Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor

Was the colossal crimson figure seated on the brass throne the Emperor?

It didn't matter anymore.

For the lost and helpless Halis, all he sought was an answer.

He wanted to know the path forward, a way to escape his current plight.

The magnificent entity said nothing, yet Halis received the answers he longed for.

Every question he posed was met with a response.

The answers were startlingly simple.

"What should I do about those ignorant and ungrateful peasants?"

"Kill."

"How should I deal with the rebellious opposition?"

"Kill."

"What should I do about the problems I can't solve?"

"Kill."

"Kill, kill, kill!"

With each prayer, every problem found a perfect solution.

Following the guidance of this great being, Halis dramatically expanded his secret intelligence agency and suppression forces.

He crushed the rebellious populace with ironclad resolve.

Anyone who dared to protest, even with a single word, was dragged to the execution platform and publicly beheaded.

He encouraged citizens to report acts of disloyalty. Failure to report was treated as equal guilt.

For those audacious enough to riot, bloody massacres followed.

Heads rolled in droves.

The people were stricken with fear, silenced into compliance.

They toiled harder than ever because even slacking or striking was deemed disloyalty to the Imperium.

The suppression forces routinely identified and executed the lazy, along with their families, on the execution platforms.

The results were effective.

Tax revolts were quelled, and production resumed.

The reduced population and the increased supply of corpse-starch helped mitigate the famine.

Under these measures, Halis was able to meet the Imperium's tax demands on time.

Thanks to the exceptional enforcement of the tithes, exceeding expectations in quality, Halis even received commendations from the Imperial authorities.

He realized how easy it was to solve problems.

Governance became remarkably simple.

All it took was killing.

Even the nobles dared not oppose him publicly anymore.

The opposition was silently executed by the palace guards Halis had secretly created.

Every problem seemed solvable through slaughter.

Of course, the people's gaze toward him changed.

Hatred and rage gave way to sheer terror.

Halis dismissed this as a necessary cost.

With no obstacles left, the sector began to show signs of recovery.

Famine subsided, xenos invasions were repelled, and while the people suffered under brutal conditions, they no longer starved in the streets.

The cost was only the lives of some.

But this peace was fleeting.

The suppressed anger eventually turned against Halis.

The nobles and rebels united, launching multiple assassination attempts.

They tried poisoning, shootings, bombings—nothing was off the table.

During one inspection, suicide bombers armed with high-yield explosives attacked him.

Yet Halis survived them all.

Until the traitors succeeded.

The assassin was someone he trusted most—his wife.

He never realized when she had been turned.

In their bedroom, she plunged a poisoned blade into his body as he slept.

The sharp pain jolted Halis awake.

Looking at his beloved wife, he saw only hatred, madness, and fear in her eyes.

"Why?" he asked, his voice trembling.

She screamed in fury, stabbing him over and over.

"Die, you tyrant!"

In that moment, all she wanted was to slay the monster.

"Why?"

In his anger, Halis strangled her to death.

He couldn't comprehend why his beloved had betrayed him.

Why?

In a daze, he recalled vaguely that he had executed many of her relatives.

The reasons escaped him now.

It didn't matter anymore. She was dead.

Struggling, Halis tried to call for help but found himself paralyzed, his voice silenced by the wound in his throat.

The bedroom was sealed at night, and the palace guards stationed outside the door remained unaware.

The alarm system had been disabled.

It meant no help would come.

Halis lay in excruciating pain, awaiting death in terror.

He felt aggrieved and indignant.

Why couldn't the people understand his struggles?

"Why can't these damned peasants see the challenges the sector faces?

Don't those corrupt, indolent nobles deserve death?

Should we abandon taxation and conscription, allowing xenos to ravage the sector?

Without me, the great Marlo IX, this planet would suffer far greater losses!"

Halis was no fool. He had reviewed countless records of planetary collapses.

He knew that without change, the Goli Sector would eventually meet the same fate as countless other Imperial worlds.

Under the twin pressures of taxation and invasion, it would be annihilated.

Then no one would survive.

"The Goli Sector needs its ruler. I cannot die!"

This conviction kept him alive.

He clung to life, enduring agonizing hours until the palace guards, noticing something amiss, discovered him the next day.

Halis was rushed for emergency treatment, surviving through sheer willpower.

But the severe injuries and poison had irreparably destroyed his circulatory system.

He became reliant on mechanical life-support systems and developed an overwhelming fear of death.

From then on, Halis never left the mechanical throne.

His body grew grotesquely obese, barely human in shape, sinking deep into the massive throne.

Standing five meters tall, the throne was equipped with advanced life-support systems, intricate defensive arrays, and weapons. No one could assassinate him now.

But it wasn't enough. He needed more powerful warriors.

Only through more slaughter and fear could his safety be guaranteed.

Millions were conscripted under the guise of the tithe, dying in secret experiments.

Though the success rate was abysmal, Halis managed to create more palace guards.

He planned for a larger purge.

Although the Imperium ostensibly refrained from interfering in the governor's rule, Halis' erratic behavior was reported, catching the attention of the Inquisition.

An Inquisitor arrived.

When the Inquisitorial vessel hovered over Martila, Halis grew uneasy.

Strangely, the ship departed shortly after landing.

If one could trace its navigation records, they would discover the Inquisitor had rerouted to Urth.

There, he perished in a Warp storm triggered by the Great Rift.

The arrival of the Rift severed the sector's connection to the Imperium, leaving the Goli Sector to face Chaos and xenos alone.

With Chaos energies surging, cults and uprisings proliferated on Martila.

Halis suddenly realized the dreadful prophecy was coming true.

To survive, he had to consolidate his power.

In the name of the sector governor, Halis convened officials from all Imperial institutions on the planet to discuss countermeasures against the Warp calamity.

During the banquet following the meeting, a brutal massacre ensued. Blood soaked the white carpets.

Afterward, Halis seized absolute control of the sector and its fleets.

The opposition was thoroughly purged.

Under his rule, the Goli Sector would continue to survive and develop. No one could challenge his authority.

Until now.

The greatest threat to his rule had appeared—the governor of Urth, Eden Grant.

"That damned upstart!"

In the empty palace, Halis roared from his mechanical throne, his voice a distorted electronic echo.

He recalled vague impressions of Eden Grant.

The man had once followed Urth's former governor to a banquet on Martila—a lecherous, frivolous, useless fool.

How had he developed such terrifying power in just over a decade?

And wasn't Urth already in decline?

To ease Martila's tax burden, Halis had secretly shifted much of the sector's taxes onto Urth.

He couldn't fathom the changes on Urth, but one thing was certain—war was coming!

He needed more power to suppress the growing rebellions and face the impending war.

"Your Majesty..."

A black-robed Tech-Priest entered the palace, bowing beneath the throne.

His voice brimmed with excitement:

"Are you finally ready to initiate the plan?

I swear upon the Blood God, you shall have the most perfect bloodthirsty warriors!"

(End of Chapter)

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