"Hss~ Isha, you're getting better and better at this…"
Eden savored the Goddess of Life's devoted, proactive service, nearly losing control.
Ever since she had obtained the crystal imbued with the Dark Prince's powers, she had been constantly studying the arts associated with it—
hoping to gain more of the Dark Prince's authority.
He would occasionally visit her for… communication and mutual improvement.
At this moment, Isha bore the appearance of a queen—tall and lithe, clad in a tight-fitting suit of black soft armor, gripping a thorned whip.
She resembled the Dark Elf Queen Sylvanas from his previous life's World of Warcraft, but with a far more unique allure.
Eden gave her a slow once-over and shook his head slightly.
"Not enough. Your bearing and presence need to be even more aloof."
"Is that so, my Savior?"
Isha looked down at him with faint disdain, exuding an aura that brooked no trespass.
"Exactly!"
Eden clapped his hands, pleased with the Goddess of Life's comprehension.
He wasn't simply indulging in cosplay—it was about reshaping her image, forging her into a twin-aspect Aeldari deity.
The Aeldari were now irreversibly split into different branches:
Craftworlders, who preached restraint and denied indulgence, and the Dark Eldar, who went in the complete opposite direction.
With her original image, Isha could never gain the Dark Eldar's faith—disguise was necessary.
Something leaning slightly toward the Chaos side, for example.
This way, the Aeldari's goddess could appear to them in two guises, both safeguarding their souls.
Previously, the Goddess of Life had been bound in turn by the Dark Prince and the Plague Lord, unable to protect her people.
Now, under the shelter of the Holy Sun, she could gradually extend her influence to the Aeldari.
Eden looked at the dark-queen-like Isha and decided this persona suited her—it had a certain thrill to it.
A high-tier upgrade to the Dark Eldar's Succubi.
"How about… this, then?"
Isha kept her aloof poise but morphed her attire into lacy black stockings, becoming even more enticing.
Eden frowned.
"You're… teaching me how to do my job?"
Her heart skipped at his tone.
She maintained her cold demeanor and reverted to the prior Dark Queen form.
"Serve me."
Seated upon a throne of intertwined vines, Eden shifted his posture slightly and gave the command.
He tangled with the Aeldari's future supreme deity for quite some time until he was utterly spent.
It wasn't that he lacked strength—rather, the Goddess of Life's powers were growing, and being of the Life aspect, her recovery capability outstripped even his little sun's essence.
Of course, once he tapped into his dark-side power, his combat strength was still formidable—just explosive, not sustainable.
He felt he needed to draw in more faith to keep growing stronger—otherwise, even eating soft rice would become hard to chew.
This relationship also had to remain a secret—
if the Aeldari learned that their goddess was this… close to the human Savior, they'd cry themselves unconscious.
After handling Isha, Eden made his way to the Well of Life.
Inside, the softly glowing green psychic waters were crystal clear.
This artifact continuously gathered the Goddess of Life's energy, forming a soul-protecting power.
As the Aeldari's goddess, she naturally held unique protective authority over their kind.
In addition, another stream of energy flowed in from the little sun—his own, injected to better influence the process.
Soon, the Well of Life's special psychic energy would enter Aeldari bodies in the form of potions.
Much like the Plague Lord's pestilential energies, this would act upon the recipient's soul and physical matter in reality.
Vmm~
A rumble echoed.
The Well's massive warp-extraction apparatus was drawing the energy into realspace for use.
Eden didn't linger in the Life Garden—after checking on the Well's condition, he quickly returned to reality.
It was time to inspect the progress of the soul-healing potion research.
Though Isha had provided the techniques, producing a finished product in realspace wasn't simple.
...
Dreamweaver – Lower decks, Bio-Pharmaceutical Laboratory
Eden descended nearly a kilometer via lift, arriving at the deepest hidden laboratory.
Over the years, his flagship had come to house far too many shady, unspeakable labs—
but it was a sound decision: a Golden Age ship's structure could withstand far more threats.
As someone constantly roaming the galaxy for years at a time, keeping these priceless technologies close was the only safe option.
In the bio-lab, conduits carried special life-energy from the warp. Biologis Sages worked at their stations, and from time to time the shrill screams of Aeldari xenos pierced the air— agony that cut straight to the soul.
"Has the soul-restoration potion taken effect yet?"
Eden strode toward the approaching Archmagos, head of the lab, and asked urgently.
He didn't have much time—no one knew when the great schism in Commorragh would end.
Once the turmoil settled, he might lose his chance forever.
"Savior…"
The Archmagos processed data while reporting respectfully:
"The first batch of potions has been produced—we're ready to begin human trials."
"So soon?"
The speed exceeded Eden's expectations, and he was satisfied.
"Then make arrangements—I'll observe the trial personally."
Soon, they entered a chamber where a captured Dark Eldar assassin was held.
This one had tried to kill the Savior on Holy Terra and had been taken alive—perfect for testing.
Now the Dark Eldar screamed in torment—his whole body withered, face sunken, skin shriveled, even his teeth had fallen out.
