Sana fancied himself a Soul Poet, one of Commorragh's finest connoisseurs of pleasure.
For millennia, he roamed every quarter of the Dark City—hunting through slaughterhouses, taverns, pleasure dens, arenas, and flesh foundries.
He sought ever more exquisite torture devices, deliciously tormented souls, and performances or combats that could stir the blood and delight the senses—
then he composed hymns of agony to praise them.
Because of his obsession, rich experience, and artistic accomplishments, Sana had become a renowned figure of Commorragh.
People were eager to follow the Soul Poet's recommendations, trying new establishments or services he exalted.
Whether it was the special grafts of a tentacled flesh-foundry, or savoring the soul of some newly discovered species—
even the Supreme Overlord himself took notice.
The Savior Primarch and descendant of Asurmen also saw Sana's value as a propaganda tool:
"Isn't he Commorragh's premier influencer, the top 'streamer' and venue reviewer? Hurry and bring him to the Redemption Satellite District!"
Soon enough, an Archon who knew Sana personally sent an invitation.
They wanted the Soul Poet to come experience the new Dark Eldar paradise rising in the outer reaches.
"Has it finally come to this?"
Sana stepped off the Ravager transport, boredly examining his flamboyantly painted fingernails—
relics cut from the corpse of a long-dead Aeldari noble, artifacts of the ancient empire.
He followed nobles and fellow artists through a corridor.
Most of them were there by invitation, though some nobles had come simply to take refuge.
For Commorragh itself was on the brink of turmoil: under the command of the Supreme Overlord, Archons were conducting mass purges and brutal vendettas.
These nobles feared being caught up or assassinated amidst the chaos, so they fled to the frontier until things quieted down.
Like the others, Sana underwent scan after scan before finally boarding a transport bound for the surface.
It was for everyone's safety.
Forbidden weapons and ancient relics were not permitted in the Redemption Satellite District; such things could obliterate an entire landmass.
Sana approved wholeheartedly.
He despised those dangerous devices—several of his favorite pleasure dens had been obliterated along with entire districts because of them.
Those regions' souls were gone, devoured by She Who Thirsts.
"This will likely be a dull journey. May those stale old tricks not drive me mad."
Sana frowned, utterly disinterested.
The Dark Eldar had decayed terribly, especially in their arts, which now felt lifeless.
He had seen too many of the same old spectacles.
"Dark Eldar art is dead," he once declared, while secretly pining for the ancient Aeldari Empire.
That had been true paradise for artistry, when the people pursued the most extreme experiences without fear.
Now the Dark Eldar were timid, endlessly recycling the same soul-tortures—
but never daring to inflict them upon themselves, which robbed the experience of authenticity.
Of course, She Who Thirsts' hunger played its part.
Truth be told, Sana had not wanted to come to this remote district at all.
What could possibly be new here?
Surely nothing but slave-slaughterhouses, racks of torture devices, grotesquely modified flesh, mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.
These were millennia-old clichés.
Even an arena? So what?
The Dark Eldar had watched endless duels and slaughters—boredom had long since set in.
Only by importing exotic species or greater warriors did some arenas manage freshness, but that market was monopolized by Commorragh's grandest venues.
This backwater could never compete.
And yet—Sana came anyway.
Because he had been "recharged." The inviting Archon offered him a mountain of top-grade souls.
An offer impossible to refuse.
"Even so, my pursuit of true art cannot be bought. The Asurmen scion cannot corrupt the Soul Poet!"
Sana swore inwardly.
But as he thought about the future rewards, he trembled with excitement.
Souls he could never earn in centuries—
enough to purchase rarer relics and treasures, even heirlooms of the ancient Aeldari Empire.
Perhaps he could balance art and profit. A few words of praise would not hurt.
Like the other nobles, Sana entered the Redemption Satellite District with a sneer, prepared to critique the province's poverty and crudity.
And then—
The moment they stepped off the transport, they were stunned.
This district was magnificent.
Defensive arrays packed so thickly it was absurd.
Towering spires thrust skyward no less grand than Commorragh itself—
and unlike Commorragh's decaying ruins, these were pristine, new, steeped in the artistry of the ancient Aeldari Empire, yet blended with Dark Eldar tastes.
It felt as if they had stepped back into the Aeldari's golden age.
"Oh, by the Muses—the air itself is sweet with souls!"
A noblewoman lifted her head in disbelief.
The decadence here was unimaginable.
At the city's heart rose a colossal statue of Isha, the Goddess of Life, surrounded by vast soul-fountains that sprayed shimmering essence into the air.
The most precious resource of the Dark Eldar—souls—was literally saturating the atmosphere.
Buildings themselves bore soul-imprints, some visibly glowing with spirits woven into their walls.
The noblewoman shrank in shame when she noticed other nobles. She hid her human-skin handbag behind her back.
