While Supreme Overlord Vect raged in fury, the arena below was the stage for a peerless ballet of slaughter.
Lelith Hesperax, Queen of the Arena, drove her blade into the twisted skull of a Chaos Lord, executing the foe with merciless grace.
As always, she basked in the crowd's thunderous cheers, her every movement the epitome of elegance, her body proportioned in perfection itself.
And yet, the Queen of the Wych Cult bore a dark scowl—for she realized that her audience had diminished by a full fifth.
The noble guest boxes, in particular, were emptier than ever before.
"The Redemption Arena is stealing Crucibael's spotlight. A new star is rising…"
Lelith pondered grimly, her instincts pricked with unease.
In recent days, she had heard the name of the Redemption Arena whispered with growing frequency—along with that of its dazzling new Wych performer, An'lah.
There, the performances were said to be more extravagant, more extreme, more innovative.
Certain Archons had murmured in the shadows that Crucibael's blood sports were becoming stale, and that the Redemption Arena might soon supplant it.
That the once-exalted Queen of the Wyches would be forgotten.
In rage, Lelith had punished such insolence with exquisite cruelty, yet even she could not deny her own doubts.
She had no answer on how to reclaim Crucibael's waning reputation.
Thus, the Queen resolved to visit the Redemption Arena herself.
She would witness their performances, and then she would issue her challenge. For in the art of the blade, none would surpass her. None!
Soon her elegant silhouette slipped into the shadows of the arena. Lelith Hesperax was gone.
In the uppermost viewing chamber.
"Where is Lelith?"
Vect demanded of his handmaiden-bodyguard, Nosha. "Why does she defy my summons? Defy the command of the Supreme Overlord?"
Nosha bowed low and answered:
"My lord, she has departed. Through the hidden passageways she left Crucibael. Our spies believe she journeys to the Redemption Satellite District."
At that, Vect's fury threatened to boil over.
With a contemptuous flick, he hurled an orb-relic, shattering the soul-machine upon his table. Emerald vapors hissed upward, wreathing his brow in a sinister haze.
The Queen's departure was no mere affront—it would ripple far beyond Crucibael.
If even the Jewel of Commorragh now turned toward the so-called Redeemer's domain, then the prestige of that gutter-rat pretender would only swell further.
Vect understood well the foundation of his rule: fear and reputation.
Through cunning and cruelty, through massacres and betrayals, he had made every Archon of Commorragh tremble at the sound of his name.
He had slain any who dared resist him, seizing their wealth, their titles, their power.
Thus the Kabal of the Black Heart commanded Commorragh's webway routes, extracting the infamous "Soul-Tithe" from all who dared pass their gates.
Their fleet was the largest, their armies the strongest.
And yet—even Vect could not exterminate all his rivals. Commorragh was too vast, its ancient noble houses too deeply entrenched.
So the balance was maintained only through terror, only through reputation.
Should the fear of him ever wane, the hatred and resentment bottled up for centuries would erupt, and he would face his greatest crisis.
Vect knew this. And he would never allow it.
Never!
He summoned his concubine Lady Beda, intending to vent his fury upon her body.
But a more infuriating report arrived instead: Lady Beda was gone.
Interrogations of his Incubi revealed the bitter truth. She had betrayed the Supreme Overlord.
Beda had taken another lover—an Archon whispered to be none other than the mysterious Asurmen's heir.
"Kill them. Kill them all, by any means necessary…"
The green haze around Vect's crown thickened as his rage cooled into icy clarity.
He silenced every witness, then issued the decree: hunt down the Asurmen heir and Lady Beda.
Only death would cleanse this insult to his honor.
Immediately, assassins and warriors of the Black Heart fanned out through Commorragh.
Every soul connected to the Asurmen heir or Lady Beda—whether they had merely glimpsed them or carried their pamphlets—was butchered without mercy.
And beyond that, Vect dispatched spies to the Redemption Satellite District.
Once they mapped its hidden entrances, his fleets would strike. He would burn the Redeemer's nest to ash and plunder every treasure within!
...
Derrian Port, beneath the streets.
What had once been a Kabal of the Serpent's poison factory now churned with presses, converted into a secret propaganda foundry.
The Asurmen heir oversaw the operation himself. Pamphlets, enchanted with ancient Aeldari holo-script that shimmered in living words and images, streamed out in endless bundles.
Through hidden webway passages they were carried across Commorragh, spreading like wildfire.
It was through such propaganda that he would build his reputation, gather allies, and challenge the Supreme Overlord.
Otherwise, his fate would be no different from Maris, crushed and erased.
Even if he sought alliances, the proud Kabals would never openly accept him.
"My lord Asurmen, several of our factories have been destroyed. Forbidden relic-weapons leveled them to dust," Maris reported nervously.
This was her first attempt at striking back against Vect—and already his reprisals had her forces reeling.
"All the more reason we must stockpile propaganda now," Eden replied, eyes on a spread of intelligence reports. "We'll need every verse, every story."
He opened a comm-channel, ordering the soul-poet into another frenzy of composition.
