Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

Chapter 8: Agricultural World



Each agricultural world served as the granary for billions, if not trillions, of people. These worlds fed the entire Imperium. But there was usually only one such world in each galaxy—sometimes two or three at most. The survival of an agricultural world was directly tied to the survival of the entire galaxy. If one of these planets fell, chaos would follow. With hunger came riots, civil wars, and total anarchy. People would kill each other just to fight for the last scraps of food. Not even the threat of a foreign enemy would matter at that point. The real battle would be for survival, and no one would come out unscathed.

To prevent this, the agricultural worlds dedicated their entire existence to food production. Mountains were flattened, oceans were drained, and every inch of the planet's surface was turned into farmland. Wheat fields, fruit orchards, and crops genetically engineered by the Mechanicum's biotechnicians covered everything. High-yield food was grown and harvested by the entire planet's population, kept just enough for themselves, and the rest was shipped off to feed the galaxy.

For generations, transport ships had come and gone, filling the skies with activity as they ferried the harvest to imperial worlds. The spaceport and ground facilities were always bustling, with ships constantly arriving or taking off.

But today, a silver shuttle had just touched down. It was sleek and slender, descending gracefully from the sky. The powerful exhaust flames shot out from the rear engines, lifting a cloud of dust as it made its landing. As the shuttle's thrusters cooled, the hatch lowered with a soft hiss.

From the doorway, a man stepped out. He was dressed in a black jacket and a red scarf, with a blaster and a belt of bullets hanging from his waist. He looked like some kind of mercenary or rogue trader. "What's going on here?" an old administrator asked, his gruff voice carrying over the noise of the engines.

The man smiled, tossing a silver Imperium card to the administrator. "Keep an eye on my ship. It needs a fuel refill. The money's in there."

He slapped the old man's shoulder playfully as he passed by. "There's a little extra for you. Don't let the local gangsters get any funny ideas."

The administrator caught the card and slipped it into his pocket, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Got it. Your name?"

"If you really need it," the man said, raising an eyebrow, "it's John. John Constantine. Rogue Trader."

"Ah, I see. Rogue Trader, huh? Well, it's all good." The old man nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "You take care, John."

John smiled back, then headed out of the hangar. The sun was bright, the sky clear and warm. It was a good day for a walk. The weather here, on this agricultural world, was remarkable. No harsh dust storms or pollution from overuse of pesticides—just wide, blue skies and fresh air. It made sense, being so close to Ultramar, that things were a little more pristine here.

As he stepped out into the busy street, John couldn't help but admire the sight. The streets were filled with farmers and workers, their clothes simple and worn from years of labor. Agricultural vehicles rumbled down the road, transporting goods back and forth, while vendors peddled fresh produce. The market was alive with people bartering for everything from vegetables to handmade goods.

John walked through the crowd, the heavy thud of his boltgun bouncing against his thigh. He was taking it all in when something caught his eye—a group of three young gangsters causing a ruckus in front of a stall. Their voices were low, rough, and their Gothic accents were… not the best. If Judge Sherly Weir were around, she'd probably make some snide remark about how dreadful their speech was.

That thought made John smirk. He hadn't seen Sherly in a while. The last time had been back on Relmunda when he and a few of the Death Watch had helped her wipe out a local Genestealer cult. John remembered the chaos of the battle, Robert howling as he cut through the xenos with his chainsword, spraying blood everywhere.

He also remembered Sherly talking about someone—a political commissar named Kane. From what John could tell, she was pretty intrigued by the guy. But that had been years ago. Since then, he'd only heard rumors about Sherly. She had a way of getting herself into trouble. 

Well, let her make the messes. John preferred to be the one creating the chaos, not cleaning it up. But back to the gangsters. They were loud, arrogant, and clearly making trouble. John leaned in, curious to hear what they were saying. "Old Rolling Ball!" shouted one of them, a bald thug with a nasty sneer. "You gotta pay your dues to the Harvester Gang! This is our turf!"

The old man standing across from them rolled his eyes. "I paid my dues once, to Locke. What do you want from me?"

"Locke's dead, old man," the gangster spat, stepping closer. "Now it's our turn to collect."

"I don't care," the old man shot back. "You wanna find Locke, go ahead. But I've got nothing for you."

The bald gangster sneered and raised a metal rod in the air, ready to strike. "You're gonna regret this, old man. Pay up, or we break your legs!"

The old man stood his ground, defiant. "I told you, I don't have anything for you! Go get Andry if you want to make a fuss!"

Mentioning Andry seemed to make the gangsters hesitate for a moment, but then the bald one swung the rod. The blow landed, and the old man staggered, almost falling.

But then, as if from nowhere, a strong hand reached out and grabbed the stick mid-swing. All eyes turned to see John standing there, his casual smile replaced with something far more dangerous. "Who the hell are you?" the bald thug demanded, glaring at the newcomer. "This is none of your business!"

John didn't flinch. Instead, he eyed the gangster's money bag, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You know, I think this is exactly my business."

Before the old man could respond, a bald, burly thug stormed out of the shadows. His face twisted in anger as he whipped out a dagger, waving it threateningly. "Who do you think you are? A tax collector?!"

The bald man lunged, stabbing toward John's abdomen in a fit of rage. John moved faster. He sidestepped and drove his fist into the thug's face, sending him staggering backward. With one swift motion, John snatched the baton from the thug's belt.

The thug growled, charging again. This time, John didn't dodge. He met the attack head-on, twisting the man's arm until a sickening crack echoed in the street. The thug screamed, but the sound was cut short as John swept his legs out from under him and slammed the baton against his shiny bald head. The man crumpled, unconscious.

A second gangster rushed in, cursing loudly. He threw a wild punch, but John was quicker. He landed a clean uppercut to the jaw, sending the man sprawling into a nearby wall. Without missing a beat, John followed up with the baton, striking the thug repeatedly. By the third hit, the man was on the ground, groaning in pain.

The third and last thug froze in place, his face pale. He watched in horror as his companions lay defeated. It wasn't until the second thug begged for mercy that the one-sided brawl came to an abrupt end. "Enough! Stop, please!" the thug shouted.

John paused, his breathing steady despite the fight. With a smirk, he tossed the baton aside and bent down to retrieve the money pouch from the unconscious bald man. He weighed it in his hand before tossing a few golden imperial coins onto the vendor's stall.

The old man stared at the coins, then at John, who clapped his hands together and grinned. "Alright, now for a question. How can I find this Andry?"

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