Redemption Satellite District, Shadow Death Arena.
Eden's flyer landed in the VIP zone of the arena. He brought Titus and Kronnie with him, heading toward the private box that hung on the curved wall of the coliseum.
That was the best seat in the house.
Now, he was the most honored patron of this arena.
If the Kabal's fortress-spires were the political centers of Drukhari society, then the arenas of the Cults of Strife were the beating, blood-soaked hearts of their districts.
The decadent upper class of the Dark Eldar, dulled by excess, could only be roused by ever more violent duels and blood spectacles.
Only such savagery could still capture their attention.
Thus, they willingly spent vast resources to purchase the best seats, enjoying endless gladiatorial slaughter.
And in the process, they could drink in the suffering souls of the tormented.
...
Inside the box.
Eden gazed at the bloody performance unfolding below.
The arena's pit floor was riddled with spiked traps, where dozens of gladiators screamed and hacked at one another.
They slashed with razors, gutted each other with serpent-blades, and tore their foes into chunks of meat with monofilament nets.
Through the heightened senses of his Drukhari clone-body, Eden could smell the strong reek of sweat and blood-driven lust.
He could taste the fear and adrenaline of the gladiators.
He could even admire the detail of each tendon and bone dangling from severed limbs.
But not all spectators possessed such heightened senses. Most had to watch the duels through viewing lenses.
And then sip what little tortured souls trickled from the combat.
"What a wretched and utterly uninspired performance…"
The Blood Mime tossed aside his ornate lens, weary and unimpressed.
In Commorragh's core city and across its countless satellite arenas, he had seen thousands of similar displays.
"Kronnie, you were right," Eden murmured, rubbing at his temples and refusing to watch further.
He raised his goblet of crimson wine and gestured toward the tall, alluring mistress of the arena—a Succubus named An'lah.
She had been sent specifically to accompany this most noble guest.
But his words carried no courtesy:
"Forgive my bluntness, but this was a poor performance.
I can see the gladiators tried to be eye-catching, but their tricks are outdated and clumsy."
Succubus An'lah's chest heaved.
The scion of the Asurmen bloodline's words pierced like venomous barbs into her heart, dismissing her and her sisters' efforts.
She longed to retort, yet the truth was undeniable.
No matter how thrilling slaughter might be, monotony eventually dulled it.
Competition between arenas was vicious. They had to deliver grander spectacles, more elaborate carnage, and cultivate famous Succubi.
Only then could they captivate audiences.
The Shadow Arena had clearly failed in this rivalry. Barely a tenth of the seats were filled. The noble boxes lay barren.
Only when a gladiator was dismembered did the audience stir with paltry enthusiasm.
If the situation did not improve, the Shadow Arena would meet the same fate as countless others—abandoned by spectators.
An'lah and her sisters would lose their Succubus status, stripped of the right to display their artistry of death.
They would end up as bodyguards or concubines for some petty master.
"Archon, we are not without worth," An'lah pleaded, struggling to salvage her dignity before this ancient noble.
She tore away her gown, revealing a lithe, panther-like physique, her toned stomach marked with sharp definition.
Eden's eyes lingered on her.
This Succubus resembled a hybrid of yoga instructor and fitness trainer.
Her garb was simple—barbed head-ties, a clinging black combat bra, thigh-high boots, and a g-string.
Her only visible weapons were a pair of daggers.
Though, rumor had it, Succubi could conceal blades in the most hidden of places.
He thought idly: given time, he would like to explore that claim more thoroughly.
Eden sipped his blood-red wine.
Perhaps due to the clone-body, this Drukhari vintage actually tasted pleasant.
"Miss An'lah, I look forward to your performance," he said with polite detachment.
But beneath that veneer lay a sense of lofty disdain. He had no intention of validating her.
After all, Eden had come to the arena precisely because of these Succubi. To acquire them cheaply, he first needed to crush their pride.
An'lah sensed the contempt and grew all the more stifled. Rage swelled in her chest, and she longed to vent it with blood.
"You will see my skill…"
She stepped onto the balcony's edge, then tipped herself backward.
