Screech!
The Tyranid spore sack burst open, spilling dozens of Rippers that landed around the Keeper of Secrets.
Some even latched onto his face, venomous claws scratching frantically in a frenzy of slashing and tearing.
That was the trouble with Rippers.
They were cannon fodder—individually weak, but capable of forming a tide of flesh.
So long as they got close enough to slash their enemy a few times, they had fulfilled their mission.
Either they shredded the enemy into ribbons, or their corpses bogged the foe down in place.
"Damn vermin!"
The Keeper of Secrets roared in pain, tearing the creatures from his face and crushing them to pulp.
While the Rippers couldn't inflict serious harm, they were like venomous, agonizing mosquito bites—thousands of them.
They swarmed without pause, scratching and clawing until his body was marked with countless small, stinging wounds.
Enraged beyond reason, the Keeper stamped them underfoot, then swung his three bladed arms in a spinning frenzy, slicing apart all nearby life—including a few unfortunate Daemonettes.
But it made no difference.
The Tyranid bio-ships continued to rain spore pods upon his position, using the terrain to their advantage.
More and more Rippers surged forward like a tidal wave.
The Keeper stumbled, feet swept from beneath him, and was swallowed whole by the chittering mass. Even his towering form vanished beneath the swarm.
This was the wisdom of the Tyranids—and of the Savior's Blade Wing—using endless waves of low-cost fodder to smother the enemy's core units.
Their purpose was to consume and stall the enemy's elite, preventing them from wreaking greater havoc on the battlefield.
Meanwhile, the hybrid armies of the Redemption Arena pressed their furious assault, breaching the daemonic line.
The warzone resounded with thunderous bombardments as Chaos forces were divided into isolated pockets.
Tyranid Hierophants and Hive Tyrants rampaged at the head of their swarms. Lictors lurked unseen, striking at daemon commanders.
Ork Deff Dreads and Killa Kans smashed into daemon monstrosities head-on, while boyz grabbed howling Daemonettes and beat them senseless, ignoring their own wounds.
The Dark Eldar Kabalite warriors advanced with ruthless precision, their fire elegant and lethal, methodical in every strike.
The Gladiator hosts screened the flanks, intercepting scattered daemon detachments.
At that moment, the Arena's augury projectors lit up with dozens of live combat feeds, broadcasting the most spectacular clashes to the roaring crowd.
"Heretic, die!"
A Penitent warrior of the Executioners Chapter hacked a Helbrute apart with his twin axes, then beheaded a bounding Flesh Hound.
With a roar, he charged a Seekers' chariot bristling with spinning blades and serrated scythes.
The Penitent had gone mad with slaughter, his mind filled only with devotion to the Emperor and the memory of his Chapter's homeworld.
Spectators who had bet on him clutched their seats in dread.
But their fears were unfounded. The Executioners were a warband infamous for savagery, their doctrine revolving around seeking out and annihilating all mankind's foes, heedless of strategy or restraint.
To most other Astartes, the Executioners were little more than undisciplined primitives—blood-caked headhunters barely better than renegades.
But killing was what they did best.
The Seeker chariot roared forward, its whirling blades shrieking as if ready to shred the Space Marine to ribbons.
Yet the Penitent showed not a trace of fear. Sprinting hard, he hurled a battle-axe with perfect aim into the chariot's gears, jamming them for a heartbeat.
The weapon was shattered an instant later, the blades spinning anew—but the opening had been made.
With a burst of his jump pack, the Executioner launched into the air, soaring straight for the daemon drivers.
The two shrieking Seekers realized the danger too late.
The Astartes came down hard, both feet crushing one daemon's skull with a sickening crack.
"You have no resistance left…"
He seized the second daemon by the throat and hurled it into the chariot's own blades. A spray of gore painted the arena floor.
"Blood for blood—accept execution!"
Seizing control of the chariot, the Penitent turned it against the daemon ranks, its scything wheels carving through their number like a harvester through grass.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our Executioner has tallied one hundred and thirteen kills! The little daemon darlings must be crying now! Hahahaha! Give it up for the Executioner!"