The wretch had no choice—his scandalous exposure had left him exiled from Commorragh, chained now to the Asurmen heir's cause.
Every day he wrote epics praising the noble Redeemer, denouncing the tyranny of Vect.
There was no path back. His only hope lay in Vect's downfall.
"By the way," Eden asked, "have your people secured Lady Beda? We'll need her for propaganda."
Maris nodded. "They've found her. She's en route through the webway to Derrian Port."
The labyrinthine passages of Commorragh offered rebels a sliver of hope. Without them, Vect would have already crushed every spark of resistance.
"Work hard, all of you!" Eden declared with a flourish, distributing more doses of soul-elixirs among the Serpent Kabal's rebels. "When Vect falls, you shall feast on finer souls than you've ever dreamed!"
"Glory to the Asurmen heir!"
The rebels cheered, intoxicated not only by the elixirs but by the Redeemer's charisma.
Maris watched, unease prickling her. Her warriors were beginning to obey Eden more than her.
Yet she held her tongue. For the heir of Asurmen had promised her greater things still.
Two days later, the Serpent Kabal delivered Lady Beda safely.
But they also brought dire news: the Black Heart's hunters had tracked them. Soon this factory would be found.
Suddenly, a polyhedral device floated above the port's docks.
Dark lightning crackled outward, tearing the air.
A singularity bloomed.
A ravenous black hole swallowed steel, fortifications, and life alike.
In moments, Derrian Port—and the factory beneath—were gone, leaving only a colossal crater ten kilometers wide, as if some void-beast had bitten the city clean away.
"By the Throne… lucky we fled in time."
Eden wiped sweat from his brow, staring at the devastation.
The ancient relics of the Aeldari Empire were monstrous indeed. With such toys, Vect hurled miniature black holes as if they were pebbles. No army could stand against that.
That was why Eden fought as a guerrilla, with words and subterfuge.
To send a fleet into Commorragh was folly. It was a labyrinthine city-realm the size of a star-system, bristling with defenses.
Even if one bombarded it, the cost would beggar empires.
No, the wiser path was propaganda—to stoke civil strife, to let the Dark Eldar tear themselves apart.
And besides—was he not the heir of Asurmen, come to shatter tyranny and save the Drukhari people?
"Lord… what shall we do now?" Lady Beda clung to Eden's arm, trembling with fear.
"Strategic retreat, for now," Eden said calmly. "Once we've gathered enough strength, we'll strike back."
For the moment, his reserves of soul-energy were insufficient to power the grand designs to come.
Which meant one thing: it was time for Isha to labor even harder.
The Goddess of Life had already grown gaunt from the ceaseless torrent of faith she poured forth, her body weary, her skin raw from endless "ablutions."
But there was no choice.
The plan demanded it.
Commorragh, the Dark City, thrived on mercenary contracts and transactional pacts. And the price for everything was always the same: souls.
The Supreme Overlord had maintained his iron grip for so long because he controlled the entrances to the webway routes, levying the crushing "soul-tithe" that funded his fleets and warbands.
If Eden wished to bring down Vect, then reputation alone was not enough. Prestige and propaganda mattered, yes—but above all, he needed souls.
Enough wealth to offer wavering Archons and double-faced allies a price they could not refuse.
Soon, Eden and his companions slipped into the webway, bound for another district.
At the gate of a webway passage.
The Black Heart's hunters had tracked the trail of the Asurmen heir to this portal.
At its threshold, they discovered a large sealed crate.
"Careful—that could be a trap, some doomsday device!" one tracker warned.
Another acted swiftly, raising a barrier field before remotely scanning and unlocking the chest.
What they found shocked them.
Not explosives. Not poisons. No trick at all.
The box was filled with soul elixirs—pure, distilled wealth to any Drukhari.
Both hunters froze, dumbfounded.
The cache bore a short message, a one-use holo: a note from the Asurmen heir himself.
Not a bribe, not a plea for betrayal.
Simply a gift. A gesture. "Brothers, you've worked hard chasing me. Have a drink, enjoy yourselves."
The two trackers eyed each other warily, spacing out to guard against treachery. But after a moment, they reached agreement. They split the treasure evenly and swore to secrecy.
They took the elixirs—yet they still sent the report of the Asurmen heir's flight path to their superiors.
Only a few minutes late. After all, the Redeemer had been… generous.
And so it went. More and more pursuit squads stumbled upon such "donations." No demands. No conditions. Only gifts.
Some were exposed and punished. Some fled outright. Others kept silent, quietly pocketing their windfall.
But in truth, everyone took them. Which meant no one could be singled out.
In Commorragh, that was unity of a sort.
Why refuse? The Black Heart offered only commands—and punishments for failure.
The Asurmen heir offered rewards without asking anything in return.
The comparison was obvious.
And so, Commorragh's hunter-warbands began to slow their pace. Perhaps because the patron was too generous. Perhaps because they hoped the chase would last longer.
After all, if the Redeemer were ever caught, the gifts would end. Best to let the game continue.
