Carter directly controlled a segment of the PDF forces numbering approximately eight million men. They accounted for about one-fifth of Brevis's total planetary defense strength. More importantly, these eight million troops were exceptionally well-equipped and trained.
Under Carter's strict management, the corruption that plagued other units was non-existent; he ruthlessly prohibited the practice of "ghost soldiers" drawing salaries and the black-market reselling of equipment. Every credit and ration was funneled into genuine military development. His forces boasted an impressive motor pool of Leman Russ tanks, Chimera armored transports, Basilisk self-propelled artillery, and even a small, precious detachment of Sentinel walkers.
"But," Carter continued, his tone carrying a hint of helplessness, "the vast majority of my troops are currently tied down at a critical strategic location."
He pointed to a specific coordinate on the holographic map: the ground-based hub for the orbital defense grid. This was the central nervous system for the entire planet's shield and weapon platforms. If it fell, the orbital defenses would be paralyzed, allowing the Greenskin space fleet to descend directly upon the spires of the main Hive.
"This is the Orks' secondary objective," Carter explained. "The intensity of the fighting there is second only to the Frost Forbidden Wall itself. Because of this, I have never dared to redeploy the garrison."
Raynor nodded, understanding the strategic weight.
"However," Carter continued, "the situation has recently shifted. When Leo Saint Garus led his crusade to the front lines, he persuaded several other expansionist nobles to mobilize a million private troops to reinforce the orbital hub. Consequently, I can now withdraw 500,000 veterans and return them to the main base."
Carter looked directly at Raynor. "Consider it a gesture of support—to give you the 'face' you need to lead."
Raynor's eyes lit up. Five hundred thousand! These weren't raw recruits; they were battle-hardened elites. With such a force at his back, his influence in Brevis would transform overnight. If the Chuck Faction saw this army, they would join his cause without hesitation. And with their support, he would secure the food and water infrastructure he desperately needed.
"And then?" Raynor pressed. "Once we have the resources, how do we expand our reach?"
Carter stroked his chin and offered a rare, knowing smile. He had already deciphered the new Governor's ambitions. Seeing that Raynor was still playing it coy, he reached out and tapped the map, highlighting the Mid and Lower Hive sectors—the domains of the Industrial Alliance and the Wasteland Walkers.
The two men locked eyes in silence for several seconds. Then, Raynor let out a smug, satisfied smile. It was the look of two predators who recognized the same prey.
Their tactical discussion was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. A servant entered and bowed low.
"Your Excellency, the Supreme King Caladogon Saint Garus has extended a formal invitation. The Uptown Council will convene in two hours at Saint Garus Castle. Your presence is required."
Raynor and Carter exchanged a glance. "I understand," Raynor said coolly.
Once the attendant withdrew, Carter turned to him. "The Uptown Council is the High King's monthly summit. Nominally, it's for discussing development plans, but in reality, it's where the power players—the Twelve Families, the Industrial Alliance, the PDF generals, and the Wasteland Walkers—carve up the world."
Raynor noted with sarcasm, "And yet the man initiating the meeting isn't even the Governor."
Carter shrugged. "That is the reality of Brevis. This meeting is likely a test of your character. They want to see if you will be a lapdog for the Noble Council or if you intend to be an independent entity."
"Your suggestion?" Raynor asked.
"Put on a show for now," Carter advised. "It is too early for an open revolt. If they realize you won't submit, they will sabotage the Imperial Tithe. Several past Governors were 'dealt with' by the Administratum for failing to meet those quotas."
Raynor understood. In the Imperium, everything moved slowly except for the Tithe. It was the Sword of Damocles hanging over every planetary ruler.
"I see."
Carter stood and bowed to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, turning back with a look of genuine concern. "Sir... please be careful."
Raynor smiled. "Rest assured, Carter."
After the CEO departed, the office fell silent. The Lacewing on Raynor's shoulder twitched, and through their soul link, Sarah's voice echoed in his mind: Carter is emotionally stable. His loyalty is genuine and resilient.
Raynor gently stroked the creature. "I can feel it too." Carter's obstinate sense of duty was real. This man was truly becoming his right-hand man.
He stood up and walked to the window, gazing out at the frozen peaks. "Dobby!"
"Here, Boss!" came the Ogyrn's booming voice from the hallway.
"Get ready. We're going to meet the Supreme King."
Two hours later, Saint Garus Castle was ablaze with light.
The great hall was filled with the most powerful figures on the planet. At the head of the long table sat Caladogon Saint Garus on a throne-like chair. His withered hand clutched a glass of wine, his green eyes half-closed as if dozing. But everyone knew the High King was sharper than a mono-edge blade.
He was waiting.
As the minutes ticked by, the powerful families began to whisper. "This new Governor has quite the ego," one murmured. "Keeping us waiting? Does he think being 'chosen' actually means something in this room?"
Suddenly, a burst of strange, stirring music echoed from the corridor. The melody was grand yet eccentric, the lyrics obscure.
"But what is the meaning of his existence? It's the persistence that fills his joys and sorrows..."
As the high-pitched singing reached its crescendo, the heavy alloy doors groaned open. A figure stood framed in the light: Raynor.
He wore the formal dark blue uniform of the Governor, trimmed in gold with a gleaming Imperial Eagle on his chest. Upon his head sat a green laurel wreath—a gift from the Archbishop symbolizing his status as the Emperor's Chosen.
As he stood there, the overhead lights sculpted the shadows of his face. For a fleeting second, even Caladogon was dazed, seeing in Raynor the likeness of a holy statue.
Raynor stepped into the hall. His pace was deliberate, and with every step, his aura seemed to expand, filling the room with an undeniable majesty. He wasn't just a politician; he was a declaration of divine will.
The powerful nobles who had been mocking him moments ago fell into a stunned silence. The pressure they felt wasn't physical; it was the crushing weight of their own mortality in the face of a man who claimed the Emperor's mandate.
In his seat, Caladogon slowly opened his eyes. A sharp glint flickered in the green depths. He took a slow sip of his wine, maintaining his composure.
"Ah," the old King's voice rasped, echoing through the silence. "The new Governor has arrived."