Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor-Chapter 346 - 347 – Carcharodons: Damn, We’re Way Out of Our League!

Tyberos stared through the observation window.

In the nearby docking area, a dilapidated and nearly falling-apart small combat barge was docked—completely out of place among the surrounding ships.

It stood out like a sore thumb.

Even worse—it belonged to the Lamenters. Those cursed bastards had a grudge with him!

Many years ago, when the Carcharodons had been pursuing enemies for some profit, their operation had inadvertently hit the Lamenters, resulting in casualties and loss of gear and vehicles.

Friendly fire on battle-brothers was, admittedly, not right.

But Tyberos felt he'd been wronged too.

How was he supposed to know those unlucky bastards would pop up right in the middle of the pursuit? Because of them, not only had the target escaped, but they'd also lost a bunch of equipment.

It was all their fault! Nothing good ever happened when they were around.

That incident had severely crippled both Chapters—already poor to begin with, the losses had made their lives even harder.

Since then, the two Chapters had been at odds. Skirmishes weren't uncommon, but things remained within controllable bounds.

"Hey, come look at this..."

Tyberos let out a cold snort and mocked:

"Those unlucky bastards are getting poorer by the day! All crammed onto that trash barge for reinforcement duty—aren't they embarrassed?"

Silence followed.

The Chief Librarian fell into a long silence. He really wanted to say:

"Boss... we're crammed in a rust bucket not much better than theirs. Who are we to laugh?"

But he swallowed the words.

Life was already hard. No need to rub salt in their own wounds.

Tyberos didn't care. After all, no matter how poor the Carcharodons were, they weren't that poor.

He was perfectly happy to mock the Lamenters.

They'd cost him dearly, and he'd remember it for a thousand years.

Zzzzrrrk—

The Carcharodons' barge rammed right into the Lamenters' junker, scraping deep gouges into its hull.

The barge docked with a screech and groan, lowering its boarding ramp.

Tyberos leapt out, landing heavily on the port deck.

Breathing out a satisfied sigh, he clapped his hands and shouted to the others:

"Move it, you lot! Off the ship—we're going to pay dear Lord Dante a visit and beg for supplies!"

He always spoke with great respect for the generous patron who saved them time and again.

Soon enough—

A large group of Carcharodons warriors assembled. Their armor was a patchwork of salvaged parts, with many missing paint or sigils.

Even their Dreadnoughts looked ancient—clanking with every movement, parts trembling as if they might fall off at any moment.

Tyberos stood with his hands on his hips, grinning as his warriors gathered.

So did the others.

That little act of revenge on the Lamenters had lifted their spirits a bit.

Once assembled, they marched off toward the great hall.

But they hadn't gone far before the atmosphere changed.

"By the Emperor—what in Terra's name?!"

The Chief Librarian cried out, stunned by the sight before them—an emotion rarely seen from the usually calm scholar.

"Emperor save us!"

Tyberos too widened his eyes in disbelief.

It had only been a decade or so since they'd last been here—how had the Imperium's Space Marines changed so drastically?

Ahead, thousands of Astartes from various Chapters were marching toward the docks.

Each and every one of them wore pristine power armor adorned with adamantium, relics, and shimmering with sanctified oils and holy sigils. Their weapons were brand new, gleaming with power and menace under the lights.

It was nearly blinding.

More shockingly—

Over half of them were clad in Terminator armor. That ratio was insane!

Even among the wealthiest Chapters in the Imperium, having one-fifth of their troops equipped with Terminator suits was impressive.

Here, it was more than half.

In the plaza—

A handful of Carcharodons warriors stood there awkwardly. Their ragged armor stood in jarring contrast to the elite forces around them.

Tyberos looked at the others… and then at his own men.

Jealousy and inferiority warred in his eyes.

They looked like beggars who had wandered into a nobles' ball—utterly out of place.

He took a deep breath and asked the Chief Librarian in a trembling voice:

"What in the Emperor's name happened? Since when was the Imperium this rich?"

Even the ever-calm Tyberos was shaken. This was all beyond his comprehension.

"Impossible,"

The Chief Librarian replied firmly.

"The devastation we've seen on our journey proves the Imperium's economy is still in ruins. There's no way they could afford this..."

He wracked his brain, trying to make sense of the scene:

"Maybe… maybe this isn't Baal. Or not the Baal we meant to reach.

Maybe we got lost in the Warp and ended up in a different time.

In this era, the Imperium became wealthy and started outfitting every Astartes with brand-new wargear—even Terminator suits!"

He, being in charge of the Chapter's finances, had an almost obsessive concern with Terminator armor.

Their whole Chapter had to scour the outer reaches of the galaxy just to trade for the fragments or relics needed to make even one of them.

He suspected their ship had drifted through a temporal anomaly in the Warp, and they'd ended up in some wealthy future.

There were, after all, many tales among the Astartes of strange time travel incidents.

"You're saying… we came through a Warp current into a golden age?"

Tyberos was stunned.

