"Who am I, where am I?!"
The vanguard of Slaaneshi daemons suddenly found themselves seized by such thoughts.
Because around them, there wasn't the slightest whiff of fear. Instead, the air was filled with joy and eager anticipation.
That threw them completely off.
The Slaaneshi daemons just stood there blankly, staring back at countless curious eyes, feeling as if they were animals on display.
Spectators craned their necks or lifted magnifiers to observe the daemons.
Their numbers far exceeded the mere few vanguard squads that had stepped forth, pressing down the daemons' aura of menace.
But this was only the first probing wave.
Soon, more daemons surged from beyond the rift in the Immaterium, a tide of dark pink.
Daemonettes, Hellstriders, Fiends, Seeker Chariots—all poured forth.
They came armed with grotesque instruments of torture, weapons designed to inflict the most exquisite pain.
In the throne zone.
Ilyss looked at the ever-growing host of She Who Thirsts with increasing worry.
"My lord Asurmen's heir, should we… evacuate the spectators?"
"No need. If we announce that this is an actual daemon incursion, it will only cause mass panic."
Eden, watching the ecstatic crowd, shook his head and refused:
"Reinforce every defense system. Let this grand spectacle continue—this is a once-in-a-lifetime performance."
That the warp rift had torn open inside the Redemption Arena itself was, in fact, a stroke of fortune.
For this citadel-arena had been built for battle. It bristled with force fields, super-heavy weapons, war machines.
It housed armies from countless species—hordes of Orks and Tyranid swarms by the millions.
Even the audience themselves were formidable, many having bred and brought their own war-beasts.
Not to mention the noble dignitaries from across the galaxy, each accompanied by powerful bodyguards.
The Redemption Arena stood here as the closest equivalent to the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra itself: the strongest defenses, the most overwhelming military might.
The daemons had indeed come to the right place.
Had the rift appeared elsewhere, it would have been troublesome—emergency redeployments, new defenses hastily raised.
And spectators would hardly be inclined to fight.
But here? Everything was ready-made. Gladiators and guests alike had their battle-lust doubled.
Spectators were long used to sudden intrusions during grand spectacles, enemies charging into the arena as part of the entertainment.
It was simply part of the show.
A chance for guests to fire off exotic weapons and savor the thrill of war.
Eden's eyes gleamed with a new idea. He issued orders:
"Perhaps we should make this a special celebratory tournament event—something to truly inflame the audience."
The rift tore wider.
"Rejoice, children of ecstasy—revel!"
A cloven hoof, wreathed in warpflame, struck the ground, shaking the arena.
A Keeper of Secrets, towering seven or eight meters, strode into the Materium. The infernal symphony of Slaanesh roared louder.
Three clawed arms swung blades in a deadly rhythm.
"Unimaginable pleasures await—pride, lust, agony… the absolute of all things."
Pink mists rolled out, washing over the daemon horde, driving them into frenzy.
The Keeper sneered with venomous promise:
"Go—tear the prey apart piece by piece! Bring more shrieks of torment to the Dark Prince!"
The daemon army howled even louder.
Cavalry vanguards spurred their two-legged Steeds of Slaanesh, launching the first thunderous charge.
They always struck first, carving the opening screams.
The spectacle was fearsome.
BOOM—
In the next instant, a colossal ruin split apart. Titan-sized mechanical feet crushed the howling Slaaneshi cavalry into gore.
Then, torrents of heavy ordnance rained down, annihilating the front lines.
From beneath the rubble rose the hidden surprise of the arena—an Imperial Titan engine of war.
The crowd erupted with frenzied cheers.
"???"
The daemonic momentum shattered instantly.
"Why is there a human Titan here? And why aren't the prey afraid…? We're in an arena?!"
The Keeper of Secrets tilted its horned head up at the colossus, suddenly unsettled.
Still, a single Titan was not enough to turn the tide.
The Keeper quelled its unease. It had rushed ahead of the other hosts into this section of the Webway precisely to claim the first spoils—souls of the Aeldari, torn and offered to Slaanesh.
It shrieked orders, reforming the host, directing them to skirt the Titan.
Then came the greater beasts of Slaanesh—the Chaos Soul Grinders.
Eight-legged, twenty to thirty meters tall, daemon-engines stomped forward, trading volleys with the Titan.
A resonant hum filled the air as the arena's mech-director lenses swiveled. The spectacle was magnified across the sky.
Besides the colossal main projection, countless smaller screens floated everywhere, ensuring no seat lacked the view.
On the display, fiery captions exploded across the image.
Names, data breakdowns, estimated "health bars" and losses appeared.
"Titan God-Engine vs. Soul Grinders—my dear audience, who will triumph in this clash of giants?!"
Canned cheers roared, while the announcer's voice surged with blood-pumping fervor.
