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[Marvel: I Come From Dragon Ball]
Eden came to the vast floor-to-ceiling window, lifting his head toward the thunderous sector.
Above, the skies blazed with dark-matter bursts and searing beams of thermal lances.
It looked dazzling—almost festive, like fireworks.
Not far away, the statue of the Goddess of Life had been adorned with red decorations.
The surrounding streets, spires, and arching bridges had all been dressed up the same way.
The soul fountains ceaselessly sprayed out mist in bright colors, scattering special, enriched soul-elixirs across the districts.
This was clearly a festival.
"Lord Asurmen…"
Ilyss, smiling brightly, came to greet Eden, her mood visibly lifted.
Today was the Festival of Redemption, and she had dressed herself in a daring crimson gown, plunging low at the chest, setting off her pale curves in their most flattering light.
The succubus-secretary puffed her chest forward, eager for her master to notice she was in no way lesser than any Daemonette.
In fact, she had secretly visited a flesh-artist for sculpted enhancements—certain parts of her figure had been… considerably enlarged.
"Ilyss, your beauty is most striking."
Eden noticed her carefully prepared appearance and offered praise without hesitation.
He passed her a finely crafted box brimming with luxurious soul-elixirs.
"This is for you."
Caring for the emotions of his subordinates now and then, lifting their spirits, was—after all—a basic skill of leadership.
Such gestures ignited stronger motivation for work.
Besides, during the Festival of Redemption, elders gifting presents to juniors and subordinates was a rule Eden himself had decreed.
"Thank you, Lord Asurmen. May you resist corruption and know eternal life!"
Ilyss scurried to receive the gift box, clutching it to her chest.
Trailing after Eden, she was so delighted her steps nearly turned into skips and hops—though she quickly forced herself to maintain ladylike poise.
Such grace was a hallmark of the Lhameans' training.
"This is… a gift personally from Lord Asurmen!"
She hugged the box tighter, already thinking of treasuring it away.
"Titus, here is your gift—I trust you will like it."
At the doorway, Eden handed out another box. Inside lay a relic-grade blade.
"My lord, it is my honor."
Even the stern, scar-creased face of Titus could not hold back a smile.
Silently, he offered thanks to his gene-sire.
This was perhaps the first festival gift he had ever received in his life.
"Let us go out and walk among them—feel the spirit of the festival."
Eden brought the two aboard his barque-carriage, sailing slowly along the city's main avenue.
Everywhere they passed, Dark Eldar faces shone with joy.
Those who knew one another exchanged blessings: "May you be spared the Lady of Hunger's touch."
This was the holiday decreed by the noble Scion of Asurmen, said to derive from an ancient Aeldari Imperial custom.
In those ages, the Aeldari would celebrate the birth of the Goddess of Life with a great festival.
Buildings and garments were decorated with red ornaments, gifts were exchanged, and thunderous firepower was unleashed to drive off lurking evils.
The Dark Eldar had endured grief and damnation for too long.
They embraced this festival, believing it mirrored the lives of their ancestors.
This noble bloodline was returning to them the legacy of the old Aeldari Empire.
In such celebrations, they felt as though they touched the empire's fading afterglow.
Thus, in the Redemption Satellites, reverence only deepened for the Goddess of Life—and for the Scion of Asurmen.
Wherever Eden's barque passed, Dark Eldar offered gifts in tribute.
Of course, most of this heritage was a fabrication.
The truth was simpler: Eden's homeland celebrated Spring Festival, and he wanted something lively.
After research, he blended Aeldari Imperial tradition with New Year's customs, creating this festival.
Nor was it confined here.
Across the Savior's Realm, similar festivals were held at the same time—every year, for more than a century now.
Eden loved such celebrations, for they eased hearts, granted respite, and most of all, fostered cultural identity.
They told his subjects what kind of people they were, what bonds and obligations they shared.
Each festival strengthened unity.
Already, many children of the Savior's Realm awaited this day eagerly each year—
for new clothes, delicious food, and playful gifts.
At the blessing gatherings, Ecclesiarchy priests even handed out sweet blessing-cakes.
But in the Redemption Satellites, the festival bore Dark Eldar flavor.
The "fireworks" were high-yield weapons, the children's gifts were fine or poisoned weapons and potent elixirs, and the revelry was more frenzied still.
"Look… beneath the broken wings of the Empire, the embers whisper—they will rise into a flame of hope…"
In the streets, a great Harlequin gazed at the smiling crowds and the retreating barque, overcome with emotion.
Harlequins dedicated themselves to plays that perfectly reenacted Aeldari myths and the Fall—
at once elegy and warning.
