Titus couldn't recall a single time he had ever torn apart a Greater Daemon with his bare hands.
Even in the rare one or two occasions when he faced such abominations of Chaos, the battles had been grueling, fought with every ounce of strength, his survival hanging by a thread.
And yet, in the mouth of the Hope Primarch, the Savior himself, it sounded as if Titus could casually crush those monstrous foes.
"Gene-Father… are you perhaps overestimating me?"
Titus sighed inwardly. He had always felt the Hope Primarch held impossibly high expectations of him.
Hadn't he even suggested Titus duel the Primarch of the White Scars?
The warrior hesitated for a breath, but his face remained carved with determination—he never once offered refusal.
Honor was life. Death was duty. The only fear was failure.
And he had never once failed.
"Sworn loyalty until death…"
That was the single thought in Titus' heart now.
He raised his head to meet the expectant gaze of his Gene-Father. His voice was firm, unwavering:
"My Lord, I will accomplish this task."
Eden's expression softened into deep satisfaction, his approval plain.
"Go, my valiant warrior. Tear every enemy to pieces!"
Titus lifted the brutal skull-visaged helmet, crimson optics flaring to life.
He turned without hesitation, marching outward with a resolute back.
Eden reclined into the command chamber's viewing seat, eager to personally witness the valor of his gene-son.
As for the possibility of Titus losing?
Such a thought had never crossed his mind—unless the opponent was a top-ranking Daemon Prince of Chaos or a Primarch-class being.
Nothing else could defeat that boy.
Bzzzz—
Across the skies of the Redemption Arena, countless projections of Titus appeared, each radiating the iron aura of an indomitable warrior.
"My beloved audience, did the last slaughter not stir your hearts with joy and delight?"
The announcer's fervent voice rang out, half-drowned beneath distant howls.
Daemons were assaulting parts of the Arena's facilities.
"Damn these monsters barging in—someone get over here and kill these #&*@ things…"
Still, the host carried on, proving his professional merit.
Cursing, he drew a sidearm and fired off two shots before a squad of Terror Legion guards rushed in, howling, to surround and brutally stomp the intruding daemons into submission.
"And now… for a performance more spectacular still!"
Mopping cold sweat from his brow, the host raised his voice with exaggerated theatrics:
"Our noble and glorious heir of Asurmen, master of the Arena, the uncrowned king of Commorragh, has dispatched his personal champion—the Ripper of Daemons—Ti! Tus!!"
In the projection, flames and blood effects burst dramatically around Titus' image—visual flourishes hastily crafted by bald, overworked Data-Priests of the Black Mechanicus.
Then came another projection: the Keeper of Secrets, a Slaaneshi Greater Daemon, towering and dreadful.
Titus vs VS Keeper of Secrets!
The Data-Priests had enhanced the projection of the daemon as well, adding their little "touches" to make it appear far more terrifying than reality.
After all, if the opponent didn't look formidable, how could it highlight the strength of Asurmen's heir's champion?
The announcer's voice cracked into manic ecstasy:
"Our Ripper of Daemons, Titus, shall clash with the Chaos Keeper of Secrets! He has sworn to tear the daemon apart with his bare hands—ripping it into fragments beyond repair!
Tremble, Keeper!"
A wave of thunderous cheers shook the Arena.
"???"
"That projection… that's me?!"
The Keeper of Secrets blinked at its grotesque likeness.
It didn't look right. The image was too monstrous, lacking all the delicate ornamentation it had prepared. Its carefully crafted aesthetic had been erased!
It did not fit the Slaaneshi sense of beauty at all.
"A mere bodyguard dares claim he will defeat me?"
The daemon's laughter was venomous.
"And to call yourself the 'Ripper of Daemons'? How laughable."
It was, after all, the six-hundred and seventy-eighth ranked Greater Daemon of Slaanesh's realm.
The Keeper braced itself, watching closely for its foe—but saw no warrior approaching.
Had the human lost his nerve? Or was he skulking for a pitiful ambush?
The Keeper pondered.
Meanwhile, the audience hushed, searching for Titus' entrance.
Whispers spread.
How would Titus make his appearance?
SCREEEEEE—
A tide of crimson Tyranid beasts surged forth, smashing into the daemon host before the Keeper.
The fiends were scattered aside as the swarm carved a bloody path straight toward the Keeper.
Then, the mass parted. From its heart emerged a road.
Upon it strode a towering warrior clad in black, barbed armor—Titus, the Ripper of Daemons.
The Arena erupted into chants of his name, their frenzy fueling him.
Heavy chains coiled around his arms and torso, weighing him down like iron serpents.
His eyes fixed on the Keeper, unflinching, his steps measured.
Daemons lunged—but every assailant was thrown back by leaping Tyranids. Others were blown to ash by Arbitrators' alchemical grenades.
Nothing slowed Titus' advance.
The Keeper shrieked, commanding its horde to stand down.
It wanted this duel—this execution—to be seen by all.
The circle cleared, a battlefield left open.
Titus and the daemon stood face to face.
Though the Keeper loomed meters taller, Titus' gaze was steadfast, his aura unbroken.