The Arena announcer's hoarse roar echoed, the warrior's ferocity winning the love of the crowd.
Countless xenos and neutral entities cheered for the Angel of the Emperor.
Some alien beauties even swooned, tossing intimate garments onto the projection field.
Others hurled insults at the daemons, making the battle seem more like a deranged spectacle than a war.
The daemons, goaded beyond endurance, turned incandescent with rage—not only being beaten, but openly mocked by the rabble.
This was too much to bear! Did mortals take them for less than daemons?!
Snarling, some broke from formation, hurling themselves toward the spectator stands.
In the command chamber.
"Who would have thought that a war against daemons could turn into this?"
Eden gazed across the Arena, his voice tinged with reflection.
A century ago, when his domain had faced a daemonic host, it had been calamity incarnate—his people unable to sleep for fear.
Now, against the same kind of army, he could meet them with ease.
Even crush them outright.
And this time, most of the fighting was being done by xenos auxiliaries. He hardly had to worry about casualties.
Indeed—development was the ultimate truth.
Eden finally understood why the Tau Empire had once pursued auxiliaries among humanity and other species.
Letting alien strengths carry the front line… it was glorious.
This was his strategy now: preserve humanity's primacy, but grow a powerful network of alien auxiliaries to reduce human losses.
Especially against Chaos daemons. To pit mortal men against an endless, unkillable legion of warp-spawn was suicide.
Better to bleed them with xenos first, then claim victory.
The Redemption Satellite Zone was vital as a settlement for those auxiliaries. No mishap could be allowed.
Spotting the daemon push toward the galleries, Eden turned to Ilyss.
"Are the spectator defenses primed?"
Ilyss nodded. "All forcefields and weapon systems in those sectors are online. Available to any guest. Free of charge."
Normally, every weapon emplacement and turret in the spectator tiers was locked behind exorbitant fees—much like those arcade fish-shooting games. Ammunition and upgrades all cost money, usually at obscene markups.
Not that the rich cared.
But today, every gun was unlocked, free for all. A once-in-a-lifetime chance for the audience to fire without restraint.
"With that, there should be no problem…" Eden murmured, eyes locked on the charging daemons.
The noble guests of the galaxy were his golden trees of coin, their extravagant spending funneling wealth from countless alien realms straight into his coffers.
Nothing could be allowed to happen to them.
Moments earlier—
In the spectator tier, inside a lavish VIP box.
"For the Emperor!"
"Long live the Imperium!"
Sana and Heye, two drunken companions, sat in adjoining rows, shouting alongside the feed of the Executioner's rampage, trembling with excitement.
They had just wagered on the Marine—and Sana, following his friend's luck, had staked every last coin.
The Executioner had delivered, exceeding every expectation, and their coffers had swelled.
They were beside themselves with glee, raising glasses in a celebratory toast.
Sana drained his wine in one swallow, sighing in delight. "What a glorious fight! Let us salute the Executioner—he is our star of fortune!"
"Indeed! We must celebrate properly!"
Heye, emboldened, summoned service.
Heavy footsteps announced the arrival of several Ork "beauty-mekz" from the adjoining chamber.
They wore tight skirts and high heels, eyelashes lacquered, lips painted red with sparkling shadow.
Though muscular and tusked, the work of flesh-shapers had made them oddly comely—everything in its place.
Hormonal treatments had gentled their tempers too.
These were the runts of Ork society, pathetic weeping grots bullied to death if left to their kind.
The Arena's Ork-management bureau had plucked them out, remade them with surgery and enhancements, fitted them with… extra parts.
The proposal had passed Eden's desk with little thought—later he discovered the author was himself a frequent client of "greenskin services."
Clearly premeditated. In a galaxy so vast, nothing was too strange. Even greenskin maidens had their clientele.
Eden had considered canceling the bizarre service—but to his surprise, it was wildly popular, embraced by the galaxy's nobility.
Here's the full English translation of your new passage (with lore names aligned and checked):
Chapter 510. Savior: Titus, give everyone a show—tear that Greater Daemon apart with your bare hands.
