"Brother, Holy Terra is the seat of our father's palace!"
Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Commander of the Imperium, grew increasingly anxious as he heard the Savior's words.
Because he knew—when his brother said something like that, there was a high chance he meant it. And worse, that he could actually do it.
Based on everything he understood about his brother…
The Savior had probably already set up some kind of mysterious weapon or contingency on Holy Terra.
Even more terrifying—Guilliman might not even be able to stop him.
Sweat beaded on Guilliman's forehead at the realization.
He looked at the Savior, lips twitching slightly, voice softening:
"That's… not ideal. It's a bit extreme. Maybe we can talk this through—find a better way."
Even when facing the Lion or Horus, Guilliman had never spoken so gently.
But there was no helping it.
The Savior was growing stronger by the day. Guilliman couldn't stop him, couldn't even control what was happening on Terra anymore.
All he could do was reason with him.
A twinge of guilt gnawed at him. Maybe if he, as Lord Commander, had held more power, if he had been stronger—things wouldn't have reached this point.
Those damned High Lords had pushed his brother into open opposition!
He felt exhausted. He even began seriously considering a Second Imperium.
Building a brand new empire alongside his brother didn't seem so bad after all…
The Lord Commander's heart stirred.
"You're not wrong. I was being a bit impulsive."
Eden's tone softened. "Alright then. Let's discuss again how to handle Holy Terra."
He hadn't really meant to level Terra—he'd just used a theory from a certain dictator.
When you say you want to open a skylight in a house, people resist. But if you say you'll tear off the roof, suddenly they're willing to compromise on the skylight.
Now that Terra was paralyzed, Guilliman just wanted him to stop the coup and reform efforts.
So Eden said he'd blow up Terra—now Guilliman was begging him not to.
His brother's mental bottom line had just retreated one step further.
Eden had never been that obsessed with flattening Holy Terra.
Not worth it.
A thorough purge would be enough.
He had already decided to expand the scale of the "Grand Longevity Celebration."
"Alright. Let's discuss it again."
Guilliman exhaled in relief, though for some reason, he also felt a little… disappointed.
"Old Gui, you're not still daydreaming about that Second Imperium of yours, are you?"
Eden narrowed his eyes, smiling. "You disloyal traitor. I'll have to tell Father next time I see him."
"You—don't joke like that! I was forced into it back then!"
Guilliman knew his brother was teasing, but he still panicked a little. That strict old father of theirs had left a deep psychological shadow on the Primarchs.
After this lighthearted exchange, the atmosphere between them eased.
But the crisis of Terra's shutdown remained a problem that had to be solved.
"I've been thinking… maybe the impact of Holy Terra's shutdown isn't as terrible as we always assumed."
Eden sat down and started analyzing the situation with the Lord Commander.
For so long, Holy Terra had been held up as sacrosanct. If it collapsed, surely the Imperium would collapse with it—or so everyone believed.
But after careful analysis, Eden suddenly realized: yes, the shutdown had an impact.
But it was minor. At least in the short term.
"Now that you've established the Indomitus Crusade, your fleets respond to emergencies across Imperial space. If local fleets can't handle something, the Crusade can."
"Which means that Holy Terra—especially the Administratum—mostly deals with bureaucracy to maintain Imperial rule."
"Civil management for various worlds, suppressing traitors, calculating and collecting the Tithe…"
Eden handed Guilliman a datagraph calculated by the Machine Goddess herself.
"All of this is important, of course. But considering the Administratum's legendary inefficiency—whether it's running or not makes no difference in the short term."
"In fact, some overburdened planets may actually benefit from the downtime."
"According to the numbers, Terra's shutdown won't harm the Imperium for at least six months."
Yes, the Administratum was still quick to handle high-priority areas.
But those areas had largely been taken over by the Indomitus Crusade and local Internal Affairs offices.
As for the rest of the Imperium… response times were measured in decades.
Ten, twenty, fifty years? That was normal.
Without Terra's meddling or burdensome demands, those worlds might even flourish.
Not to mention, the Administratum was bloated with entire departments that served no real purpose. People just running in circles.
Eden smiled, concluding:
"So let them strike if they want. Maybe fewer people will die from overwork."
…
The Savior's words left Guilliman stunned.
He stared at the data, again and again, not speaking for a long time.
The Lord Commander was filled with regret over his own foolishness—and a sense of defeat.
If he'd had this insight earlier… maybe he could've pushed for more reforms.
But that was a big if.
Without the Machine Goddess's near-infinite computational power, no one could've predicted the scope of the shutdown's actual impact.
