Eden, cloaked in a black, ornate robe and gripping a staff, his shadow-mantle brushing against the gemstone-lined floor, descended into the central passage of the Redemption Arena's grand coliseum.
With a thunderous boom, the towering archway—constructed from hundreds of thousands of alien and daemon bones—swung open. The suspended stands curved like the ribs of a colossal god, each wraithbone beam resonating with a death-scream symphony that served as a chilling welcome march.
Most striking of all was a jagged mega-wall upon which countless daemons were bound, like a breathing, living edifice of torment.
The Redemption Arena, after its second expansion, now spanned the size of multiple cities—unquestionably the most grand and vast arena in the galaxy. Its architectural style had also shifted: still lavish and monstrous, but far less blood-drenched.
No longer was it built from human flesh and bone, but instead from the remains of savage xenos and daemons—the true enemies of the Drukhari.
Now, this arena gathered gladiators from countless species. Towering Ork fortresses, massive Tyranid bio-ships, Dark Eldar spires, and titanic war engines of myriad civilizations loomed within. Nearly thirty Redeemed Titans, twisted into even more grotesque forms, stood ready alongside a vast array of super-heavy weapons.
At any time, the arena could unleash the most spectacular battle spectacles and bloodsport the galaxy had ever seen.
Here, the galaxy's deadliest gladiators and weapons converged—an intentional outcome of Eden's careful design.
The Redemption Arena offered far too much: riches, glory, and elite fighters. Its renown attracted the galaxy's fiercest warriors, even ragged but battle-hungry Space Marine Chapters who slipped in secretly to fight.
While hacking apart xenos and daemons "in the Emperor's name," they could also earn themselves some quick crowns. Payments could even be made in gene-seeds.
Even unaffiliated Chaos Space Marines occasionally signed up, eager to claim more bloodshed and honor.
And all were permitted.
The Redemption Arena deceived no one; so long as no malice was shown, any challenger or spectator was welcomed openly.
Gradually, its fame spread across the stars. With its vast catalogue of gladiatorial formats, its fighter-raising systems, and its pulse-pounding betting games, the arena lured the galaxy's wealthiest audiences.
Millions of off-world visitors and magnates spent lavishly here.
And Eden, the master of the arena, reaped a flood of wealth and resources.
Gazing down upon the colossal structure and its packed seats, he mused:
"Who would've thought… running a galactic casino is the most profitable venture of all…"
The Savior's Dominion's other projects mostly drained the Imperium's resources, and many times Eden had to pour wealth back into impoverished human worlds—like central redistribution.
The truth was, the Imperium was not rich. With its endless teeming population, humanity eked out a miserable existence, barely clinging above subsistence.
Even the Savior's Dominion, appearing dazzling and rich, burned through far more than it took in. Construction and welfare always left resources tight.
But galactic magnates were different.
They inherited unimaginable fortunes or wielded renown across the stars. From birth, they had never known struggle for survival. A trinket discarded from their vaults could make an Imperial world salivate.
The Imperium, seeing such wealth in alien hands, had once raged at their betrayal—marching to purge them in fire.
At first, Eden considered using the Redemption Arena to collect data on these nobles, then dispatching fleets to plunder their treasures. But he abandoned the idea.
These magnates weren't fools. Their technology rivaled humanity's; they might spot the trail of surveillance. Worse, such actions would stain the arena's reputation.
No one would come again.
The Drukhari already had a bad reputation, and now they were openly allied with savage humans. Were they to rob their clients outright, the magnates would avoid them like plague.
And waging wars consumed lives and resources—leaving scars of occupation to manage.
This way was simpler: let them throw fortunes onto the tables, gamble their estates, and pay Eden's fees.
It was faster and more profitable than plunder.
Arena membership was invite-only, reserved for the galaxy's wealthy elite. Newcomers required a sponsor. This high threshold ensured all attendees were high-net-worth individuals.
These nobles, with their long lifespans and bottomless wealth, craved only thrills or greater gain.
The arena offered them limitless wagers, the most extreme entertainment, and beauties of every species.
Even Ork women were available, if that was their kink.
With enough payment, clients could dissect daemons themselves—or even, under gladiatorial guard, battle them in the flesh, basking in the adrenaline of life and death.
Such experiences could be had nowhere else in the galaxy.
For countless planets, life passed uneventfully for millennia—until the day daemons appeared and the world perished.
The nobles knew well the terror of daemons. But if given the chance to confront such horrors and slay them, they could adorn their long, dull centuries with glory.
And, of course, outdo one another.
One alien noble, a king named Heye, had lived thousands of years, ruling several sectors on the galactic fringe. Spiritually exhausted, he drifted in ennui.
Carried on a throne like a breathing corpse, he was brought to the Redemption Arena.
To Eden, he groaned:
"Lord Asurmen… time itself is poison. Longevity is a curse. Every coronation I've witnessed feels like mockery; life is but a wilted rose. Even breathing has become torment. Existence has lost all meaning…"
Eden smirked:
"You're still too young. You just don't know how to play."
No race knew hedonism better than the Eldar—and Eden, heir to their culture, refined it in his Redemption Satellites, keeping the essence and discarding the rot.
He had a Bloodbride Master concoct a supreme, spiraling cocktail of psychic narcotics for Heye—drugs that detonated every cell in ecstasy and agony, like a hurricane warhead slamming into a planet's core.
The king's flesh was caressed, stripped, tormented, then uplifted.
Next came the "Galactic Grand Orgy"—succubi leading, Orks assisting, a dozen species entwined in ultimate debauchery.