They named themselves keepers of history, striving to reunite the Aeldari and restore their empire—
to resist the Lady of Hunger, and all enemies who dared affront the Chosen of the Old Ones.
Yet for ten millennia, the Masques had won little.
The Aeldari split into factions, driven by clashing creeds, even to the point of civil slaughter.
Reconciliation seemed impossible.
But here, in the Redemption Satellites, amid the festival, he glimpsed hope of unity.
This webway sector was mostly Dark Eldar, but many Craftworld and Exodite merchants also came, selling goods and weapons, seeking soul-stones.
Never had Aeldari blood mingled so harmoniously in one place, laughing together at a single celebration.
Even the Harlequins themselves were part of it.
Masques beyond counting—including the Midnight Sorrow—had been invited, over a thousand troupes performing across the Satellites.
It was the grandest showcase in the Harlequins' history.
They delighted in it—for here was the finest stage, the largest audience, and thunderous applause.
There was one catch: Eden's Succubus-Secretariat had insisted all plays be reviewed and conclude with a positive element.
To the Harlequins, this was like forcing a tragedy to end with "let's all make dumplings."
They resisted.
But the secretaries were firm:
"Now the Aeldari need new hope, not endless sorrow."
At last, both sides compromised.
The Masques adjusted their scripts—keeping tragedy intact, but weaving in threads of hope, sparing the audience from endless grief.
Thanks to their artistry, the changes did not mar the quality—indeed, they were even more popular.
When Eden heard of this, he reflected with some amusement.
He thought of the gala shows of his homeland's festivals.
It wasn't the form that failed—just weak artistry, failing to balance message and performance, leaving the shows stale and tedious.
That was why true artists were indispensable.
When legends retired, there were often none to succeed them.
"The curtain calls, the audience awaits… now, we must step onto the stage, and offer tribute to the gods."
The great Harlequin, welcomed by the crowds, quickened his steps toward the Redemption Arena, where they would give a grand performance—before the Scion of Asurmen himself.
Boom—Boom—Boom—
Countless cannon beams lanced into the heavens, weaving fireworks that lit the void.
Inside the barque, Eden watched with keen enjoyment.
The Dark Eldar had dragged out every artillery piece and heavy weapon to fire the skies alive in celebration.
The energy spent on this one festival could wage a galactic war.
The Savior's Realm consumed even more—enough for several wars of apocalypse.
Ancient legend held the Aeldari Empire would even turn stars into supernovae for festivals.
Eden thought of his homeland's fireworks, said to burn as much powder in one holiday as in whole wars.
Screeeeech—
The shrieks of Slaaneshi daemons tore through the air.
Once, such howls would have thrown Dark Eldar into fits of fear, even riots.
Now, in the streets, none quailed.
They craned their necks, jeering instead.
"Hurry up—cowards don't win prizes!"
"No crying—the great Scion of Asurmen dislikes children afraid of daemons!"
It sounded like parents scolding their own offspring.
Eden halted his barque, cloaked his form, and descended with interest.
At a certain street-side, weapons fire echoed amid the daemonic cries.
Crowds of Dark Eldar gathered to watch.
When Eden drew near, he recognized the scene.
This district had set up festival amusements for children—street-stall "games."
Though from the Dark Eldar view, they were "normal," to anyone else they were restricted torture devices.
The greatest draw was a vast machine, bristling with writhing Slaaneshi daemons shackled in place…
These amusement facilities had been specially arranged by the Scion of Asurmen—nearly every street district boasted one.
Upon the grotesque contraption were shackled a dozen Daemonettes, several Flayed Ones, and even a massive Soulgrinder.
Each was bound with an anti-psyker null-collar, rendered helpless as targets, their screams echoing in vain.
Every limb and organ bore painted marks, each signifying a different prize of soul-elixir.
Once the game began, the whole machine would rotate—marks spinning past.
Children had to hit the designated zones on the moving daemons to claim their reward.
The more lethal the strike, the greater the prize.
Dark Eldar parents paid with soul-tokens to buy shots for their offspring.
Zzzap—
A dark-matter beam tore half a Daemonette's skull apart.
It twisted, shrieking in impotent rage, only to be answered by another volley of fire.
The weapons were utterly lethal, and the daemons could not be banished.
They endured the torment until utterly destroyed.
Some children proved bold.
Excited, they drew the delicate pistols or poisoned blades they had just received and gleefully attacked.
The ones who struck home at the high-prize marks were loudly praised.
Parents swelled with pride—after all, it proved their children already knew the skills of execution.
Crying children, by contrast, were mocked, sometimes even dragged out and beaten by their parents.
The scene was as brutal as it was festive.
"This is the right kind of spirit…"
Eden studied the crowd of Dark Eldar.