Not only was his body failing, but his soul was being tortured—pain enough to chill the blood.
"Tsk… so this is the fate of the Dark Eldar…"
Eden mused.
Compared to humans, the Dark Eldar had it worse than anyone.
This one's suffering wasn't caused by the lab, but by an innate flaw—age only worsened it.
Without the Craftworlders' spirit stones or soul-circuits, they endured the Dark Prince's corruption and agony at all times.
Even in death, there was no end—
their souls would be enslaved forever, ravaged endlessly.
A life where neither living nor dying brought relief.
But pitiful or not, they were far from innocent—
the Dark Eldar were among the most immoral in the galaxy.
To stave off the Dark Prince's torment, they had discovered another path—inflicting pain on others' souls to fill the emptiness in their own.
In short, She Who Thirsts fed on them, and they fed on others.
Through this, they could extend their lives—and their leaders could, in theory, live forever.
Archons like Asdrubael Vect had survived tens of thousands of years through such means.
Their culture reveled in decadence—flesh-sculpting, mass orgies, drug abuse, and every excess imaginable.
Still, Eden thought, humans had little right to look down on them.
From a galactic perspective, to other xenos, the Dark Eldar were only the second most evil race—after humans.
Orks and Tyranids were more like wild beasts.
At least the Dark Eldar didn't devour their own people's souls, nor did they deliberately annihilate alien civilizations—
they robbed and left.
Humanity, however, would glass the planet.
Extremists would wipe out entire worlds, even their own, if deemed necessary.
And humans had plenty of uses for their own people's souls—psykers, cherubim, servitors, flagellants— all condemned to endless suffering in the name of faith.
The Tau had publicly denounced this, branding humanity the most cruel and evil race in the galaxy.
A Masque Master of the Harlequins, after touring the Golden Throne, had called it the greatest and most magnificent soul-torture device in history— and admitted defeat before it.
If one stepped outside the human victimhood narrative, it was sobering to realize—
the villain… might be us.
But Eden would not condemn it—it was all for survival.
In the past, humanity had no choice.
Now, with opportunity at hand, he hoped humans could grow more civilized internally, and be less extreme toward xenos—kill when needed, exploit when useful.
"Archmagos, speed up the trials."
The assassin was already close to physical death after so long without feeding on souls.
And his lab didn't have the Haemonculi's body-restoration arts—
if this one died, he'd have to request more test subjects from the Ordo Xenos.
Under tense gazes, a mechanical arm injected a vial of faintly green potion into the dying Dark Eldar.
They waited for the effect to manifest.
Seconds later, the Dark Eldar assassin's screams abruptly ceased.
"Savior, we've done it!"
The Archmagos's synthetic voice carried a trace of excitement as he rapidly pulled up streams of data.
"The subject's bodily and spiritual decline has halted—for now—and the pain has lessened.
Our soul-healing potion works!"
"Then begin mass production."
Eden issued the order without hesitation.
After all, these potions were for use on Dark Eldar xenos—so long as they were effective, that was enough.
With their physical resilience and their talent for self-inflicted torment and modification, a few side effects hardly mattered.
In time, the vast number of test subjects would provide data to refine the formula.
But then he caught sight of the assassin's bewildered expression—and abruptly rescinded the order.
"Wait. Not yet. We need to adjust the formula first."
The Archmagos tilted his head slightly, perplexed.
"Savior, the current composition is already optimal for maximum efficacy.
It is the Omnissiah's blessing—normally, we would require dozens of trials to reach such ideal results."
"But this gentle formulation won't suit the Dark Eldar's tastes."
Eden's mind worked like a merchant's—he saw the problem of market appeal.
He wanted to craft something the Dark Eldar couldn't refuse.
"Can you keep the curative effect unchanged but add… more stimulants? Something irresistible—perhaps dozens of times the normal euphorics, or even ingredients that cause pain?"
"By the Omnissiah… a brilliant notion!"
The Archmagos's mechadendrites clicked furiously over the input panels.
He pulled up vast calculation models, even posting a query to a Mechanicus forum for suggestions.
Before long, he returned with an answer.
"Savior, we can meet your specifications. We can enrich the soul-healing potion with components that will delight Dark Eldar users.
Some of our… formerly proscribed alchemical techniques may prove useful."
They finalized the design: the enhanced potion would be a deep crimson.
Alongside the mild, low-tier version, a high-end variant would be laced with various extreme stimuli—hallucinations, depression, pain, ecstasy—
each catered to their culture's perverse appetites.
They could split them into themed product lines: Venomous Kiss, Ecstatic Dream, Agony's Hell—perfect for the Dark Eldar's traditional tastes.
The primary ingredients would still heal body and soul, making them "safe."
The mild version would flood the general populace; the high-end would target the wealthy and powerful.
Nothing was more precious than one's own life.
Eden was certain:
A product that preserved their lives and souls and delivered extreme sensation would sweep through Commorragh like wildfire.
Once the soul-healing potions flowed steadily into the Dark City, addicting countless Dark Eldar, his influence would become unstoppable.