That's the power of digitized administration. Human brains alone couldn't compete.
The Imperium's many disasters? Largely the result of relying solely on human intuition and judgment.
"Brother… go ahead. I support your decision."
Guilliman didn't bring up halting the reforms again.
He left those words behind and went back to convalescing.
He felt more and more like he was being left behind by the times.
And the Savior's Greatsword Therapy Team was taking exceptionally good care of him.
Maybe it really was time to lay down some of his burdens.
Let someone more suited take over.
He didn't cling to power like others did. Just as he and the Lion once wanted Sanguinius to lead the Second Imperium…
All Guilliman wanted now was to run his Ultramar well.
After finishing his discussion with the Lord Commander, Eden immediately blocked all those nagging High Lords.
No matter what, the martial law would continue until all resistance was purged.
He then made a public announcement to Holy Terra:
Due to the destruction of the warehouse and water districts, he would now take responsibility for supplying the entire Throneworld.
From now on—forever.
The merciful Savior would spare no cost to provide materials until Holy Terra became a true paradise.
"Our supplies will go to the pure and loyal first—especially those who stayed at their posts!"
Eden declared.
As for those striking in protest?
Let them be. They'd come crawling back eventually.
…
During Holy Terra's shutdown, in one of the Segmentum Solar's civil worlds…
The local planetary governor waited for the Tithe Fleet to arrive.
"Oh Emperor… this was a mistake!"
The young governor had just inherited power from his late father—and he was devastated.
Their planet had once been prosperous. Citizens could at least afford bark bread.
But for unknown reasons, the Ministry of Internal Affairs had upgraded the planet's tax classification.
From Second-Class Special to First-Class High.
That crushing burden had killed his father and ignited riots across the world.
It teetered on the edge of collapse.
He had scraped together every resource he could to meet the Tithe—this once.
But if they paid again, billions more would die.
"Governor, where is the Imperial Tithe Fleet? They're late."
Days passed. The Chief Steward grew suspicious.
"That's… impossible," the governor murmured.
The Imperium had never delayed Tithe collection.
And yes—by all rights, it was already due.
But with Holy Terra down, the sector had received no updated data. They didn't dare act without it.
If they under-collected?
The Inquisition would come knocking.
And since the data hadn't been transmitted, they were legally barred from initiating the Tithe collection.
Eventually, the governor made a desperate choice.
He returned the Tithe resources to his people.
Because if he waited any longer, he might not live to see the fleet.
And the Imperium wouldn't care—unless it was full-blown heresy or an alien invasion.
The people cheered.
And not just on his planet—countless worlds survived the shutdown.
…
Administratum, Office of Economic Documentation.
The entire office was eerily silent.
Even the servitors and servo-skulls had gone idle.
"Why isn't the Savior panicking…?"
The department head, the Secretary-General, sat at his desk, confused.
He stared at the towering stack of files, reflexively reaching for them—but stopped himself.
It was strike season.
No work was to be done.
They had to show the Savior how serious this was!
And yet… days passed. The Savior made no move.
As if he didn't care.
Had he really given up on the Imperium?
Impossible.
What about Director? Wasn't everything going according to her plan?
"Any good news…?"
He looked to his deputy.
"Like signs of riots? The High Lords want those reports."
The opposition wanted to use unrest to pressure the Savior.
The deputy frowned and shook his head. "No, sir. No signs of unrest. Everything seems… peaceful."
"We've been down for days! How is there nothing?!"
The Secretary-General slammed his desk in frustration.
"…Actually, one report did come in."
"Speak!"
"A few sectors in the Ultima Segmentum sent a joint request for more fleet protection."
"They even offered to pay extra Tithe. Apparently, they received some industrial tech from the Savior, and their development is booming…"
"Silence!"
The Secretary-General shut his eyes in agony.
He didn't want to hear it.
For so long, Terra's bureaucrats believed they were essential—the glue holding the Imperium together.
Without them, the whole thing would collapse.
And now?
Their department had been idle for days, and the Imperium hadn't even noticed.
As if none of it mattered.
A creeping anxiety gripped them.
"Maybe we just haven't waited long enough…"
He reassured himself.
"Help me up. We'll go check the dormitories."
His withered body, bound in machinery, moved with difficulty.
He had to hold the department together.
They had to resist the Savior.
"Useless fool!"
He stumbled and nearly fell, cursing at his deputy.
"Apologies, sir. I… don't have much strength left."
The man was hungry.
Even the central departments were running out of supplies.
They all wanted the Savior to yield, to end the strike.
But some managers held the line.
