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The mighty Savior… saying he was out of money?
Across the galaxy, that sounded almost impossible.
From the day Eden stepped onto the stage, he'd been famous for spending like a king—in governance, in total war, in research and development—
Money flew like confetti.
It left the Imperium of Man slack-jawed and sent every xenos pauper scurrying.
Even if he claimed he was broke, few would believe it.
But the truth was: he really didn't have much liquid left. Times were tight.
"Easy to go from frugal to lavish—hell to go from lavish back to frugal…" Eden sighed.
Across administration, public welfare, scientific institutes, and fleet/army upkeep, his line items ran at several times the Imperium's "standard"—often more.
For him, that was normal—basically mid-lower spending ratios by the standards of his Old-Terra "3K era."
For an Imperium whose baseline was in the gutter, that looked like decadence.
Put it this way: over 98% of the Imperium's population lived worse than the bottom rung of certain "A-three" castes back on Old Terra.
Brutal.
And now he had to stand up Dawn City's Webway hub—cashing out a mountain of special-grade resources at once. Of course that pinched.
We're talking a region spanning several sector's worth of realspace.
Chaos wars had rolled back and forth, savaging the Webway's infrastructure; waystations and ports had been wrecked beyond belief and needed emergency rebuilds.
And Webway construction isn't like realspace civil works—it gulps rarer, stranger, pricier materials.
A colossal burn.
On top of that, he had to restore a layered defense grid. A newborn, shiny Webway city is the juiciest target in the galaxy.
Without hard defenses, the enemy shows up, drops an orbital strike, and leaves.
He'd be crying into the rubble.
Most expensive of all were the Holy Spires.
To run Dawn City's trade lattice and traffic, he needed tens of billions of human staff.
But the Webway hugs the Warp—its chaotic radiation is intense. Without dense arrays of Holy Spires pumping out sanctified fields, ordinary humans can't stay long without suffering mental and somatic collapse.
Eden had no intention of letting Dawn City's citizens go Eldar-mad.
So every residential district must have Holy Spires. Non-negotiable.
And then there's the colossal holy statue of the Great Savior—the city's very soul. Also non-negotiable.
Line item upon line item stacked into a burden that would crush almost any power in the galaxy.
And recently, while touring worksites, he'd waved his hand and green-lit multiple "civilization uplift" projects.
Resource pressure went from tight to tourniquet.
Realistically, his realms could still muscle through—do Phase 1, then Phase 2, and so on.
But the Emperor couldn't wait. Eden had to flip Dawn City fast, start tapping the Imperium's potential, and harvest the sunk wealth.
With the clock ticking, the shortages made his eyes sting.
Some departments suggested rolling parts of his domains back down to Imperium baseline—save a fortune that way.
Eden refused.
If his rule looked like the old Imperium, what was the Savior even for?
And he'd just been named de facto ruler of the Imperium—how could he suddenly look threadbare and throw away his signature advantage?
Confidence would evaporate.
So he gritted his teeth and maintained appearances—projecting that he could still burn money by the shuttle-load.
Whatever else happens, the Savior must be lavish.
Like those merchant princes who can't afford dinner but still cruise the void in luxury yachts—because if they stop, their partners assume something's wrong and take a bite out of them.
In simple terms: Eden's fixed assets were monstrous. His cash flow and consumables? Temporarily upside-down.
That's dangerous enough.
"Old Roboute, you really are my best brother!"
Eden scanned the resource manifests Guilliman had brought, stepped forward, and grasped his brother's hands, genuinely moved.
"These shipments save my hide. Right now, only you could help at this scale."
As Lord of the Imperium, he still couldn't pull much from the Imperium.
Warehouses were mouse-bare. Keeping the lights on took everything.
Supplying Dawn City's build? If Terra didn't ask him for subsidies, that was already kindness.
Right now, Holy Terra and adjacent systems were still living on Eden's supplies—and the Astra Militarum by the billions were drawing his stipends.
Sure, he could slam a tax spike across Imperial space.
But that would mean harsher extraction and chaos. And with the Webway logistics not yet mature, by the time the tax receipts arrived… it'd be too late—after spending just to collect them.
Guilliman, as one of the Imperium's few wealthy pillars, had bled Ultramar to support Dawn City—that was rare and precious.