Then suddenly, he slapped his thigh:

"Emperor be praised—we came at the perfect time! Contact Dante or someone in the Imperium! We need more Terminator armor—now!"

He didn't care what year it was.

If it meant the Carcharodons could finally be rich, that was good enough for him.

And besides—

A prosperous Imperium was a good thing.

At least it meant the Astartes were better equipped to fight humanity's enemies.

"But this doesn't add up…" muttered the Chief Librarian, fiddling with his psychic instruments.

"There's no sign of temporal disturbance. All readings suggest we're still shortly after the Great Rift appeared… Could the instruments be broken?"

Just then, a familiar voice rang out—excited and surprised:

"Emperor bless it—it's been over a decade! You lot came to Baal too?"

They looked up.

It was an old friend.

The Chapter Master of the Red Wings.

They'd once fought Chaos warbands together. Relations had been good.

Now—

He was still recognizable with his trademark white hair, but his dazzling, customized Redeemer-pattern Mk II Terminator armor made him look majestic and intimidating.

When he stood next to Tyberos, the difference was… painful.

"Over a decade?" Tyberos blinked.

So… no Warp anomaly?

They were in the same timeline?

He looked again at the Red Wings' Chapter Master.

A deep pang of envy surged within him.

Just a decade ago, the gap between them had been minimal.

Now the Red Wings were rising to glory—while the Carcharodons… weren't.

And it wasn't just them. Several other familiar Chapters had also changed drastically.

Damn it—what had they all done? Gotten rich behind his back and not shared?

Forcing a smile, Tyberos asked:

"Clade… when did your Chapter get so… loaded?"

Clade's Terminator armor clanked as he moved, bowing slightly:

"It's a gift… from a Greater Being. Pity you arrived too late."

Too late? Tyberos frowned, confused.

He forced a brighter smile, desperate for details:

"Right… So… could you maybe tell me how—?"

"Sorry," Clade checked the time, looking nervous. "We're on a tight training schedule. We'll talk later."

He turned to his warriors:

"Move it, brothers! Hurry or we'll miss the deadline!"

Then—

With an apologetic look, Clade jogged off with his warriors back toward their ship.

It clearly wasn't a simple errand.

"What are they doing—assaulting an enemy fortress?" Tyberos muttered, staring at the Red Wings' transports.

Those transports were loaded—ammo stacked to the brim, overflowing with deadly payloads gleaming under the lights.

He could even smell the blessed oils from here.

It was enough for a full-scale campaign.

In fact, it might match the Carcharodons' annual ammunition budget.

And among them were rare special munitions, so expensive that even using a few hurt.

CLANK—

Several crates tumbled off the back of a transport, one bursting open and spilling bolts everywhere.

But the transports rumbled on. The Red Wings hadn't noticed.

Hiss~

Tyberos' sharp eyes widened—

That was a crate of Inferno Dome Bolts! Designed for high-value targets with exceptional resilience!

Each Astartes would be lucky to receive a few of those.

He turned away, swallowing hard, then shouted:

"Clade, your ammo box fell!"

Clade glanced back at the scattered bolts, frowning. He clearly didn't want to waste time picking them up.

Then he shouted back:

"Brother! Can you pick those up for us? Keep them—they're yours!"

Tyberos beamed:

"Of course, brother! My pleasure!"

As soon as the Red Wings departed—

He spun and shouted to his troops:

"What are you waiting for? Pick up our ammo!"

Each of those big crates held over 30 smaller boxes—more than 1,400 rounds per crate.

The Carcharodons scrambled to collect every last shell.

Among the crates were not just Inferno Domes, but also Metal Storm Rounds and three full crates of melta grenades.

That alone matched an entire year's production for the Chapter.

"Such a lovely surprise..." Tyberos grinned, ordering the ammo hauled back aboard—and told them not to drop a single shell.

Used properly, these could mean life or death in battle.

BOOM—

Suddenly—

A loud crash echoed from outside the port...

"By the Emperor—our ship!"

Tyberos looked up, and his smile vanished.

In his field of view—

A luxurious combat barge, several times the size of the Carcharodons' own, was barging into the port, nearly flipping their vessel over in the process!

Under the brutish shove of this monstrosity, their shabby little barge looked like a helpless kitten.

Heart aching, Tyberos turned his glare on the gaudy vessel—painted in high-grade dark gold, adorned with intricate sculptures, and glinting magnificently under the sun.

He squinted.

And then trembled with rage.

"Damn it—it's those cursed Lamenters again!"

Sure enough—

Plastered across the side of the luxurious barge was the unmistakable insignia of the Lamenters Chapter.

Inside the barge—

A lighthearted, jovial mood filled the air. The smile wiped off Tyberos' face had transferred straight to Marakin's.

Upon realizing that the Carcharodons' barge had scuffed their hull earlier—

He had happily returned the favor, with interest.

Now—

The Lamenters were smiling.

Every single one of them was clad in gleaming Terminator armor, their orange-yellow heraldry and ornate decorations enhancing their grandeur.

All trace of melancholy was gone.

Typically, Space Marines wouldn't all suit up in Terminator armor at once.