With no safety line, she plunged a hundred meters toward the spike-ridden pit.
Any error would have reduced her to a mangled heap.
Yet she twisted with feline grace, dodging every deathtrap, and landed lightly as a cat upon the sands.
Two other Succubi soon descended beside her, blades drawn.
The pit's cages opened, releasing alien beasts and two massive razorwing bulls.
Their roars shook the arena.
"An'lah! An'lah! An'lah!"
The Drukhari spectators erupted, hailing the arena's brightest star.
An'lah led her sisters in a frenzied assault.
They weaved through traps, dancing on spikes and blades.
Their knives struck like serpents' fangs, each thrust piercing vital points and reaping lives and souls.
Especially An'lah—her strikes were swift and merciless, spraying blood-mist wherever she passed.
Spines snapped, limbs and heads littered the ground, many victims dying before their severed flesh had even begun to bleed.
Soon, An'lah and her sisters encircled the bulls—towering beasts, over three meters tall, strong enough to smash tanks.
Their teamwork was seamless, like a rhythmic ballet carved into flesh.
One wound after another was carved into the monsters.
Finally, An'lah delivered the killing blow, ending the slaughter-ballet.
The crowd roared thunderous approval.
Standing atop the slain beast, An'lah basked in adoration.
Perhaps fueled by defiance, she and her sisters had executed a flawless performance—their finest ever.
A smile finally touched her lips. She bowed with elegance and withdrew.
"Tch. Not bad… there's something there after all," Eden muttered, raising a brow.
These Succubi were indeed masters of the Drukhari art of death. Together, they could probably annihilate a squad of Space Marines.
An'lah and her sisters returned to the box by lift-cables.
Head held high, she strutted before Eden, her blood-streaked face still radiating beauty.
"Archon, how was our performance?"
"Do you want the truth, or a lie?" Eden asked from his ornate throne.
An'lah hesitated, then steadied her breath. "I want the truth."
He rose, stepped close, and looked down at her, overwhelming in presence.
"Succubus, anything less than perfection is waste.
In my eyes, you are not perfect. Not nearly.
Your pride is laughable."
He pointed at the balconies.
"Look at the ones who cheer for you.
Cheap-ticket rabble. A drop of blood and a dance, and they're enthralled. Anyone could please them.
Did you see a single noble or high warrior come to witness your skill?"
An'lah's fragile confidence shattered once more.
Eden pressed closer, his aura suffocating.
"Tell me—do you wish to spend your life performing crude acts in this crumbling pit?
Or ascend to a grander stage, where all of Commorragh yearns for your art, maddened by your allure…
As does the Succubus Queen—Lelith Hesperax herself."
The words of Asurmen's scion struck her heart.
That queen was the brightest star of Commorragh, coveted even by the Supreme Overlord.
Archons fought one another bloody simply for the chance to host her.
But could she, An'lah, ever reach such heights?
Eden gave her no time to dwell.
"With the arena's decline, you cannot last. Soon you won't even afford beasts for your matches. The crowds will abandon you.
You will be worthless. Forgotten.
Your only path is me.
A noble patron, heir of the Asurmen line.
I will transform you. I will raise you to the greatest stage.
Even the haughtiest nobles will vie for seats at your shows.
Even Lelith will envy your fame."
He stared into her eyes.
"Now answer me—do you accept this new path, and submit to me?"
An'lah's chest rose and fell.
She realized that if she refused, this sole noble patron would leave without hesitation.
And he would never return.
This Archon descended from an ancient, wealthy bloodline. He might be her—and her sisters'—last chance.
She could not allow the Shadow Arena to wither and close.
Slowly, An'lah closed her eyes and spoke:
"I will obey, my Archon."
Eden smiled with satisfaction, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.
"Miss An'lah, you have made the wisest choice of your life."
An'lah instinctively wanted to resist — she was a dancer, a master of the art of killing, not a plaything.
But she forced herself to endure.
Thankfully, the scion of Asurmen made no further advance.
"Enough, my Succubi. From now on, everything of yours falls under my care — including this arena.
This… is my gesture of sincerity. From this day on, each month you will receive this kind of payment.