Accustomed to the potion's restorative effects, their old method of torturing and draining souls would seem dull and unsatisfying.
They would come begging for his elixir.
His Redemption Cabal, sole controller of the manufacturing process, would flourish—its monopoly the core of its power.
"All that pathetic soul-draining—tedious, messy, and not even thrilling. What's the point?"
Eden smiled faintly at the assassin.
"Let the great Savior rescue you instead… let me show you what real exhilaration is."
He would rule Commorragh as a Dark Eldar noble Trueborn, heading a powerful cabal.
The Dark City's citizens would no longer fear the slow death of soul erosion—
and he would wring every scrap of wealth from them while reshaping their lifestyles.
No more endless raids for mere survival—he'd give them something better.
Then they could choose: him and the Goddess of Life, or the supreme overlord Asdrubael Vect.
In the days that followed, the assassin tested every series of the soul-healing potion, sinking entirely into the combined bliss of restoration and extremity.
In the potion's deep hallucinatory visions, he beheld the Aeldari goddess—in her Dark Queen guise, Isha.
Bathed in the potion's unique life-energy, he became her devout follower.
That result thrilled Eden.
"Our Redemption Cabal is ready to make its first move into Commorragh."
Now, all he needed was a shell cabal—something to plan for.
...
The Pacificus Sector, Remote Space
A human transport was struck by a scythe-pattern interdiction missile.
Its engines died, leaving it drifting like a lamb for slaughter.
Whoosh—
A Dark Eldar Thorn-class frigate swept in—the missile had been its shot.
The raider was already laden with slaves and loot, bound for its satellite-territory…
…but stumbling across a human transport alone was too tempting.
More slaves for soul-feeding, more wealth to seize.
Still, the raider was cautious; after crippling its prey, it slowed, scanning the void for threats.
...
Aboard the Raider
Chains rattled softly within the slave pens.
"You devils! The Tau'va and the Savior will never permit such evil—you'd best release us and the others!"
A shackled Tau bellowed, voice thick with rage and sorrow.
He and his kin had been seized by these pirate kin of the Aeldari, along with humans and even Orks.
"Silence him."
Archon Randall of the Thorn Cabal frowned—and a moment later, the Tau's head burst into pulp.
The scorched, caustic tang of Tau blood filled the air.
Randall liked that smell.
Seated at the hall's dining table, he sipped a cocktail of Tau blood and some unknown cerebral pulp.
The groans filling the chamber weren't from the slaves, but from his furniture.
The table and his chair were masterpieces of a Haemonculus artisan—
bone frames wrapped in stitched human skins, over a dozen in all.
Those poor wretches were still alive, eyes bulging, mouths parched, moaning constantly.
Randall often dined here.
The noise was bothersome, but the agony in their souls was soothing.
It eased his own pain and slowed his decay.
"Drink some."
With perverse amusement, Randall poured his cocktail into the stitched face on the table.
The victim choked, their cries louder.
Then Randall sensed the faintest, almost inaudible footstep—enough to set his instincts flaring.
As Archon of a cabal, he had the most thralls, the deadliest consorts, and the greatest wealth—
but also faced the most danger.
Poison in food, a blade at his throat, or "accidents" arranged by rival Archons…
And if he grew too successful, perhaps even an invitation from Vect himself to sip some vanish-tea.
He wasn't there yet.
Since beheading his predecessor, his one goal was to grow the Thorn Cabal—
and secure a Haemonculus master as his personal medic.
That way, even in pieces, he could go on living.
"My dear, you're always so quiet."
He seized the succubus Lemien, pulling her into his lap.
These socialites of Commorragh, hot-blooded women of the Wych Cults, were fixtures in an Archon's bed—bedmates, poison-testers, and schemers.
"How's the final tally?"
His hands roamed, carefully avoiding the poisoned blades hidden on her body.
"We've yet to finish counting, my Archon," she whispered into his ear, breath warm.
"So far, we've taken fifty thousand slaves, two full dragon-spines of refined fuel, and over twenty bundles of dreamstalk—
you know how valuable that is.
Any port will pay for such bliss-giving goods."
Her ears flushed with excitement.
"And the best part—we captured a smuggler's freighter. No Imperial escorts, nothing.
This haul will surpass all expectations!"
In her fervor, she gripped the face stitched into the table, stabbing its eye with a sharp nail, drawing more screams and blood.
Randall didn't mind—if this raid went well, he could buy even finer furnishings:
a Haemonculus-crafted bedroom of thousands of skins, with a bed and carpet that would heal his soul as he slept—free from the Dark Prince's nightmares.
"We must remain cautious."
He ordered the succubus:
"Have the pilot scan the area again. Then board from the transport's flank—take control of her."
Soon, Randall confirmed the space was clear.
The Thorn Cabal struck.
Leading warriors, Sslyth bodyguards, and clawed Khymerae, the Archon himself took the helm of a Ravager assault ship and lunged toward the helpless transport…
(End of Chapter)
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