The balcony.
The back of Supreme Overlord Vect did not move, as if he had no reaction at all.
Crack!
One of the High Archons suddenly convulsed, screaming in agony. His personal force field and his body were simultaneously twisted apart, shattering into a spray of gore and fragments.
This sudden attack stunned the other High Archons. They instantly realized what had happened—
They lowered their heads, not daring to look again upon the Supreme Overlord.
Clearly, that eerie strike had come from him. A terror born of unknown artifacts, utterly impossible to resist.
And the killing did not stop. Two more Archons died in equally horrific fashion.
The aura of fear spread thick through the air. There was nothing the Dark Eldar feared more than death without reason—because that meant their souls might be devoured by the Thirsting Goddess.
Whatever traces of arrogance lingered in their hearts were strangled, and they pressed their foreheads lower, nearly to the ground.
No matter what, this was a being who could snuff out their lives at will. He could not be profaned.
At least—not by them.
The entire balcony fell into silence. The image of Vect's terror once again sank deep into the minds of the Archons. None dared harbor stray thoughts.
This was the result he wanted.
Vect knew all too well: he had to remain iron-fisted. Even the slightest weakness, the smallest compromise, was unacceptable.
For if the venomous Archons even suspected frailty, they would probe and defy him in every conceivable way.
That was his weakness—
A dominion built on fear and awe could not allow the tiniest crack. If it split, all the greed and hatred pent up for centuries would burst forth like a flood and sweep away his rule.
Thus, even knowing the Descendant of Asurmen was secretly bribing his vassals, he could not choose appeasement.
He could not say: So long as you are loyal, I don't mind.
That would be weakness.
The only recourse was total purge and confiscation. Whoever was caught, died.
Unfortunately, the Asurmen heir's rate of bribery was too fast. Vect could not produce souls in equal measure—on the contrary, he was burning through them ever faster each day.
The purge could not keep pace with the corruption.
Too many Archons had been bought. They feigned loyalty and hid their treachery well, making them nearly impossible to distinguish.
Now his authority had been struck another blow.
Vect smothered his rage, sneering inwardly. This was the reality he faced.
Then he did the only thing left—kill a few more, to reassert control.
The surviving Archons endured time like torture, unmoving, terrified of attracting their master's gaze.
Even the smallest twitch could mean death. The blood and remains of the fallen already stained their boots.
No one knew how long passed.
Finally—
"Vermin… always daring to think thoughts they should not."
Vect was satisfied at last.
He slowly turned, his voice a mix of dread and majesty:
"But remember this—your souls, until drained, remain my playthings. Your ambitions, when they rot, are nothing more than the vilest offerings cast into the dust of Commorragh.
I permit you to struggle, for your screams feed my dominion. I tolerate your betrayals, for your blood nourishes my crown.
Now—crawl upon the ground, while I—"
"—Cucked! Cucked! The Supreme Overlord's been cucked!
The Supreme Overlord's concubine ran off with the Descendant of Asurmen!"
Suddenly, from afar, giant bass speakers blared. Thunderous beats, raucous shouts—music and chants reverberated through the balcony, smashing apart the terror Vect had so carefully woven.
The mockery was deafening.
"Ghh—"
Vect nearly choked, his voice cracking into a eunuch's falsetto. The mask of dread fell from his face, replaced by the image of a jester.
His cheeks burned red and green, as though he wore a clown's nose. And he knew—whatever he did now, he could not erase the shame.
"Archons! Mobilize every Kabalite blade at once! Scour every defiling machine! Leave none alive!"
His voice rasped with fury.
The Archons did not dare hesitate. They scattered at once to obey, fearful that the slightest delay would mark them for death.
"Descendant of Asurmen—you are the first being I have ever truly hated!"
Vect turned, teeth grinding as he stared at the freshly demolished holo-billboard and sound projectors.
He had always concealed the mutilations left by the Thirsting Goddess. None dared speak of it.
Every concubine who even hinted at the truth carried implanted bombs in their flesh, set to obliterate them if they spoke. Any who dared mock him were executed.
And yet the Asurmen heir had dug out the secret—and broadcast it across the city.
What humiliation could be greater?!
In truth, Eden had stumbled upon it by chance—using psychic interrogation to unearth in Lady Beda's mind the hidden shame of Vect's impotence.
Afterwards, Master Blood-Masque Kronnie had dismantled her internal kill-devices, freeing her to cooperate in spreading the scandal.
"Cucked! Cucked! The Overlord's been cucked!"
Soon after, Mandrake strike-teams unfurled another massive poster.
Vect's face mocked, up close. The taunts rolled on, twenty-four hours a day.
Fresh slogans swapped in rotation, ensuring no citizen would ever tire of the show.
Vect inhaled sharply and sealed his ears shut. He could not stand to hear another word.
