occupied by Power Armor—stacks upon stacks of standard issue armor crates piled into a small mountain. Terminator armor cases were stacked as well, all radiating that familiar scent of holy oil and sacred machinery.

The rest?

Piles of chainswords, bolters, and over a dozen varieties of heavy weapons—almost too many to choose from.

Some weapons were even master-crafted from rare materials!

And that was just the equipment section.

The adjacent area was even larger: the heavy vehicle zone.

Over two thousand Centurion suits stood like five-meter-tall steel beasts across the plaza. Each armor plate gleamed with a cold metallic sheen, drawing every gaze.

Naturally so.

Even the Blood Angels' company captains—hell, even Dante himself—would be dumbfounded seeing such a display.

Most Chapters couldn't even field a five-man squad of Centurions.

The poorer Chapters? They might have one ancient Centurion suit passed down for generations, patched and held together by faith and duct tape.

Some unlucky Chapters—like the Lamenters or the Carcharodons—either had none at all or had lost theirs in war, with no means to repair or replace them.

Forget large suits.

If a company had ten Terminator suits, that would be considered their golden age.

Most of the time, even basic armor needed constant patching.

Beyond the Centurions?

There were thousands of combat tanks, fast attack skimmers, and more—custom built for Astartes deployment!

Dante swallowed hard.

All of this was new and unopened. In other words, once produced, the Savior had simply stored it and… forgotten about it?

He always knew the Savior was wealthy. But this wealthy?

Even if they sold the entire Baal system and the Blood Angels Chapter, they still couldn't afford this arsenal.

And these weren't things one could just buy. Most were manufactured by the Adeptus Mechanicus, who held the tech secrets tightly—it didn't matter how much gold you had, you couldn't buy your way into getting more.

But the Savior's domain was different.

Rich mineral reserves. One of the Imperium's top Forge Worlds. And more importantly…

The Machine God Herself resided there.

In such a situation, the Savior's territory could just build whatever they needed. Fully self-sufficient. No need to beg Mars.

No need to pay triple the cost in rare materials or wait decades for a production queue.

Dante took a deep breath, eyes scanning the plaza.

He could estimate—these supplies could fully arm 70,000 to 80,000 Astartes.

Yet the Blood Angels and their allied Chapters barely numbered 40,000.

Hiss~

Eden blinked, a bit surprised too.

"Huh? Why are there so many sets? Weren't we just sending over 20,000? Looks like way more."

At that—

Dante gave him a stunned look, incredulous.

"Did… did he just say that out loud?!"

He grumbled inwardly: You're the one who gave the order! How do you not know?!

This glorious Primarch somehow always managed to shock him, even after over ten thousand years.

And despite Eden being technically older, Dante always felt… younger in comparison.

"Savior, my lord,"

The Chief Custodian Carter interjected calmly, "You previously mentioned that a single set of armor was inconvenient for cleaning and maintenance. You proposed rotating multiple sets seasonally."

"And…?"

"You suggested a spring-and-autumn rotation schedule. That idea was shelved due to impracticality. The currently implemented policy is: two standard armor sets, one for special environments, and one Terminator suit per Marine."

"Ohhh, right. That does sound like me…"

Eden recalled vaguely.

Apparently, he'd mentioned it in passing and never followed up. Probably buried under more important matters.

Just one of the consequences of delegating too much.

Thankfully, it hadn't caused any real issues.

"Ugh, annoying. Looks like we over-delivered on the gear…"

Eden scratched his head, then waved a hand dismissively.

"Ah well, it's here already. Let's just hand it out. Not like we can't afford it."

With the Savior's current production capacity, they could replenish all this in a few years.

Besides—

The new-generation armor and weapons had already completed field tests. Slight performance boosts across the board.

A full upgrade cycle was incoming.

This? Just clearing out the warehouse.

Dante took another breath, quietly stepping back.

"Is… is this how normal people talk?!"

The Savior's absurd wealth left him both envious and awed. The sheer gap between them…

Then—

Eden sensed the expectant stares behind him. He turned around.

The Chapter Masters and warriors were all gazing at him, hope in their eyes.

"Looks like everyone's eager. Well, no need for more speeches…"

He pointed to the massive supply piles behind him and smiled.

"Today, all of this gets distributed—everyone gets a share!"

The plaza exploded in thunderous cheer:

"Praise the Great Savior!"

"Savior Eternal!"

"Loyalty!"