He thought this was just another surprise event arranged by the Asurmen heir. Faithful to his duty, he performed with consummate skill.
On private screens, spectators now saw betting odds, win percentages—wagers available at the press of a rune.
All of it automatically run by the Machine-God's systems, unless overridden by the Asurmen heir or arena directors.
No one cared to stop it now.
The Arena's chief director received emergency orders.
He was already commanding every battle-unit at his disposal, intent on crushing the daemons.
He also had to coordinate the gun batteries, the force fields, while the Succubus planner teams scrambled to roll out new "events" for the audience.
It was chaos.
Fortunately, the Asurmen heir had promised rich rewards afterward—every employee would get a share.
"We must take down those damned daemons, or the bonus is gone—understand?!"
The director snarled at his department heads.
If time allowed, he'd even hold a rally. That was a habit he'd learned from the Asurmen heir.
Eden entered the command chamber of the Redemption Arena, flanked by Titus and Ilyss, to oversee the battle.
His presence weighed on the director and all staff alike.
Their leader was watching. They had to deliver perfection, with no room for error.
Eden studied the vast holo-map of the arena, his own nerves taut.
This arena—vast as several cities—was now a critical warzone.
He had to hold back the bulk of the daemonic invasion here, while ensuring minimal spectator casualties.
If too many nobles perished, the Arena's reputation could be ruined forever.
The Redemption Arena permitted occasional losses, yes. With so many extreme attractions, accidents were inevitable.
Even with massive defenses, force fields, safety measures, and the Inquisition cabals and Kabalite guard patrolling… total safety could never be guaranteed.
Everyone in the audience knew the score.
Casualties among spectators were kept under one percent, and the Haemonculus trauma-medicine teams (the "blood mummers") would handle revivals or surgical re-stitching, pushing the rate even lower—
especially for the noble members.
Of course, that presumes you bought insurance. If you're clumsy, crave thrills, and still refuse to pay for coverage?
Then when you die, that's on you.
So—cowards, don't come to the Redemption Arena. The galaxy has plenty of other kiddie-safe "Baby-Bus" arenas for you to watch.
Ironically, this design only made visitors more eager to come.
They were here for thrills to begin with, and no one wants to admit they're a coward.
Even the timid would grit their teeth and try it once—just to prove they weren't weak.
But this time was special. Slaaneshi daemons are not easy opponents.
So Eden lowered the bar.
This time, spectator mortality could not exceed five percent; if that threshold was crossed, an emergency evacuation would begin.
That would still be a blow to the Redemption Arena—and cost a lot of fighting strength.
Of course, he had faith in his guests. No one who comes to the Arena is ordinary.
The spectator tiers were outfitted with all manner of weapons; many guests had private bodyguards and had bred their own combat units.
Even if stray daemons spilled into the stands, it wouldn't be a big problem.
Very soon, a message from the Redemption Arena reached every spectator.
It informed them that tonight's grand performance was extremely dangerous—mortality could reach five percent—and that the Arena perimeter would be sealed in five minutes.
Anyone worried about personal safety could immediately depart via emergency corridors.
Though the attractions were extreme, the Arena was constructed under the Savior's Domain architectural code, complying with all public-venue fire and safety edicts, with dedicated staff making regular inspections—
—and with complete emergency evacuation routes.
Yet when the audience received the alert, there was little reaction; only a tiny handful left.
They were here for the biggest, wildest spectacle. No one wanted to miss it.
Not to mention, they'd already placed their bets.
And tonight's gala had special rewards: every daemon kill accrued raffle entries.
Grand prizes included a mutant Hive Tyrant egg, ancient relic-grade weapons, and even several planet-worlds.
The value was staggering.
Smaller prizes spanned a menagerie of mutant Tyranid strains, soul elixirs, VIP memberships to the Arena, and more.
All of it worth a fortune.
Hiss—
The last Soul Grinder was torn apart by the Titan, wailing as its gore flooded the ground.
But moments later, the God-Engine itself was swarmed—hordes of Daemonettes clambered up the colossal machine, ripping into its innards.
At last it toppled, fountains of sparks drifting skyward.
"This petty human engine cannot halt the march of ecstasy…"
The Keeper of Secrets planted a cloven hoof on the Titan's wreckage and stared at the packed stands, eyes brimming with hunger.
So many delicious souls!
It loosed an intimidating roar—only to see the audience unmoved, not a trace of fear on their faces.
Instead, they chattered excitedly about what had just happened. Some even beamed—
Because they'd bet on the winning side: the Titan executed every Soul Grinder before it fell.
"Trash—utter trash!"
The losers cursed the daemons and threw obscene gestures.
"Such blasphemy…"
The Keeper's temper spiked; it could scarcely endure this insolence. Had the mortals of the galaxy forgotten to fear daemons?!