Tension thickened in the air.
"Pitiful human dog of the Mon-keigh, I will tear your guts out and tie them into bows as you beg for mercy."
The Keeper twirled its blade in a deadly flourish, the ritual trash-talk of war in both realspace and the Warp.
Its words dripped poison and threat.
Titus answered only with action.
He drove his master-crafted power sword into the ground.
Then cast aside his Arbitrator weapon. His relic blade. All of them.
He even unfastened his helm.
Bare-handed, he faced the Keeper of Secrets.
"???"
The daemon froze, stunned.
So too did the crowd, erupting in uproar.
Could this man truly be so insane as to challenge a Greater Daemon unarmed?
"Titus! Titus! Titus!"
The chants grew frenzied.
"…Hhh—"
Eden inhaled sharply, rising from his throne in shock.
Even the Gene-Father was rattled.
"Did that boy misunderstand me?"
Eden frowned.
When he told Titus to "tear apart a Greater Daemon," it had been a figure of speech.
He'd only meant for him to finish the daemon dramatically—rip it apart after slaying it in proper battle.
But Titus had taken his words literally.
No hesitation. Pure hand-to-hand.
So that was why Titus had paused earlier—not in doubt, not in fear, but pondering how to fulfill his Gene-Father's order literally.
Truly worthy of you, Titus!
Eden sank back, shaking his head in awe, and casually ordered a Bloody Ice-Cola to steady his nerves.
After all, the Arena served delicacies from across the galaxy and the Warp.
If Titus dared this, he must have weighed his strength. No need for worry.
Back in the Arena, the Keeper hissed with rage at the insult.
"You arrogant little insect. You will pay dearly for such hubris!"
Before its words had finished, its venomous blade swept in a killing arc.
No unarmed human could hope to block such a strike—Imperial power armor itself would not suffice.
CLANG!
The blade rang off something unyielding.
Titus had raised his chain-wrapped arms to block.
The daemon blinked in disbelief.
Again it hacked. Again sparks flew.
No harm. Only cracks forming along the daemon's weapon.
The chains—ancient alloys forged from a sacrificed relic warship, once fed to Tyranid broods by a deranged noble—were unbreakable.
Their strength was beyond measure.
Eden, ever the middleman, had quietly kept a portion for himself during the "transaction."
Some went to study. The rest, reforged into these chains—now Titus' weapon.
…to make his combat power surge even higher.
BOOM—
A wet, meaty thud rang out.
Seizing the Keeper's moment of shock, Titus kicked his jump pack to life.
He blasted straight for the daemon's face and, under the jet's brutal acceleration, hammered in an uppercut.
The Keeper of Secrets' features twisted; a blood-slick tooth spun away and its jaw skewed out of line.
Yet it managed to right itself mid-air, flipped back and opened the gap—its serpentine tail lanced in at a wicked angle, slashing across the human warrior's flank.
Deep gouges scored the ceramite, and blood seeped through.
The Keeper felt a stab of pride.
In that exchange the human suffered worse; its true battle strength was well beyond what rank alone suggested!
The Slaaneshi Greater Daemon's mirage-body snaked around Titus, its vicious eyes raking up and down, probing for the smallest opening.
It knew it held the advantage.
Stripped of his bolter and power weapons by his own arrogance, the human had shed most of his offense.
His reach was drastically reduced as well.
All the daemon had to do was play to its superior range—and torture him at leisure.
The Keeper orbited Titus in a blur of slashes, moving faster than ordinary eyes could follow—only streaking light and the spark-spatter of blade on metal remained.
Any daemon or Tyranid fool enough to drift close was diced to chunks in a single pass of that flickering edge.
A taut hush gripped the crowd.
Anyone could see it—Asurmen's heir's personal champion, Titus, was hard-pressed on the defense.
Wounds multiplied on the warrior's body; at any moment he might falter and fall.
And when that arrogant human toppled, the heir of Asurmen would lose face—and authority.
"Arrogant little thing… savor the pleasures the Dark Prince bestows…"
Noting the human's motions slowing, the Keeper seized its chance—slid in close and, mouth to mouth, vented a long-prepared cloud of hallucinogenic miasma of tongue and fangs.
The warrior didn't even have a dedicated anti-warp screen installed—his failure was assured.
This would seal the win!
The tailor-mixed hallucinogenic mist engulfed Titus, invading through rents and seams in his armor.
The chaos-tuned particles within detonated the senses of any they touched—
Some victims felt the copper-sweet kiss of a lover; some heard a cherished one's last rattling breath; some re-lived, nerve by nerve, an ancestor's evisceration three centuries past.
Helmetless, Titus inhaled even more of the haze.
Beyond those phantoms, yet another vision surfaced—the memories he most longed for:
His Gene-Father's warm praise; the holy oils crackling on the armor during investiture…
His sight failed entirely; the world became walls of ecstatic frescoes, forbidden chapters from the Book of Excess searing themselves into his mind.
Such was the terror of the mist—stealing the target's senses in battle.
On the field, that meant death.
The Keeper's razors scythed through the fog, rewarded by the crunch of breaking flesh and bone.