At Eden's command, logistics officers quickly calculated the allocation for each Chapter based on headcount and specific needs.

They then led squads to various sections of the plaza to choose their gear.

Each section had tech-artificers stationed to explain weapon stats, firepower levels, strengths, and drawbacks.

These artificers, originally responsible for wartime repairs, knew the gear like the back of their hands.

In no time—

The plaza felt more like a bustling market.

Excited warriors browsed gear like kids in a candy store, comparing specs and choosing their ideal loadouts.

"So nice… Baal hasn't been this lively in ages…"

Dante smiled at the joyful chaos.

Then blinked in confusion.

Wait—weren't they here for war? Shouldn't this be grim, tragic, a march toward death? ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Why did it feel like some kind of holiday celebration?

But then he relaxed.

Wherever the Savior went, hope followed.

It had been that way before, and it was happening again here on Baal.

His tight heart loosened. His confidence in the upcoming battle grew stronger.

Eden clapped Marakin on the shoulder.

"C'mon. I'll personally walk you through. Pick what you like—anything."

He'd already promised to give the Lamenters the best equipment.

Lifetime warranty included.

Anything missing or broken? Just use their dedicated comm line. The logistics fleet would send a replacement.

As long as it was within Imperial territory, the Savior's supply chain could reach it.

Of course—

If it was a war zone, it might take a little longer. They'd need to punch a hole through with an escort.

Still—

These pitiful crybabies would never worry about logistics again.

In fact—

Given Eden's long-term plan to field 100,000 Astartes, the supply network had already been scaled accordingly.

A few hundred Lamenters? No pressure. He was already feeding 70,000.

Another few thousand would be nothing.

And in return? He would earn their undying loyalty, their praise, and more glory.

"Let's skip choosing the armor—just follow the standard configuration!"

Eden led Marakin and the rest of the Lamenters directly to the armor section, bestowing upon them the full standard kit used by the Savior's own Space Marines.

That meant: four full suits per person.

Two standard power armors, one environmental-adaptive armor, and one suit of Terminator armor!

"S-Savior… this… this is too much, isn't it?"

Marakin swallowed hard, disbelief written across his face.

Every Lamenter… four suits of armor?

What a divine blessing.

Even though Eden had previously made a promise, Marakin's most hopeful expectations before reaching the plaza had been modest. He'd thought perhaps each Marine might receive one standard power armor suit.

If the Savior was particularly merciful, maybe they'd even get ten or so Terminator suits.

After all, such rare wargear was hoarded even by large Chapters—never handed out lightly.

Before arriving at Baal…

The Lamenters' armors had been pitifully battered. One per Marine was barely feasible. Many of their fresh recruits even had to share a single set during training.

There likely wasn't a more destitute Chapter in all the Imperium.

But now?

Every single Lamenter had four suits of armor. All of them had Terminator suits!

"How is that excessive?" Eden cut off Marakin's hesitation, waving his hand. "That's the standard. Can't break protocol. It's settled!"

Then he led the sobbing warriors to the weapons section.

There, they were outfitted with the most suitable weapon loadouts, from head to toe.

And not just one set—but a backup loadout… and a backup for the backup.

Bolter rounds, grenades, rockets, mines—you name it—were all unlimited.

Take as much as you can carry.

The Savior's munition production had skyrocketed so far beyond forecast that the armories were flooded with surplus.

Some ammo crates were over a decade old. If they weren't fired soon, they'd start to mold.

And new stock was already waiting to be warehoused.

To make room, the logistics division simply dragged everything over to Baal.

The quantity was enough to blast the entire Baal system to ash several times over.

Once the Lamenters were fully resupplied—armor, weapons, ammo and all—Eden led them to the vehicle depot to select heavy armor, tanks, and transports.

"What magnificent and divine creations…"

Marakin gazed up at the gleaming Centurion suits, his heart filled with longing.

And not just him—

Every Lamenter stared in awe.

Once upon a time, the Lamenters had dreamed of forming a five-man Centurion Devastator squad to storm through enemy lines.

A decade ago, they had finally pooled a century's worth of resources to purchase two refurbished Centurion suits from the Mechanicus.

It was a moment of triumph for the entire Chapter.

Their dream was within reach!

But fate was cruel.

On the return trip, they were ambushed by Chaos pirates.

The freshly purchased suits, still untested in battle, were stolen before their eyes.

That day…

Their dream of forming a Devastator squad was shattered.

Yet now…

The Lamenters once again stood before sacred armor.