And it will only grow greater."
When Eden finished, Titus carried a finely wrought mechanical chest and placed it at the center table.
The chest opened like a blooming flower, revealing twelve vials of Seventh-Tier Soul Elixirs — 'Kisses of Venom.'
In an instant, the pure fragrance of souls suffused the entire chamber.
In Commorragh, nothing was harder currency than such purity of soul essence. Nothing.
"Arch—Archon… is this truly for us?"
An'lah and her sisters stared wide-eyed at the soul elixirs, scarcely able to believe it.
With the arena's decline, they had long forgotten the taste of such high-grade souls.
Ilyss and the others marveled ever deeper at the Asurmen scion's wealth and influence.
What shocked them more was that he could command the aid of the Dark Mechanicum.
Those tech-sorcerers had never bowed to anyone, heads ever high.
Archons often squandered vast fortunes, resources, even ancient relics just to coax them into building a single manufactory.
It was the only way — for the Drukhari themselves relied on stockpiled weapons.
Few ever dedicated themselves to the study of machinery.
Their obsession was blood and art.
Soon, the great transformation of the Redemption Satellite District began.
In Eden's name as Archon, new decrees were proclaimed.
One forbade the torment or mutilation of laborers — especially humans, who were essential to construction.
Violators would face harsh punishment.
Of course, other xenos could still be tortured freely. To ban it outright would provoke rebellion.
Besides, he supplied ample low-grade soul elixirs.
Though toxic and painful, they were still preferable to wringing scraps of soul from slaves.
For greater needs, more potent elixirs were for sale.
Factories were already under construction, near the Archon's fortress itself.
The Goddess of Life's power was siphoned constantly through warp-taps, fueling the production of new elixirs.
Surplus was stored away — to become the foundations of a Soul-Pleasure Palace.
The Shadow Arena was demolished, its site rebuilt into a grander complex, surrounded by new housing blocks.
Once the arena thrived again, those residences would fetch astronomical prices.
The buyers: nobles and high warriors.
With their wealth tied to the district, they themselves would guard it from plunder.
And this was only one part of the plan.
Fortresses and defense arrays were being designed.
Super-heavy guns and forbidden weapons would crown them, strongholds like walls of iron.
Enough to shatter any rival Kabal that dared attack.
...
Three years later.
Night.
Redemption Satellite District, Ruins Quarter.
A shadow emerged from rubble, slipping between cover toward the construction zones.
Eyes glowed faintly red in the dark.
"By the Emperor… let my battle-brothers yet live."
Brother Sa'kan of the Salamanders prayed silently.
Years before, his company had followed Vulkan He'stan, Forgefather of the Chapter, to a savage world in search of one of the Nine Artefacts — the Song of Entropy.
They dreamed to gather all the relics, to restore their gene-father Vulkan.
But during their quest, Sa'kan and his brethren stumbled upon an ancient Webway portal — and blundered into Drukhari territory.
They were ambushed, scattered. Some brothers captured.
Now Sa'kan had infiltrated this satellite district, seeking a chance to free his brothers… and the tormented human slaves.
The Salamanders were perhaps the most loyal, harmonious, and wealthy of all Chapters.
Masters of the forge, keepers of relics.
When not at war, they lived among their mortal kin upon their perilous homeworld.
They loved their people like their own children.
Sa'kan wielded a sacred relic that cloaked his presence, rendering him near-invisible.
Even so, to infiltrate alien territory was perilous.
But Salamanders never lied.
Sa'kan had promised to bring his brothers back. He would.
Even if it cost his life.
Step by careful step, he followed his beacon signal toward the prison where his brethren were held.
At last he reached the construction zone.
From cover he watched the works — humans and aliens laboring even through the night.
But their faces showed no suffering.
Instead… they smiled.
Some slaves even bantered with Drukhari overseers?!
What…?
Sa'kan froze, utterly baffled.
This was not the vision of cruelty he had expected.
Something about this Drukhari realm was… wrong.
"Over there — a strange aura!"
Three patrolling Incubi had sensed something.
They closed in around Sa'kan's hiding place.
(End of Chapter)
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