Adults and children alike carried weapons and showed no fear of daemons.
These were warriors in truth—by design.
The Aeldari were born of supreme stock, the natural overlords of the galaxy.
In adulthood, their strength rivaled that of the Imperium's veteran Guardsmen.
With training, they became formidable soldiers.
But after the Fall, most Dark Eldar were frail, withered by soul-torment.
Only a few could rise by raiding and slaughter, seizing souls and climbing into the ranks of Kabalite warriors.
The cost was too steep.
To Eden, the Redemption Satellites needed universal militarization.
So he flooded them with souls, restoring the emaciated into vigor.
He forged faith into a martial spirit: every citizen was bound to defend the Goddess of Life and the Scion of Asurmen.
Weapons were supplied cheaply and in abundance.
Now, nearly every soul in the Satellites was armed.
Anyone could watch or join the arena fights for a pittance.
The people became "simple and sturdy"—warriors all.
Every resident mastered basic combat, knew the weaknesses of many foes.
Otherwise, how could they even follow the arena bouts, much less bet or fight for souls?
Gamblers steeped in the arenas grew sharper still.
They could dissect every fighter—Aeldari, Ork, Tyranid, Chaos Marine, or daemon:
their attacks, durability, mental state, augmetics, weapons, even hidden killing strokes.
Whole journals were published for study and debate, sharpening betting instincts.
Especially for mid-match wagers—where the bold could double their stake—knowledge was everything.
Of course, the overconfident were often wiped clean.
Nor did Eden stop there.
He targeted the Dark Eldar's most feared foe: the daemons of Slaanesh.
He dispatched Orks and Terror Troops across the webway to seize daemons spilling from warp-storms.
These were dragged back and displayed across the Satellites.
Torturing Slaaneshi daemons became a fixture of every arena.
For months, their screams echoed unceasingly—even during festivals.
Exposure dulled all fear.
The daemons of the Lady of Hunger were seen as just another enemy to be fought.
Even children dared attack them now.
Thus the Redemption Satellites were steeled to face the hosts of Slaanesh without terror.
After watching a while, Eden returned to his barque, continuing on.
"Lord Asurmen, the holy weapons of the Savior have been secured."
Ilyss, receiving the report, beamed.
As First Succubus-Secretary, she knew well the danger of daemonic attack upon the Satellites.
The Savior's holy weapons were among the few arms in the galaxy blessed to slay such foes.
"This must be the blessing of Lord Asurmen and the Goddess of Life!"
She felt truly fortunate.
Not long ago, the Hatred Kabal had launched a raid for war materiel.
By chance, they stumbled upon a Savior convoy struck by a warp-storm.
Every crewman was gone—mysteriously vanished.
Boarding the ships, they discovered mountains of weapons, including over thirty Savior Titans—
the most dreaded god-machines of war.
And a vault filled with holy relic-weapons—hundreds of them.
The Hatred Kabal rejoiced, hauling everything back to the Satellites.
The entire district erupted as though it were New Year.
Finding an entire fleet's worth of war materiel, by chance? A miracle of the galaxy itself.
The Titans and sacred relics were beyond price.
All saw it as divine favor—that the Satellites and the Dark Eldar had a future lit by hope.
"Yet they say the Savior is furious," Ilyss added nervously.
"He vows to avenge himself upon Commorragh…"
"What's that to us?" Eden replied, dismissive.
"Let him."
He had worried about the Satellites' readiness, so he had arranged this "stroke of fortune."
The convoy was bait he had planted for the Kabal to "find."
Now the Titans were in the hands of the Dark Mechanicum, refitted, staged in the arena for trials, ready to march to war.
The holy weapons too had been placed.
The Satellites' strategy was complete.
Eden looked toward the distant Redemption Arena, breathing deep.
Everything was in place.
All that remained was fate.
The war for Commorragh.
The defense of the Satellites.
The Chaos Gods' contest for the Emperor's clone.
All were set to erupt—
wars spanning factions, races, gods.
Even the Savior's Realm itself would intervene, fighting for free passage of mankind in the webway.
Eden smelled the storm.
Slaanesh's Supreme Seer had already summoned her hosts.
Ka'Bandha, his old brother-in-arms, was on the march.
The Thousand Sons of Tzeentch lurked, watching.
As for Nurgle—their stance was unclear.
But chaos would break at any moment—perhaps even in the midst of the festival.
A roar shook the air.
Eden heard the cheers rising from the Redemption Arena—
all voices raised in welcome for the Scion of Asurmen.
Meanwhile, in hidden vaults beneath the city…
The Supreme Overlord's forbidden artifact had arrived through teleportation.
(End of Chapter)
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