Within the webway.
"Damn it!"
Maris twisted aside, narrowly dodging a blast of darklight. She crashed to the ground, battered and bruised, but forced herself up.
Her razor-edged warfan snapped open, launching poisoned needles that riddled a Ravager skimmer's crew. The craft swerved out of control, colliding with a Raider beside it. Both spiraled into a wall and detonated.
"You all right?" Eden grasped her arm, hauling her upright before casually tossing a plasma grenade into the path of an onrushing Reaver jetbike.
The explosion consumed the machine in fire and shrapnel. Eden did not even glance back, black hair whipping in the blast's hot wind.
Maris shook her head, dazed—but once again struck by how composed this noble heir remained.
That calm confidence was why she believed in him. Even now, pursued by the Black Heart's elite strike forces, their company scattered, trapped in a dead-end section of damaged webway.
They had followed faulty maps into a collapsed stretch, losing precious time. Now they were cornered.
Together, Eden and Maris raced through the labyrinthine passage.
The webway here was uncanny, surreal—pristine walls free of dust, vast latticework stretching into infinity, each surface reflecting glimpses of distant galaxies.
If they could just reach the far gate, they would be safe.
But before they could escape, a chilling roar echoed behind them.
Three Talos Pain Engines, grotesque flesh-and-iron constructs of the Haemonculi Covens, surged into pursuit.
Barbed limbs, bone saws, and surgical tools bristled from their frames.
The Coven boasted that even the daemon engines of Chaos were fragile toys compared to the Talos.
"My lord Asurmen…" Maris whispered, despair breaking her voice. "This may be the end."
She was no warrior, skilled only in poison and stealth. The heir himself—his clone body was little stronger than a baseline Space Marine, barely able to wield the faintest trace of psychic power.
Against three Talos, they had no chance.
"Not necessarily."
Eden's tone was calm, resolute. He caught Maris's arm as she tried to charge forward in a hopeless stand.
"Not yet. My guardian has arrived… Titus."
From the shadows came the echo of armored boots striking stone, heavy, steady, growing faster.
A Talos lunged, claws dripping gore, rancid blood-stench filling the corridor. Its talons stretched wide to rend the prey.
Then—a blur of black.
A massive figure hurtled past Eden and Maris, straight into the Talos.
For a moment, time froze.
Titus crashed into the monstrosity with unstoppable force.
The impact resounded with a wet crack, the Talos bursting apart in a spray of gore and electricity.
Its pieces scattered—flesh, ichor, metal shards—strewn across the webway floor.
The giant had shattered it head-on.
Crunch—
Titus ground his boot through the beast's skull, then tore a length of thorned chain from its wreckage, winding it around his fist. He shook the blood free, then inclined his head in silent respect toward the clone of his primarch.
"What a warrior…" Maris breathed, paralyzed.
The human giant had annihilated a Talos by brute force. And worse than the carnage was his aura—an oppressive killing intent that made her feel as though he might turn and slay her in the next heartbeat.
Eden smiled faintly, pleased. Titus was among his fiercest champions. Every relic bestowed upon him was proving its worth.
Boom—boom—boom—
Titus drew the "Arbiter" boltgun, alchemical rounds exploding into a second Talos, staggering it back.
He switched weapons in an instant, igniting the field of the power sword "Glory."
With precise, rapid strikes he carved the machine-beast and its crew into pieces, blood and steel raining down.
Then, with a hiss, a venomous scorpion-tail lashed through the carnage—its crystalline stinger gleaming with toxin potent enough to pierce power armor.
Titus twisted aside, seizing the tail. With a savage pull he dragged the last Talos off its claws, smashing it into the floor.
He hammered its body again and again with his chain-wrapped fist, pulverizing flesh and steel alike until the beast lay ruined at his feet, gore masking his scarred face.
Then, without a word, he returned to his primarch's clone and stood ready once more.
"Titus," Eden said gently, "next time, remember to wear your helmet."
It was half jest, half concern. After all, Eden himself seldom wore his own.
Titus blinked, surprised—but nodded heavily. He would not risk unnecessary words before outsiders, lest some secret slip.
Maris exhaled in relief. They were safe—at least for now.
But the respite lasted only a moment. The roar of engines thundered through the webway.
A full battlegroup loomed into sight.
Ravager gunships, Chronos Parasite Engines, Raider transports, Reaver jetbikes swarming with Kabalite warriors and Incubi.
Alongside them bounded Clawed Fiends, Khymerae, even shadowy Scourges circling overhead.
Enough force to annihilate several full squads of Primaris Marines.
"What do we do now?" Maris gasped.
Even Eden felt his throat dry. "Pray for a miracle… or hope Titus can cut them all down."
Dozens of vehicles. Hundreds of warriors. Over a thousand xenos beasts.
Perhaps more, hidden in the dark.
"I will destroy them all."
Titus's voice was iron. No hesitation, no fear.
He locked his helmet, red optics blazing.
Then he stepped forward, blades in both hands, and advanced alone toward the horde.
(End of Chapter)
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