Eden knew even a Primarch doesn't conjure this much resource in one go without pain.
Roboute had shown real brotherhood.
"Brother, it's nothing but my duty. Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds are the Imperium's jewelled diadem—we belong to the cause of Imperial prosperity."
Guilliman's voice was earnest.
These days, only Ultramar could massively back the Savior.
As for Khan's domains… outside of some livestock, there wasn't much to spare.
As one of the richest powers apart from Eden, Guilliman felt a quiet pride—and genuine joy at being able to help his brother.
"How much are you still short? I'll think of more avenues."
Guilliman's gaze was steady. "Besides what I've just sent, Ultramar is accelerating new requisitions."
"Mm…" Eden pursed his lips, weighing how blunt to be. "There is a tiny little gap, but…"
Roboute saw the hesitation—his brother didn't want to strain him.
He clapped Eden's shoulder. "There's no need for courtesy between us. Brothers together weather the storm.
Believe me—Ultramar can shoulder part of the gap."
The big-brother stance of an Ultramarine, through and through.
If Brother Eden lacked resources, then we fill the hole.
"…All right. The gap is about—this much. Roughly fifteen percent short."
Eden sighed and flicked over tens of thousands of pages of manifests.
Thousands of ores, fuels, coatings, exotic compounds—plenty of xenos-grade materials too.
"Time's the killer. Give me a few years and none of this would be a problem."
???
Guilliman skimmed… and his confident smile froze.
He went stock-still. After a few seconds he rasped, "…This is what you call a tiny gap?"
A "gap"?
This was a bottomless resource maw.
By the numbers, Ultramar's deliveries might patch one percent—if they were lucky.
Sell the entire Five Hundred Worlds and it still wouldn't plug the rest!
The proudest rich man in the Imperium suddenly felt… poor. Perhaps Eden's definition of "gap" and his differed by about… a few orders of magnitude.
He realized his analysis had been right—that Eden's finances were strained—but his inputs had been wrong.
He'd only modeled Eden's public revenue. He had no line of sight into all the unspeakable income streams.
Say, the Terror Legion, the Steel-Fang Ork Empire, the Tyranid Redemption Hivefleets, the Drukhari syndicates… all shoveling resources to the Savior in their own ways.
The delta there was tens of times—and he'd underestimated Eden's commitment to Dawn City's capex.
"A-hem… yes, well. That is… quite the gap."
Roboute felt his face heat and sweat prickle. He'd just promised to shoulder "a portion of the shortfall," and in truth he could barely make a dent.
Introspection time.
How did a pauper like him get the gall to worry about Brother Eden's treasury?
Did he have the standing?
"It's fine, Old Roboute." Eden, sensing the awkwardness, tried to ease him. "You've done plenty. That shipment already helps a lot."
But thinking of the bind made his brow knot again.
"Ugh… I'm losing sleep. Don't even know how to crack this cleanly…
Right—there's a batch of newly-commissioned warships and Redemption-class Titans. Take them home. I was going to expand the order of battle, but can't just now.
We'll revisit after the crunch."
Given what Roboute had just brought—far better than Khan's few cargo haulers of barbecue livestock—Eden had to reciprocate.
Besides, he was High Lord now; arming an ally or himself, the meat stays in the pot.
???
Roboute stared at his brother's worried face and felt… lost. Was Eden struggling or loaded?
Struggling—and yet "pull a batch of warships and god-engines like regional specialties"?!
A Savior in a resource crunch who behaves like this might not actually be in a resource crunch.
Eden heaved another sigh.
"Also… I have a few hundred Webway warehouses of artillery munitions. Help haul them off—take as much as you can. I need to free space for Webway construction stocks.
We don't have the bandwidth to build new depots."
His storage and logistics were at redline; Ultramar's fleet could moonlight as movers. That worked.
"Brother, I will… do my best."
Roboute had run out of words. Whatever Eden said—so it would be.
…
Dawn City, Temporary Port.
Under Savior-corps engineers' direction, Ultramar's grand fleet off-loaded Webway construction consignments and routed them to sites across the hub.
Soon new orders chimed in.
Through the Webway, they jumped to a nearby Forge World and picked up warships—then hit a Webway node to load vast war stores.
There was so much cargo they overloaded, eyeing the hab decks like they were extra container space.