They forbade anyone from returning to work—threatening to cut them off from supplies if they did.
So they could only wait.
…
The Secretary-General soon arrived at the dormitory block.
He saw thin, pale faces, fewer people than expected.
And he shouted:
"Why are there so few?! Did they starve?! Has the logistics office failed to deliver ration packs?!"
A clever sycophant quickly knelt and made a devout report:
"Those people ran to the Internal Affairs Office! I heard they're recruiting—twelve-hour shifts, meals and lodging included, even family stipends!"
"And departments that win awards get to host open-barbecue events… with unlimited meat!"
As he spoke, he couldn't help but swallow hard, while the surrounding crowd stirred in excitement.
"But I think it's a trick! I will always be loyal to Secretary-General, sir!"
This snitch's family had served the Secretary-General for generations—he was a planted informant.
His job was to spy and tattle.
Smack—!
"Traitor!"
The Secretary-General slapped the little rat hard, eyes filled with disbelief:
"How does the Savior have so much supply?! Weren't their supply fleets attacked by xenos pirates?!"
What he didn't know, was that those so-called pirates had already been crushed by Mechanicus Ark Mechanicus ships and had long since slinked away to avoid annihilation.
Now, the Savior's logistics fleets were running without interference.
"Traitors! All of them!"
When the Secretary-General heard that yet more administrators had fled under his nose, he angrily dispatched patrol teams to round them up.
But… none of them ever came back.
Because the Savior's newly formed Provost Corps was recruiting, and they had better gear.
The patrolmen didn't dare fight—they joined up instead.
After all, the Internal Affairs Office was paying in nothing but corpse starch. Nobody wanted to die over that.
Some people had already begun to understand who was truly loyal to the Emperor.
The Secretary-General fainted.
The crowd dispersed.
His deputy quietly slipped away under the excuse of "handling paperwork"—headed straight for Internal Affairs.
…
Internal Affairs Office — Administrative Ledger Division
On Narresen's desk sat a statue of the Savior in martyrdom.
She calmly crunched data, now with speed and confidence.
Thanks to the data matrix…
She could instantly generate results. No more long calculations, no more endless bureaucratic meetings.
Her work was dozens of times faster than before.
"…We all misunderstood the Savior."
Narresen still felt guilty for doubting him.
But their department was lucky.
They had been forgotten in the bureaucratic shuffle and struck from the Internal Affairs records—meaning they weren't part of the strike.
The Internal Affairs Office, combing through data from across Terra's underhives, had discovered them in a cramped office more than ten kilometers underground.
They were quickly absorbed.
Narresen now had purpose again—to serve the Savior.
Her job had value.
She calculated supply data, then dispatched it to logistic officers who would deliver it where needed.
Countless civilians could now survive hunger thanks to her numbers.
For civilians, the Savior's officers distributed minimum survival packages—just enough to stay alive.
But these modern-era bureaucrats, raised in abundance, underestimated the Imperium's true misery.
Even these minimum kits were better than most of the galaxy.
Enough to keep entire families alive.
According to Internal Affairs' projections…
The Savior's logistics fleets carried enough supplies to sustain Holy Terra's population for years.
That was by Terra's standards.
By Savior's more efficient logistics models?
Just one year.
But the Savior had decreed the schedule in half-year intervals.
This was an exceptional time.
The pure and loyal clerks were working so hard—they deserved to enjoy themselves.
Terra's staff couldn't be worse off than those on Urth Prime, right?
Of course, there was political calculus too. Hearts and minds needed winning—benefits had to be generous.
Whirrrrr…
Narresen heard the servo-skull's buzzing approach and instinctively stiffened.
A reflexive fear.
Even if it no longer monitored her, the instinct remained.
The servo-skull clumsily deposited a cup of coffee and a pastry onto her desk.
Afternoon tea. A perk of working in the core departments.
She took a sip—and tasted milk and smooth richness.
She was drinking premium coffee.
The Savior's realm had tried to provide cheap recaf—but lacked such outdated production lines.
After all, his agri-worlds used Golden Age farming tech. No subpar crops. No contamination.
Narresen couldn't believe this was real life.
It felt like a dream.
Suddenly, she spotted a familiar figure.
She froze.
"S-Savior?!"
"Everyone, keep up the good work."
Eden smiled gently and waved, signaling them to continue their tasks—no formalities needed.
He had just stopped by to inspect Internal Affairs.
Their office was expanding rapidly, absorbing former Internal Affairs staff and acquiring a treasure trove of data.
This would be a huge asset in restructuring Terra's governance.
Next, Eden headed for the canteen.