Compared to their soul-infused garments—radiant, fragrant, and of unmatched artistry—
her trinkets were cheap trash.
She looked the bumpkin beside them.
"How could the Asurmen descendant acquire so many souls? Does he keep vast alien stockyards across the galaxy?"
Sana was shaken.
He saw common citizens drinking soul-elixirs in the streets, even buying refined souls in open markets.
Not even Commorragh's finest quarters had such abundance!
Of course, much of this wealth was smoke and mirrors—
many citizens were spending on credit, bound by soul-contracts to the Asurmen heir.
Generations of servitude, centuries of service, even their very beings signed away.
And yet, the Dark Eldar embraced it eagerly.
Better to serve this noble scion than slave away under other Kabals.
At least here, they were well-paid and well-pleasured.
"What a wondrous city…"
Sana's scorn melted into reverence and pride:
"As expected of Asurmen's heir. He has inherited the artistry of the Empire."
The Fall of the Aeldari had been so sudden.
Even now, many Dark Eldar still longed for those glorious days.
This city, modeled after the empire of old, tapped into that hidden yearning—
and made the Redemption Satellite District beloved, even worshiped.
Sana became solemn, following a Lhamean guide through the city.
He gave himself wholly to the tour, not only for his patron's payment but for the dream of grandeur rekindled in his heart.
The Soul Poet's first stop was the Soul Pleasure Gardens.
There, he tasted extreme sensations and torments once reserved for the empire's elite—
far beyond the crude flaying of slaves, and without She Who Thirsts' looming threat.
He swam through soul-infused seas, an ecstasy unknown in ages.
He even experienced death itself.
Visitors could undergo their deepest mortal fear, only to be swiftly sewn back together by Haemonculi masters.
The experience was exorbitant—
but still cheap compared to the rarity of such healers and the oceans of soul-matter required.
Then came the Soul Casinos—a delirium of thought and spirit.
Air thick with narcotics and soul-energies.
Drinks, foods, elixirs everywhere. Private chambers for any indulgence.
He saw gamblers staking everything—fortunes, mates, even their own souls—
thrill and despair mingling in exquisite intensity.
A slave risked his last coin, and by sheer luck won a fortune, becoming a noble overnight.
Warriors from various Kabals schemed and chattered about "borrowed-luck" schemes and gambling rituals.
Sana adored it.
Such vitality, such raw emotion—
a stark contrast to the stagnant entertainment districts of Commorragh, drained by millennia of fear and She Who Thirsts' corruption.
Here, spirits were alive again.
He tried it himself—
And promptly lost everything, his payment gone in a flash.
Sweating, broke, yet exhilarated—
he left, promising to return once his next reward arrived.
His second destination was the luxury residential districts.
Sana was astonished. The comfort here was such that he could not even feel the gaze of She Who Thirsts.
That meant the inhabitants' souls did not constantly decay within nightmares—something unimaginable for any resident of Commorragh!
He asked how one might acquire a residence in this district, only to be told a price utterly beyond him.
Surely only the highest nobles and Archons could afford to live in such precious, blessed comfort.
Yet soon his gloom was dispelled.
The Lhamean guide handed him a contract for a luxury estate.
The generous Asurmen descendant, she explained, admired his talent and had gifted him a mansion in the high-class residential quarter.
"Asurmen's heir is truly a generous and wise being—able to recognize my brilliance…"
Sana drew a deep breath, retouched his makeup, and cleared his throat.
Inspired, he burst into song on the spot, crafting a rich, emotional hymn in the style of ancient Aeldari epics.
It praised the scion's greatness, wealth, and noble heritage.
He was the light within the dark age, indispensable to the Dark Eldar as Commorragh itself.
But when he finished, Sana felt uneasy.
Such verses might offend the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh. He quickly insisted this was a private composition, and asked the Lhamean not to spread it.
But she informed him the hymn had already been forwarded to the Asurmen heir's offices.
Sana felt nervous—but reassured himself that the noble would not boast of it too publicly.
After touring the gifted estate, he flew to the next essential venue of any Dark Eldar settlement:
The Arena.
Sana held little interest.
No arena could rival Crucibael, the jewel of Commorragh, under the hand of Arena Queen Lelith Hesperax—the most magnificent arena in the galaxy.
Surely nothing could compare.
But the moment he entered the Redemption Arena, the thunderous roar shook him. The screams and chants of the crowd echoed for miles.
He felt it immediately—this arena was different.
Vaster even than Crucibael, like a city unto itself, the atmosphere was wilder, hotter.
Sana took his seat in a lofty balcony box.
Before he had even settled, adrenaline surged through his veins.
The very air he breathed contained more soul-essence than any duel he had ever watched.
When the curtains slowly parted, his heart leapt into terror.
"By the Muses—what is that?!"