"Savior…" Marakin finally understood just how generous Eden was, and he mustered the courage to make a bold request:

"The Lamenters would like to request five… five Centurion suits."

But lacking confidence, he quickly added,

"Of course, if your mercy only allows two, we will be grateful nonetheless…"

Eden frowned thoughtfully, then looked at him.

"Five? That's too few. Let's start with fifty."

Marakin and his warriors almost fainted from joy.

But they still sorrowfully informed the Savior:

The Lamenters could only handle fifteen Centurion suits at most.

Their resources and tech-priests couldn't support more.

"What a shame," Eden sighed, looking at the crybabies.

"All right then, we'll mark the other thirty-five down for later. When you're ready, I'll have them shipped to you."

Suddenly remembering something, Eden reached into another equipment crate and shoved several more items into the Lamenters' arms:

"Here, take these too…"

Marakin peeked at what Eden had handed over—and nearly cried out, "By the Emperor!"

Because these weren't just any trinkets—these were master-crafted weapons.

Marakin himself only had two such pieces. Master-crafted gear was almost mythically rare.

Legendary equipment? Those were reserved for Primarchs, sector lords, or Chaos overlords.

As Marakin and his warriors turned to store the rare weapons—

"Hold up!"

Eden called out again, lifting the lid off another crate. Inside were five or six master-crafted power fists.

Their design was based on a recovered STC fragment—each fist adorned with barbed blades and serrated saws, designed for maximum destruction.

"These too. Take them."

Some of Marakin's honor guard specialized in power fists—these dusty masterpieces were a perfect fit.

The Lamenters were deeply moved.

That day, under Eden's personal guidance, the Lamenters lived a dream.

Just one loop around the plaza—

They received multiple layers of wargear.

Fifteen Centurion suits.

Ten master-crafted weapons.

Dozens of battle tanks and attack skimmers.

And—

A brand new 2.5-kilometer-long battle barge.

Eden's generosity had resurrected the Lamenters.

Marakin, overwhelmed, dropped to one knee with his warriors.

And swore their undying loyalty to the Savior.

As time passed—

Every Space Marine at the plaza received their new wargear and transports.

After distribution ended, the Savior's tech-artificers offered one last service:

Using high-grade coating and customization techniques, they re-painted every suit and vehicle in the markings of each Chapter.

Everything now bore the unique heraldry and identity of its owners.

Three days later—

Fully armored Space Marines, oiled and gleaming, paid homage to the great Savior.

This benevolent being had not only boosted every Chapter's strength, but also won their hearts.

Soon—

Distribution concluded completely.

Every Chapter now flaunted luxurious gear.

The Marines dispersed, eager to familiarize themselves with their new equipment.

—

Baal's near orbit — aboard the White Maw

The Carcharodons had just extinguished the fire that erupted from their engine bay. The thick smoke still hadn't cleared.

"Can we restart the engines?"

Tyberos asked his Techmarine, his tone bitter.

He always knew this ancient wreck would break down someday.

He just didn't expect it to happen now.

But—

The answer was grim.

Repairing the engines would take time—and even then, there was no guarantee. The ship was a scorched ruin.

The White Maw was down for the count.

Luckily—

There was a smaller battle barge in the main hangar.

To reach Baal as soon as possible, Tyberos crammed four companies and a handful of ancient Dreadnoughts into the cramped vessel.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Grumbling and rattling all the way toward Baal.

At last—

The Carcharodons' tiny barge entered Baal's low orbit, descending toward the surface under traffic control.

"By the Emperor… is this really Baal?"

Tyberos stared in disbelief.

In his view—

A never-ending convoy of transports stretched across the sky, their thruster trails and blinking lights resembling star clusters.

Gunships, freight elevators, and heavy carriers moved a stream of supplies into the Monastery.

And beyond—

Among the distant mountain ranges—

Towered God-Machines.

Divine Titans striding between peaks, flanked by immense engineering constructs.

"Did that old goat Dante move the entire Mechanicus to Baal?"

Tyberos muttered, glancing at his Librarian.

He squeezed his way to the viewport to see more clearly.

What he saw confirmed it—

Baal had gotten rich.

Tyberos chuckled, turning to his Librarian:

"I think asking for 24 suits of Terminator armor was too modest. Dante had better give us 48!"

He boldly doubled his Chapter's supply request.

Then—

He spotted something and sneered.

"Tch. The Lamenters? Those sad sacks are here too?"

(End of Chapter)

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