"You call this management?"
He scowled at some of the rations.
"Why are we serving so much bread? What are we, beggars? Swap it all—meat, eggs, milk, full spread!"
Some Webway routes had been disrupted, leaving grain and livestock trapped on agri-worlds, rotting.
Perfect time to over-supply Terra. More than enough to go around.
The rebels' warehouse destruction and strikes?
It helped him. They'd dug their own graves.
Especially after their fleets failed to intercept his supply convoys.
Now his resources were flowing unhindered into the Throneworld—total control.
Departments that realized the strike had failed, that Internal Affairs was replacing them, and who had gone hungry for days?
Returned to work one by one.
Even when forbidden by their higher-ups, they no longer cared.
When they saw the perks offered to those loyal to the Savior…
They flocked to him.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!
Gunfire thundered in the distance.
Eden stepped onto a balcony, watching the rising smoke.
His armies were reclaiming the administrative precincts, one stronghold at a time.
All resistance was labeled heresy.
The more rebels killed now, the more stable the Imperium would be later.
Not that they faced much resistance.
In fact, some "clever ones" within departments reported their own bosses as heretics—just to speed up the Savior's liberation and secure their own benefits.
Creating value, proactively.
Eden ordered the clean-up to accelerate.
The longer this martial law lasted, the more attention it would attract—from very dangerous entities.
But things stalled.
When his forces reached the central districts, they suffered massive losses.
They couldn't breach the heavily fortified zones—especially the fortresses of the High Lords.
Even super-heavy tanks and Dreadnoughts were annihilated instantly.
But the High Lords weren't doing great either.
The rebels, seeing the tide turn and running out of options, finally tried to negotiate.
The High Lords of the Luminous Compact sent a collective transmission.
Ovelleta and the others looked haggard, forcing a submissive smile:
"Savior, you have won this battle. We are ready to accept reform."
"We only ask to retain our positions. We will assist you in governing Terra."
"You think you're still in any position to negotiate?"
Eden frowned.
Terra's martial law had cost thousands of lives, drained massive resources…
And they still wanted power?
Even with reforms, these people would cripple progress.
After a long pause…
Ovelleta spoke again: "We are willing to step down, and allow new elections. This is our final compromise."
They retreated one more step.
Of course, the "elected" would still be their own people—just like what happened during Guilliman's reforms.
"If you're sincere, come to the Senate and speak to us face-to-face."
Eden challenged.
But they refused.
Not until the situation stabilized. Not until their safety was guaranteed.
Some vowed never to leave their fortresses, letting others inherit their power instead.
"Unless you surrender all authority and accept full investigation, I won't spare your lives."
Eden sighed. "Your families and factions will survive—maybe even prosper."
"But otherwise… there's nothing left to talk about."
That was his final line.
If he wasn't worried they'd go berserk, he'd already purged them all.
Ovelleta's voice turned feral:
"Primarch, we've compromised—but that doesn't mean we lack teeth."
"You have no right to take a millennium-old throne!"
BOOM—
An ancient Internal Affairs archive exploded.
Dozens died. Priceless records burned.
This was their answer—or their threat.
"We can hide in our fortresses for centuries and still resist! We'll plunge Terra into chaos!"
Ovelleta was almost rabid:
"One district after another will vanish. Terra will never know peace."
"Or will you bombard us from orbit? Reduce the surface to ash? Kill billions to reach us?"
"For power… can you bear that cost?"
His voice dripped with mockery.
"What's your choice, my dear Primarch…?"
He awaited Eden's capitulation.
Others flooded the channels with pleas for peace, urging restraint.
The Luminous Compact controlled six High Lords, with fortresses across Terra.
They were like nails driven into the Imperium's heart.
You couldn't just rip them out.
Maybe they couldn't help the Imperium—but left unchecked, they could sabotage it.
Everyone waited for the Savior's final response.
Meanwhile, explosions continued. Screams echoed through Terra's streets.
As if those dying voices would pressure the Primarch.
Eden's voice was like a reaper's scythe:
"Then I choose annihilation."
"You are all heretics, rebels, and parasites."
"You will receive no mercy."
He cut the channel.
Simultaneously, a judgment decree swept across Terra.
Ovelleta and the Luminous Compact were declared traitors—sentenced to death by the Primarch. Immediate execution.
All related personnel would be purged. No negotiation. No exceptions.
With the judgment proclaimed, the Savior personally departed for the Senate.
His dark-gold shuttle soared through Terra's sepia skies—flames trailing behind like divine wrath descending from the heavens.
(End of Chapter)
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