They treated it as a dare for the brave.
So Eden let them have their fun—if the Drukhari wanted "specialty services," so be it.
If nobles liked to chase thrills, that was fine too; it even boosted sales of medical services and insurance.
Even a "timid" Ork was terrifying by most species' standards.
One careless squeeze and your employer could end up with comminuted fractures.
Out of sight, out of mind—and those cowardly greenskins, who'd otherwise be clubbed to death by their own kind, could at least be monetized.
"WAAAGH!"
The lead Ork beauty-mek bellowed, spraying spittle all over Heye's face.
"I know, I know, my little darling…"
This alien princeling spoke with the Orks fluently, smooth as silk.
He pulled out a handful of teef—glimmering Ork "gold" teeth as currency—and pressed them into the lead mek's palm.
After centuries of life, Heye had sampled every "type" of beauty under the stars.
He was bored—almost impotent from ennui.
But these Ork beauty-meks were different. They fired every nerve in his body. In a word—explosive.
The lead mek pocketed the teef and withdrew, leaving several surprisingly pretty greenskin meks behind.
Very soon, Heye was luxuriating in a "massage" that was a bit too enthusiastic.
Bones popped, vertebrae clicked, and from time to time a piledriver punch landed—one heartbeat away from full-blown rage.
"Brother, want to try it? If you've never taken on a greenskin beauty, you can't call yourself a truly brave noble."
Heye glanced at Sana and made the pitch.
Among nobles, the competition was always in the oddest places. It wasn't about pleasure—it was about rarity, extravagance, and difficulty.
That was how they proved they stood above the herd.
And if this weren't a public venue, it wouldn't stop at a "massage."
Sana was tempted—until he clocked those bulging Ork muscles.
Reality sank in: he'd be paste. Bones first.
There were stories of nobles who overestimated themselves, sampled greenskin services, and triggered a medical rescue—dragged out in public by Blood Masquer med-teams to jeers and laughter.
Sana refused to let a lifetime's reputation go up in smoke—or be branded a coward—so he bluffed.
He smacked his lips wistfully. "Not bad at all, those greenskins. Sadly, I'm a bit tired today—can't do them justice."
Heye cut him a side-eye but didn't press it.
Suddenly, a warning tone blared inside the box—danger approaching.
Outside, daemons howled with glee, impatient to torment their prey.
"Hah! Finally." Sana and Heye's eyes lit up.
They'd received the Arena's notice earlier: all the spectator weapons were unlocked for free this round.
They'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Letting enemies crash the stands was a signature Redemption Arena program.
Every box had ample defensive and combat space set aside for it.
"Ignore their interceptors—storm the stands and seize every soul!"
The Lord of Excess fixed his crimson eyes on the teeming galleries and gave the order.
Daemon vanguards hurled themselves at the line, bleeding for every step.
Most were stopped, but many still slipped through and pounced toward the spectators.
That was the Slaaneshi plan.
The spearhead was doomed to fail—but before banishment, they had to snatch trophies, or face the Dark Prince's wrath.
However… the gun-emplacements at every box and seat cycled live.
Under the audience's hands they erupted—dense curtains of energy and solid shot scythed down the daemons in droves.
"What is happening?"
Watching his minions drop like flies, the Lord of Excess went numb.
Why did the stands have more firepower than the line? Since when were Drukhari and the galaxy's hoi polloi this deadly?!
Even so, some daemons did break into the galleries—so it wasn't a total loss.
Several Howlers swooped onto a terrace, staring hungrily at a trembling Drukhari child:
"Hush—don't cry. I'll make you forget all pain… just hand over your soul."
"Look at that tender skin. The color when it opens will be exquisite."
They planned to savor the rare prey.
Then—in their vision—the Drukhari child raised a toy-like pistol with shaking hands.
Pop—bang!
Before the Howler could sneer, its head vanished.
It was the latest luxury pocket-weapon co-developed by Asurmen's Heir, the Dark Mechanicum, and master haemonculi—small, but vicious.
"Ha! Father, I hit it!"