By now, hundreds of thousands of daemons under the Keeper had pushed through the veil, assembling into vast formations.
These wicked things were ready to savor their prey.
"Quail and flee—run until the Dark Prince's tendrils catch you…"
The Keeper gave the attack order. Hundreds of thousands of daemons fanned out toward the stands in every direction.
At the same time, more bestial roars thundered from within the Arena.
Tyranid organisms a kilometer long rose into view, lofting clouds of spore mines that birthed a black tide of chitin.
Several Bio-Titans—Hierophants—erupted from the earth with other massive Tyranids, surging forward amid the seething swarm.
Waaagh—!
Gates in the Ork mega-forts boomed open. Four-to-five-meter Warbosses led an ocean of Boyz into a headlong charge.
At their vanguard lumbered the Titan-class Ork engines—Stompas blazing with sparks—followed by ranks of Killa Kans, Deff Dreads, and rumbling Battlewagons.
Orks spilled out by the truckload, clattering into heaps.
From the last direction came the Drukhari Kabalite war-host.
Heavy Ravager skiffs and a bestiary of flesh-engines arrowed in under the command of hulking Aeldari Titans of the dark kindred.
Every gate in the Arena yawned wide. Gladiators of a hundred species roared forth.
There were even glimpses of Chaos Marines—and Adeptus Astartes.
Those were warriors of the Executioners and Mantis Warriors Chapters, on penitent crusade; they were so broke they could barely feed their fleets—
—so they'd slipped in to earn resources.
Though Eden was an alien, he was generous, issuing them suits of armor and weapons in quantity—
treasures from the Great Crusade era, kept in remarkably good condition.
The terms were so good they doubted reality—and their fortunes rose.
In truth, it was Eden's deliberate subsidy.
Every time these warriors returned to their Chapters' strike cruisers, they hauled back bundles of armor, weapons, materiel—even gene-seeds.
Like rich relatives visiting home with gifts—everyone was overjoyed.
The Chapter Masters wept with hope—their dreams of rebuilding stirred anew.
Now even other companies within the Chapters were itching to come, to take shifts at the Redemption Arena: earn resources while cleaving xenos and heretics.
This grand performance—fighting a daemon incursion—had the workers even more fired up.
Butchering daemons… and it comes with a raffle?
Once shunned by the Imperium, these penitents lived only to execute the Emperor's foes.
Now there were bonuses for purging heretics—manna from heaven!
If they drew the planet grand prize, they could found a planetary chapterhold, couldn't they?
Kill the daemons—kill them all!
Shame there weren't more of them on hand.
If time allowed, they'd drag the entire Chapter here for one good swing.
"For the Emperor!"
The penitents bellowed, charging amid the gladiators.
Their ferocity stunned even the killers around them.
"These Throne-cursed Imperial lapdogs—did they guzzle some master-crafted combat stim?"
A World Eaters warrior swallowed hard, oddly shaken—why were they charging harder than a champion of Khorne?
He made a note to ask later which Haemonculus master brewed that stimulant.
Gravel danced as the ground thundered.
Green, ochre, and black tides closed in from all directions—the Redemption Arena's combined host tightening the noose.
"Time to wrap the dumplings."
In the command chamber, Eden studied the theatre-wide holomap and nodded with satisfaction.
The door-slam envelopment was executed to perfection; the daemons wouldn't be escaping outside.
"???"
Mid-charge, the Slaaneshi host faltered. They stared at the surging masses of Orks, Tyranids, Drukhari, and a hundred gladiator cohorts converging.
Silence fell.
Only then did the daemons realize—they were the ones encircled.
"Dark Prince…"
The Keeper took in the scene; even its blade-arms slowly lowered.
Not only were the enemy numbers several times greater—every tide was a galactic apex predator.
Its guts turned to water.
What is this—did I just poke the nests of Orks, Tyranids, Humans, and the Dark Kin at the same time?!
What did I stumble into—is this really Commorragh? Where's the "nice, cozy" Aeldari Webway I was promised?
And what kind of deranged arena stuffs this many armies in the bleachers?!
Questions rang in the Keeper's skull.
It had warred in the Immaterium's hell-battlefields for centuries. This was its first return to realspace in three hundred years—
It had dreamed of harvesting souls to win the Dark Prince's favor.
Now, suddenly, the galaxy felt changed—strange, cold—
Hostile to daemons.
Regret gnawed at it. It should have waited for Lord Hellcalamity and the main host, then invaded together.
It thought to retreat—only to see the rift was far behind the lines.
No way back.
Damn it all!
The next heartbeat, the Redemption Arena's mixed host slammed into the daemon ranks. Bio-weapons and artillery fell like rain.
Splut—
A Tyranid spore mine slapped wetly across the Keeper's face.
(End of Chapter)
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