Trembling spasms coursed through him. His nails dug blood from his palms. At last, he staggered into his bedchambers.
Moments later, the clang of iron and shrill screams rang out—special instruments of torment striking flesh.
The first cries of his concubines shredded the silence like rusted blades across silk, followed by howls as bones were meticulously dismantled.
The symphony of horror echoed down shadowed halls.
When at last it ended, Vect emerged composed again. He always calmed himself this way.
...
The Throne Hall.
Vect returned to his obsidian throne. His black web-silk cloak slithered down like a living shadow. Around him grovelled chained slaves.
He lounged with deceptive languor, eyes cold and sly. One hand propped his jaw, the fingers of the other tapped the armrest with precise rhythm. Each tap sparked a flash of ghost-green fire.
Above, a forest of chains dangled flayed corpses. Their writhing squeezed out pitiful moans.
"I lost control…"
Vect admitted, reflecting on his earlier lapse.
"Perhaps long centuries of dominion made me forget—I was once a slave.
Forget how I knelt before nobles, swallowing scraps soaked with spit and mockery.
Forget how I endured humiliation with patience, forging my fury into blades that slew my foes.
Back then I feared no shame, no danger—because I lived always in danger, and nothing else."
Suddenly he seized a slave by the hair, tearing open his own collar to bare his throat. There, branded deep, was the scar of slavery.
No matter how many bodies he shed, he had always kept that brand, as a reminder.
"Look upon it," he snarled, as if reciting a parable.
"This was the mark my masters burned into me. They are all dead. But I—this slave—endured.
I survived the Fall itself. I clawed my way upward through the spires of Commorragh. With every step I swore: never again would anyone look down upon my back!
Either my enemies' bones pave the steps to my throne, or my spine is ground to dust beneath them."
He flung the slave aside, his voice hardening:
"The Asurmen heir is not the strongest foe I have faced. He is not the most dangerous. And he will not defeat me."
Vect understood clearly now: Eden's tricks caused vexation, but could never destroy him.
They were not enough.
Besides—he still held one final card. One that could decide the war.
Reclining back upon his throne, he smirked.
Let the boy come. Let him play out his hand.
Vect would see what he truly had left.
The Supreme Overlord opened a black ledger, its pages filled with schemes and reports.
And there—he discovered something new.
The intelligence gathered from the Redemption Satellite Zone and other regions revealed a startling thread:
The Descendant of Asurmen had close ties with the human Savior, their actions overlapping again and again.
"Interesting…"
Vect tapped a finger against the portrait of the Asurmen heir, a cold smile tugging at his lips.
"So that's it. You've betrayed your kin to consort with the Mon-Keigh… or willingly made yourself their puppet. Or perhaps—" his eyes gleamed—
"Perhaps you are their so-called Savior?"
...
Central District.
The towering spires opposite the Supreme Overlord's palace.
"Tch. Quite the day today…"
Eden strode along a warped corridor until he stepped out onto a high balcony, gazing at Vect's obsidian palace across the city.
He knew the Overlord was there—if not in person, then through one of his avatars.
After so much planning, he finally had his foothold in Commorragh.
Now Eden controlled many of the city's outer zones and dozens of its core districts—territory spanning the size of multiple star systems.
And not just territory, but webway-linked dominions—infinitely more precious than ordinary worlds of the galaxy.
He had also seized command of vast Kabalite forces.
With that strength, he had broken through blockade after blockade, moving colossal resources into the Dark City's districts until at last, he stood in the Central District itself—ready to declare war on Asdrubael Vect.
But there could be no mistakes. He had to win, and win fast.
Otherwise, the Overlord's counterattack would erase everything he had built, leaving only ashes.
To reclaim Commorragh after that would take endless armies and lifetimes of blood.
A fate no one wanted.
"Asurmen Lord, the soul stockpiles from all sectors… are prepared."
Ilyss's voice trembled over the vox-channel.
The Lhamaean secretary, no matter how many times she reported such things, could not help but shiver at the thought of so many souls being hurled into Commorragh.
For the Dark Eldar, it was like an Astartes Chapter tossing away its precious gene-seed into the warp.
But no one dared disobey the Asurmen heir.
Such reckless extravagance only deepened the awe around him.
"It wasn't easy…"
Eden sighed, a touch wistful.
To gather this many souls had not been simple.
The Goddess of Life, Isha, had languished in her springs for years, near collapse.
If not for the energy of Eden's "little sun" and the newborn Dark Eldar faith in Isha sustaining her, she might have already sunk into slumber from exhaustion.
The goddess had resisted bitterly, weeping, saying it felt worse than drinking the broth of Nurgle's cauldron.
Eden himself had felt guilty—like he was outdoing even the Plague God in cruelty.