The child looked back, thrilled—clearly bait a moment earlier, luring the daemons close.
Bullying the daemons, now?
The Howlers hissed in fury—only to be drowned under a storm of beams.
Today's weapons and ammo were unlimited.
"Governor, don't be shy."
Heye shouldered a heavy ray-cannon, whistled, and waved to the child and the governor in the next box.
The governor nodded thanks.
Even without the alien prince's help, the box's forcefield would have held—for now—but sharing fire was an unspoken pact among spectators.
Because surprises always happen.
Sana's side had one.
His gun-turret glitched, allowing a mass breach—Daemonettes scrambled into the box by the dozen.
Razor claws and scything crab-pincers scored deep furrows across the floor.
"Damn it… this is bad."
Cold sweat beaded on Sana's brow. This might be the end—and would the insurance even pay out?
If a daemon took your soul, even a Blood Masquer stitching your body back together wouldn't help.
The poet-artist's heart hammered—death's breath on his neck.
Skreee!
A reinforced alloy cage at the back shuddered, spitting sparks.
Sana's treasured mutant Tyranid Warrior scented the daemons and went wild.
He snapped to it, threw the latch, and prayed:
"My darling—this one's on you!"
WHAM—
The mutant Tyranid Warrior blew the door off, launched onto the terrace, and its living blades sheared the Daemonettes in half.
These hand-reared, resource-stuffed Tyranid units were stronger than the norm—elite among elites.
"Worth every credit!"
Snatched from doom, Sana watched his Warrior carve through foes and burst into tears.
"From now on, you're family—my dearest brother…"
The soul-poet vowed to invest even more, to make his Tyranid deadlier still.
Meanwhile, in the next box—
"Hahaha! Brilliant, my sweet!"
Heye's voice rang with delight.
The beauty-meks, triggered by the daemons, went berserk.
They ripped their tight skirts, vaulted the rail, and pinned daemons to the floor with a storm of punches.
The alien prince admired their broad backs, falling even deeper in love.
"Damn daemons—lay hands on my people?"
Seeing the meks take hits, his fury spiked. He signaled his own Tyranids to support.
A sleek, oil-sheened mutant Hive Tyrant, genetically spliced and vat-bred from Rippers, slithered down the wall without a sound.
Moments later, only daemon remains lay twitching on the tiles.
Across the galleries, Tyranid screeches multiplied—more VIPs unleashed their painstakingly cultivated bio-pets.
The daemons began to hesitate.
This was the terror of the mega-whale menagerie: some Tyranid specimens here cost more than ancient warships.
In short order, the daemons in the spectator tiers were wiped out.
It ended so fast that many guests were left hungry for the next surprise attraction.
Command chamber.
"Whew… the audience hit harder than I expected."
Seeing the guests' combat power, Eden finally relaxed.
Then he felt a gaze of pure malice. He turned, looking out the floor-to-ceiling panes.
In the distance, pink fire boiled.
The Greater Keeper of Secrets had conjured a warp-blaze that incinerated the Ripper swarms—and now looked directly here.
It had found the command post and was moving to decapitate the leadership.
"Titus…"
Eden wasn't worried. He turned to his indomitable gene-son.
The performance had run this far; it was time for Asurmen's Heir to make a statement.
He asked:
"Can you stop the Keeper of Secrets?"
Titus glanced at the towering daemon, jaw set. "My lord, I will fight to the end—until its life is ended."
"Good."
Eden recalled Titus's absurd feats from a former life's vid-games.
Confidence surged.
"We're here anyway—go show them your signature move. Tear the Greater Daemon apart with your bare hands. Proclaim your might!"
The Savior's tone was like a relative at New Year's, nudging his kid to perform "smash the stone on your chest" for visiting aunties.
In his view…
Only that would truly intimidate the daemons and shock the audience—showing the strength of Asurmen's Heir.
"Bare… bare-hand a Greater Daemon?"
Titus's stony face twitched, ever so slightly.
Silently, he prayed:
"By the Emperor… I don't think I've ever done that before."
(End of Chapter)
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