After all, Tactical Dreadnought Armor was designed for brutal, close-quarters engagements. Heavily reinforced, more powerful—it was deployed when sheer endurance and firepower were paramount.

But this time, the Lamenters were fully decked out for a reason:

Training missions.

Specifically, to quickly adapt to and master their new armor and weapons.

This was all the idea of the Savior.

He had ordered all Chapters to take their warriors, gear, and vehicles out into the wastelands for live-fire training—get used to the equipment and eliminate the mutant radiation-beasts plaguing the Baal system.

The dual purpose?

Purify the system—and prevent the Tyranids from using those mutated corpses as biomass.

In addition to standard coordinated drills—

Chapters had to train their heavy armor formations and Centurion squads, ensuring they mastered all combat tactics.

With war looming—

This training was critical. Many Chapters had never even had this kind of equipment before.

Soon enough—

Every Chapter followed the Savior's decree. They rolled out troops, machines, and mountains of ammunition into the field.

It was extravagant training, to say the least.

The Lamenters, though blessed with endless ammo, still winced at the thought of wasting so many expensive rounds on training.

And during this period—

The Savior himself paid a surprise visit to observe the Lamenters' drills.

But...

The Lamenters disappointed him.

Upon his return—

The Savior immediately convened a war council, summoning every Chapter Master.

There—

He sternly criticized all Chapters for being too stingy with ammo during adaptation training.

The Lamenters, in particular, were used as an example.

He was furious—

Shooting one enemy at a time, refusing to toss grenades when facing two or more foes, skimping on plasma and melta?

How was that going to prepare them for the Tyranid swarm?

They'd be facing millions. Only overwhelming firepower would suffice!

And besides—

There were mountains of ammunition stockpiled—enough to bomb the Baal system inside-out four or five times over.

And more was on the way.

In short—Baal had no ammo shortage. Let it rip during training.

On the spot—

The Savior laid down a new decree:

This miserly habit had to go.

If anyone feared running out, the Savior's territory could resupply them instantly—just ping logistics through the special comms line.

Then—

He issued a strict new order: during training, all Chapters were to maximize ammo expenditure.

Same went for vehicles and gear.

Push them to their limits—learn what they could really do.

Live-fire mock battles were scheduled.

Bottom line: train hard, spend harder.

Each Chapter had a mandatory ammo consumption target. Meeting it was part of the mission.

As the Savior put it:

"You must feel the joy of the machine spirits through sustained fire. If you're stingy, how can the machine spirits be happy?"

Observers were assigned to monitor drills—not just to count shots, but to assess tactical execution.

Under such scrutiny—

Every warrior had to give their absolute best.

Failing to meet the quota?

You'd be publicly shamed.

Worse—

Chapters like the Lamenters and Red Wings—who had already been chastised—were now required to burn 1.5x the standard ammo quota.

Now that was an upgrade in difficulty.

To the Lamenters—

It was a bittersweet curse.

On one hand—they now had elite gear and infinite ammo.

On the other—burning through that much was easier said than done.

"This is hell..." Marakin sighed.

But then he grinned.

"At least we completed the quota in time. No public shaming!"

Everyone dreaded being called out by the Savior.

Failing Chapters had their names and heraldry slapped onto a giant Loser's Board—ten meters tall.

Meanwhile, top-performing Chapters made the twenty-meter-high Champion's Board, and received rewards from the Savior himself.

The best-performing Chapter?

They'd receive a special honor—an invitation to dine with the Savior.

Rumor had it the great being watched from the shadows—and would bestow a legendary weapon upon the top Chapter Master once the drills were over.

That alone lit a fire under every Chapter's drive to excel.

Unfortunately—

The Lamenters sat squarely in the middle of the pack. No glory for them… this time.

Today's training involved target shooting and grenade drills, to further master firearm mechanics and suppressive fire tactics.

Marakin and his men had been laying down fire all day—his fingers barely left the trigger.

His whole body was numb; muscles screamed from fatigue.

But it was worth it—he could feel how much more attuned his warriors were to the machine spirits of their gear.

And the Savior's equipment?

Practically divine.

No jams, no misfires, no malfunctions. It just worked.

It was a dream compared to their old gear.

Marakin could see it—the Chapter's combat effectiveness was rising fast.

He rubbed his sore wrist, already anticipating the recovery regimen scheduled next.

After a full day's grind—

They'd be treated to the Savior's restorative program: soothing medicated baths, professional muscle therapy, all designed to ease their aches and restore peak condition.

It was nothing short of luxury.

Then—suddenly.

A comms ping came through.

The Carcharodons had blocked the exit ramp of the Lamenters' combat barge.

Apparently, they wanted to "talk."

Of course—

That was just a polite way of saying: they wanted a good, old-fashioned brawl.

In past scraps with the Carcharodons, the Lamenters had almost always come out on the losing end—getting pounded into the deck.

But now?

Everything was different.

Marakin's smile broadened. He flexed his armored fists.

"Brothers—we've got some rude guests outside. Let's go… greet them."

(End of Chapter)

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