"Are we… sure this is a support mission?"
Ultramar's Master of the Treasury stared at the manifests. Besides warships and Titans, there were… other resources:
Masses of premium foodstuffs, civilian supplies, some industrial feedstock.
All things Ultramar needed.
In truth, Eden was short only the specialized Webway materials. Everything else? He was flush.
The treasurer's frown had evaporated. He couldn't stop grinning—so wide he got light-headed.
When the Primarch had announced full support for the Savior, the treasurer had winced.
It meant heavier taxes and leaner years across the Five Hundred Worlds.
Officials and citizens alike were weary. As the Imperium's jewel, Ultramar had long subsidized the wider realm—slowing its own development and lowering living standards.
Announcing more to the Savior? More pressure.
They'd grumbled about the Savior in private.
Only to find that after Ultramar scraped resources to help—and prepared to go home—the Savior gave Ultramar more back.
Brimming holds.
They off-loaded their crates, then tearfully took possession of the warships, Titans, and ammunition—
Making room for the Savior's new stockpiles.
"Lord Treasurer… at a glance, this support package… will net us five-fold profit."
The adjutant sounded bewildered.
"Adjutant, correction—ten-fold at least. And the military value defies pricing!"
The treasurer's voice shook with excitement.
Who would have thought supporting the Savior could be… this profitable?
They'd brought rare building-grade feedstock—and received finished warships, god-engines, and supplies.
"Praise the Savior-Emperor!"
The adjutant meant it.
Truly the richest man in the galaxy—help the Savior and you reap a king's ransom. Ultramar stands with him forever!
This was exactly the reputation Eden wanted.
Be lavish enough, and allies multiply. Trade flows in. Orders get obeyed.
"Ping the Savior's engineers—ask what else they're still short."
The treasurer mapped routes and issued orders. "This chance won't last. If Ultramar has it—
We ship it."
There was still plenty they couldn't fit. They'd make more runs—haul more of those "regional specialties" from the Savior's Webway depots.
Help His Majesty free up the shelves.
Ultramar's fleet sailed home stuffed with weapons and stores—happier, and faster, than ever.
—
Atop a spire terrace.
Eden and Roboute stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the busy port.
Ships swarmed like ants, bringing people and matériel, laying brick upon metaphysical brick for the Webway metropolis.
"One of my companies found Chaos sign at the rim of the Eye of Terror—a Traitor Astartes force we've never seen. Looks like a… Legion."
Roboute's latest intel had worry baked in.
"A new Chaos Legion?" Eden frowned. "I'll have the bureaus dig in. Emperor willing, we won't see any large-scale wars right now."
A fresh Traitor Legion surfacing is no small matter. The Eye can birth armies. Everyone knows the Black Legion is out there; Emperor alone knows how many Traitor Astartes brood within the Eye.
Thankfully they're fractious and disunited.
But if someone organizes them—if another grand Legion forms and crusades outward—Imperium-wide trouble. A banquet for the Dark Gods.
Especially now, mid-construction.
For some reason Eden's instincts whispered: the Lion might be tied up in this. (Lion El'Jonson—Primarch of the Dark Angels—returned to the fray recently.) Whether or not that was true, they would investigate first.
Pressure mounted.
He had to finish the build fast—and deploy special measures.
"Brother, do you have a way to plug the shortfall?"
Roboute kept his eyes on the Webway hub—the Imperium's priority one project. Many Imperial polities were already en route.
"I do." Eden's voice was calm. "Webway land finance, commercial concessions, and a suite of cash-generation plans roll out now."
The Imperium is poor in the aggregate—but plenty of high tiers and dynasties are rich.
Especially great nobles, the Imperialis-blooded houses, and the scholastic-research castes.
Ten thousand years of tax exemptions let them hoard wealth beyond belief. It was time to trim a reasonable slice.
Not a bloody smash-and-grab—uncouth, destabilizing, and bad for Dawn City's trade thesis.
As political reforms advance, the tax code will follow. Under the Savior's rule, everyone pays.
No exceptions.
He even pays his own taxes—by example.
Eden's smile chilled. "Besides… it's time to borrow from our xenos and heretic 'friends' across the stars."
His Resource Recovery Battlegroups were already howling out across the void.
Let them taste what it's like… to be plundered.
(End of Chapter)
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