Hanging in the sky was a Tyranid bio-ship, spawning torrents of spore pods that burst into endless swarms.
Black clouds of chittering beasts swirled above.
Beyond, an Ork fortress belched roars and crude war engines as waves of greenskins charged into the fray.
And opposite them, the assembled armies of Dark Eldar, with fleets and war engines bristling.
Sana realized, aghast—
The Asurmen heir had recreated an actual war within this arena-city, using Tyranids and Orks themselves.
The risk was unthinkable.
If these beasts broke free, every spectator would die.
Even Kabals struggled to contain such endlessly breeding horrors.
Every intelligent race in the galaxy dreaded the Orks and Tyranids—
and here they were, loosed only meters away.
The audience grew restless, anxious.
Some nobles tried to leave—only to be told the forcefields were sealed.
To step outside now would be even more dangerous.
This was the Savior Primarch's new creation:
A 360° six-dimensional real-war experience—an arena where you did not merely watch slaughter, you lived it.
The grandstands shook under bombardment.
Alarms wailed as Tyranid swarms hurled themselves at the barriers. The air reeked of blood and hunger.
Dark Eldar spectators recoiled.
They came to drink in souls, not be consumed as prey!
The chitinous tide slammed against the shimmering shields. The barrier faltered.
Panic spread—until weapons materialized at each seat.
Instinctively, nobles snatched them up, firing into the swarm. Blood and ichor splattered the shields.
Every kill was rewarded—souls spat out by the seats themselves.
The Tyranids fell back, unable to pierce the wards.
The crowd's terror turned to feverish ecstasy.
High on adrenaline, they fought back with wild abandon.
They were no longer mere spectators—they were participants, tasting life-or-death struggle.
This was the Redemption Arena's signature.
Not just viewing, but immersing, fighting, betting.
Through endless holo-feeds, audiences tracked every warrior on the battlefield—Kabalite soldiers, Incubi, Mandrakes, even Succubi—slashing, killing, dying.
The arena's masters unleashed beasts—Tyranid horrors, Ork brutes, and more—crafting unparalleled realism.
Even Titans clashed: Tyranid bio-titans against Aeldari constructs.
Spectators could pay to upgrade their weapons, call in bombardments, or even don gear and join the slaughter themselves.
Safeguards ensured survival—at least enough to retrieve and reassemble spectators before total death.
There were wagers too, of course.
Every unit, every gladiator, every strike was open to bet upon.
Massive prizes for the lucky, ruin for the reckless.
The grand war-scenarios ran once or twice a month.
Between them, countless other events: battle royales, death matches… even strange novelties like cybernetic bug-fights, where patrons bred and modified chosen beasts into gambling pieces.
Wealthy patrons invested fortunes into favored creatures, analyzing data, tweaking mutations, raising beasts into unparalleled monsters.
Even the poor could wager small sums—or, if desperate, take to the field themselves.
Already, Haemonculi breeders and veteran gamblers were mapping entire paths of training and genetic manipulation.
A thriving secondary market arose—reselling battle units like commodities.
Some were worth as much as a mid-sized raiding ship.
Speculation was rife. Fortunes were made and lost.
The Redemption Arena had spawned an economy all its own.
Sana stayed for a month, utterly enthralled.
He even went into debt to purchase a fine Terran "Swiftbone" Tyranid strain.
Orks, though, he hesitated—too costly to raise.
He fancied himself already an expert at picking quality fighters.
Unaware, of course, that beyond the arena such creatures were worthless slaves and fodder.
But here, only certified units could fight, and prestige came only through the arena's halls.
He poured his passion into travelogues and hymns, lauding the wonders of the Redemption District and its noble Asurmen heir.
...
Commorragh
Within weeks, Sana's works spread like wildfire through the Dark City.
A frenzy of curiosity for the Redemption District seized the masses.
Most widespread of all was the edited version circulated by the Asurmen heir himself:
Titles like—
"Ah, This Is What Dark Eldar Civilization Should Be Like!"
"In the Redemption District, I Saw the True Power of the Dark Eldar"
"Raphael Asurmen: Commorragh's Last Radiance"
"Perhaps the Dark Eldar Must Rethink the Fall and Their Lost Path"
The district—and the noble Asurmen descendant—became names on every tongue.
Rumors even whispered he could bring salvation to Commorragh itself, freeing them from She Who Thirsts.
...
Crucibael, Private Box
Pamphlets lay scattered across the floor.
Seated upon his throne, Vect toyed with a gem-encrusted orb.
An ancient relic—crafted by Aeldari planet-sculptors to carve entire star systems.
With it, an asteroid belt could be collapsed into a world, or a planet shattered in hours.
He had many such trinkets.
Vect clenched the orb, his face twisted in cold fury.
"And who is this Asurmen heir? Some gutter-rat that dares challenge the Supreme Overlord's authority?!"
(End of Chapter)
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