It had taken long comfort to soothe her, promising never again to force such draining labors.
But after this was done, he reminded her, the rebounding tide of Dark Eldar faith would make her stronger still.
For Commorragh was a place where belief birthed gods—and even birthed Slaanesh. The quality of their faith was… potent.
Eden was eager.
Today, the Asurmen Heir would "distribute souls" to the people of Commorragh.
Not just its residents and Kabalite warriors—word would spread across the galaxy and the warp itself. All Dark Eldar would hear it:
The Asurmen Heir was giving away souls. Come home, and claim them.
All forces of the Redemption Satellite Zone were mobilized to support this crucial gambit.
Victory depended on it.
Eden narrowed his eyes, raising a scope toward the distant palace.
Through the lens, he spied Vect standing on a balcony—his first true glimpse of the foe.
And then—Vect slowly turned his head, as if forewarned. His lips curled into a smile.
Eden jolted, quickly pulling away from the scope, hand resting on it.
He stared at the obsidian palace, face grave.
"His aura leaks out. This Supreme Overlord doesn't come with good will…"
Beside him, Archon Fok shuffled nervously, trying to correct him in a whisper:
"Er… Lord Asurmen… aren't we the ones coming for him?"
Eden typed calmly into his communicator.
"Semantics don't matter. What matters is whether we can deal with him—and win."
"Do you… think we're safe here?" Fok's eyes darted uneasily around. "The Overlord won't have found us, will he?"
"You're here. That's enough."
Eden kept the truth to himself—that their position was already compromised. There was no need to panic Fok.
The Archon's personal power wasn't great.
But he had survived more than ten brushes in the webway with Jaghatai Khan himself, even under direct attack, coming away alive each time—laden with plunder and weapons.
Clearly, luck clung to him. Perhaps even a strange knack against his own kind.
Sometimes, Eden mused, fortune outweighed strength.
Consider the Imperium's old one-eyed Guardsman, Commissar Yarrick—who with nothing but flesh and grit had sent Orks howling, cowing even warbosses nearly on par with Primarchs.
And the stories—of Chaos Marines felled by lasgun fire at the wrong time, of Khornate daemons driven off by peasants with pitchforks.
So yes—he wanted Fok close. To draw on that "good fortune."
Across the way, on Vect's balcony—
"My lord, shall we bombard the Asurmen Heir's position at once?"
A High Archon bowed low, awaiting his command.
"Bombard? That would steal my pleasure."
Vect shook his head.
He knew the rat. Until the hour of final victory, that coward would never show his true body.
Blasting the tower would achieve nothing, save to make him look afraid.
Vect wanted the Asurmen Heir to watch—watch how he lost.
"The vermin will slit his own throat soon enough. All I must do is enjoy the dance of his ruin."
The Overlord's voice slipped into a rhythm like an opera aria, drawing out each word with theatrical flourish.
He peered across at the balcony, untroubled by what was to come.
Whirrr—
Hidden projectors lit, casting into the sky a colossal phantom.
The towering image of the Asurmen Heir appeared, striding into the streets of the Central District, facing Vect's palace head-on.
Eden waited a moment, confirming no attack came—then activated his own projection.
He dared to appear so brazenly because he had studied Vect's nature—cautious, yet arrogant.
Better to confront the image than chase it away with needless bombardment.
It made surveillance easier too.
And besides—it was only an avatar. Nothing worth an orbital strike.
Ahem.
Eden cleared his throat, readying to speak through the voice-casters.
But then—
Another projection rose opposite.
A shadowy giant, Vect himself, black and towering.
So the Asurmen Heir and the Supreme Overlord stood, avatar against avatar, their massive forms locked in silent challenge above the streets.
The eyes of all Commorragh turned to them.
Eden blinked.
Had his advantage in tech already been copied?
Perhaps. But with the Dark Eldar's inheritance, building projection engines was hardly difficult. They may have far better.
"Asurmen Heir."
Vect's vast image spoke first, his voice booming across the Central District and echoing into the farthest reaches.
The giant's gaze bore down with contempt.
"You—Commorragh's traitor. The vermin cloaked in false masks. Who would have thought?
That your true identity… was Mon-Keigh.
Or shall I call you by your real name—Eden Grant, Humanity's… Savior?"
The words detonated like a bomb.
Archons, Kabalite warriors, citizens—all stared wide-eyed, in disbelief.
The Asurmen Heir was the Hope Primarch?! The Savior of Mankind?!
Shock rippled not just through Commorragh, but across the Redemption Satellite Zone as well.
On the spire balcony, countless eyes turned to Eden, awaiting his response.
He drew a long breath.
Then, without panic, he smiled.
His voice rang from the caster, spreading across the city:
"That's right. I am the Savior."
(End of Chapter)
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