It felt the bite of the cut—joy flared. It had struck the human's vitals.
The crowd, rapt, cried out as one.
And then—
To the full-throated roar of a master-crafted power-armor reactor—
A crushing force tore out from the far side of the haze. Chains snaked forth, coiling the daemon's arm and cinching tight—brutally limiting its motion.
The miasma shredded away.
Titus' battle-scarred face locked back into focus; the daemon's blade, which had carved from shoulder to upper chest, now jammed uselessly against the chain coils.
They had spared his life.
That had been Titus' aim: endure the assault on his senses by raw will,
Then use that single heartbeat—trade wound for control—and choke the enemy's speed.
Now it was his turn.
"…No—"
Staring at the blood-soaked, murder-grim Titus, the Keeper tasted fear.
It heaved against the chains, yanked hard—and only dragged Titus into clinch.
Close-quarters!
And Titus swam in seas of daemons, Orks, and Tyranids alike—melee was his truest craft.
He crashed in chest-to-chest, both hands locking the Keeper—then smashed in headbutt after headbutt, his own brow splitting and running.
The daemon howled louder; its blade-arm thrashed, only to be swallowed by more and more binding chains.
They were not coming apart.
In that warrior's aura the Slaaneshi greater daemon even sensed the reek of Khorne—the tang only a Bloodthirster should have.
Titus and the Keeper tumbled and grappled, each strike hunting for kill-spots at viciously intimate range.
The fight burned white-hot.
Whip—
That poisoned tail darted for the human's skull—aimed to end him.
Titus slipped it by a hair—then bit down on the tail, tore savagely, and a fan of gore spattered the sand.
The Keeper spasmed in agony; before it could rip free, Titus' hands seized the cranial horn-tendrils—ripped them out root and all.
The screaming rose to a ragged keening.
Titus… tearing a Greater Daemon… with his hands…
Silence fell—then the Arena detonated into its wildest roar yet. Too explosive to comprehend.
Their reverence for the warrior—and for Eden—surged higher still.
The Keeper sagged, beaten limp, as Titus pounded him—rending the body, strip by strip.
Even the daemon's wails frayed to a hoarse rasp.
It stared up at Titus, a flicker of pleading in its eyes. "Human warrior… end me."
Better banishment to the Warp than this drawn-out humiliation.
But Titus was unmoved.
His Gene-Father had ordered him to tear a Greater Daemon apart. It wasn't torn yet. How could he stop?
The Keeper's host saw their master flayed and broken; even hellspawn livers quailed.
Daemon-fear seeped across the Redemption Arena.
Their formations unraveled; their counter-attacks lost heart; some fled outright for the Warp-rents.
As they scuttled past the mangled Keeper, none dared look at him—
Terrified of drawing the gaze of Asurmen's heir's personal champion—the Ripper of Daemons.
The daemon host soon shattered—cut down by the Arena's allied army—while the Keeper's hoarse howls… continued.
…
On the far side of the Warp's veil, within the Immaterium—
A Slaaneshi Greater Daemon, Kali'en, the Pain-Chord, closed a claw around a fleeing Daemonette, squeezing agony into her nerves.
"Craven deserter. Tell me—your master. What fate?"
Blood bubbled from the Daemonette's lips; under torment she sang her answer in broken notes: "T-torn… torn apart!"
CRACK—
The Daemonette popped in his grip.
Kali'en flicked the scraps aside. His voice grated like a thousand barbs across glass:
"That incompetent is dead—as I said, I should have gone first. Sending a weakling to lead only shames the Dark Prince…"
The greater daemon beat black bat-wings and strode into the warp-rent with perfect confidence.
Over the Arena, a fresh hell-concerto erupted.
"Ha… ha—huh?!"
Kali'en's fanged head thrust through the veil; he froze mid-cackle.
His view: a plain carpeted in daemon corpses—and a horizon-wide coalition of mixed species.
Tyranid broods gnawed on remains; the Drukhari carved the bodies with artistic malice;
Orks jabbed the backside of a daemon behemoth with great clubs, making it twitch and whine.
That whine—too familiar.
Kali'en turned and found that "vanguard" Keeper enduring intricate torments—flayed to the bone.
The wretch's arm was torn off—
Thunk—
—and the severed limb bounced off Kali'en's head, sparking instant rage.
And then—
He felt the eyes upon him: the human who had ripped a greater daemon alive; whole cohorts of gladiators; tides of Orks and Tyranids—and the roaring crowd.
Every blood-damp gaze pivoted to the newly arrived Slaaneshi greater daemon—hunger glinting within.
A hush fell.
"…This seems… dangerous?"
Kali'en swallowed, eased back through the veil, and slipped away
—as if he had never been there.
This must be reported to the Hell Calamity—and to the Prince of Pleasure himself.
"Oi, what's with that one?"
A hulking, muscle-corded Slaaneshi greater daemon rumbled—voice big and boorish.
"T-torn… torn apart…"
Kali'en drew a deep breath—and gave the same answer.
(End of this chapter's text.)
(End of Chapter)
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