Then Heye was hurled into the arena, pitted against Tyranid swarms and daemons, left to drown in despair.
Half-dead, he was dragged out and healed.
When he woke, his first words were:
"Ah… now I have seen the true leisure of nobles. This is life's meaning…"
Eden only thought: What meaning? The only meaning is bleeding these bloated aristocrats dry.
Let them burn their fortunes for thrills; in the process, they would unwittingly serve humanity's cause.
Thus Heye, revitalized, settled permanently in the Redemption Arena—gambling daily, chasing the rush of wealth gained and lost, his heart pounding in ecstasy.
He was absurdly lucky, winning vast prizes, his wealth actually growing.
Eden welcomed it. A living advertisement.
The winnings came from other nobles anyway, while he skimmed off fees.
So long as they kept playing, he profited.
In fact, for Heye's every win, Eden staged grand announcements, stirring envy among the others.
He guaranteed their safety with elite Incubi and Terror Warriors. For those returning home, entire fleets escorted them. Any who dared interfere were annihilated, their corpses displayed as trophies.
Such honest dealings won widespread trust.
The Redemption Arena offered everything: luxury weapons, body modification, personal protection. A vast trading district allowed nobles to mortgage or buy resources, paying fees to Eden as the broker.
Many resources on offer were simply items other nobles had lost—including entire planetary domains.
In this way, the arena rivaled the galaxy's black markets—but safer, and under Eden's control.
And if anyone thought to cheat?
The arena's cabals no longer raided worlds. Their main business was security and debt collection. Should any noble resist payment, Terror Warriors would appear at their palace gates, their fees doubled for "collection services."
But as Eden thought on the looming crisis, a flicker of unease crossed his heart…
This Redemption Arena had already become one of the most profitable ventures Eden had ever run.
He intended to turn it into the galaxy's premier, all-encompassing entertainment district, drawing in noble elites from every species.
The Redemption Satellites were also the key region for resettling the Drukhari in the future.
He would not allow it to be drowned by tides of daemons from the Prince of Pleasure or any other Ruinous Power.
Under the respectful gazes of the audience, Eden—the heir of Asurmen and master of the arena—ascended the crystal stair toward his throne.
It was the best vantage point, offering a clear view of the entire central coliseum.
Clusters of dark crystal floated above a soulfall, casting radiance over decorative Screamer-Vines.
Those "decorative" vines were in fact special conduits that transmitted every emotion and sound with greater fidelity,
all to heighten the viewing experience.
As Eden paced up the crystal steps, a fanatical voice rang out.
He paused and looked over to see a proud figure standing tall.
"Great Enlightened One, noble Heir of Asurmen, allow me to compose for you a hymn of praise."
The Drukhari soul-poet Sanaa bowed with elegant poise, executing flawless Aeldari etiquette—every inch the artist.
He pondered for a few breaths, then improvised a laudation, his refashioned throat sighing forth graceful notes:
"Ah—
The shadows cast by your lashes would shame any living thing.
Your lowered gaze could wed the Medusa of our myths to cold stone.
The tremor of your throat bids the galactic arms adjust their rhythm of rotation."
Sanaa bowed lower still, ever more reverent: "Great Heir of Asurmen, every cell of your body is redefining the beauty of darkness.
Exalted one, brand 'submission' upon the depths of our souls,
so even when we are shattered and remade, we still recall the curvature of our kneel…"
The poet's hymn made the record-attendant at his side blanch a little.
Too sycophantic. Way too much.
The attendant suddenly felt that this artist—once famous throughout the Dark City—had changed too much,
as if he'd lost the soul of art.
"Fine… fine writing."
Eden lifted a hand and gave a soft clap, his gaze approving. "Our Redemption Satellites need talents like you.
That deserves encouragement."
At Eden's words, Ilyss gestured to an aide to transfer a grant to the soul-poet—this artist from the Dark City.
Eden did indeed need a mouthpiece like Sanaa—not chiefly to praise himself, but to extol the Redemption Satellites.
The man was the number-one hype bard of the Satellites.
He'd penned countless poems and essays about life here; while celebrating the Satellites, he also criticized and reflected on the current state of Commorragh.
The effect surpassed those inspirational rags Eden had read in his previous life.
As a result, residents of Commorragh yearned for the Redemption Satellites, hoping for residency or a household slot.
Even after the Black-Heart Kabal issued bans, some still risked clandestine routes to slip into the Satellites.
But as "undocumented," most underwent strict screening and could only live on the outskirts.
Life there was far worse than for those with proper registration.
After topping up the soul-poet's coffers, Eden paid him no further mind.
He entered the throned enclosure and vanished from public view.
"Lord Asurmen is so generous!" Sanaa, having received a hefty soul-stipend, was elated.
He didn't want to flatter so hard—alas, the pay was too good.
He resolved to write even more pieces praising the Redemption Satellites once he returned.
Sanaa remained respectfully in place until the Heir of Asurmen disappeared from sight; then he turned back to his VIP box, sat down, and buried himself in calculations, muttering about win-rates, lucky days, "one bet per day," and "Heaven-Patching Plan."
He was crunching body metrics, combat records, and mental states for the units slated to fight in the next bout,
sprinkled with a dash of mysticism.
He also had the assessments and recommendations from the Arena's bout-evaluators.
Sanaa had paid handsomely to acquire these dossiers.
Rumor had it that, by following the guidance, one could pick the winner with over an eighty-percent probability.
He poured all his effort into research—more seriously than he wrote poetry.
A while back, overconfident, the poet had been completely cleaned out.
He'd even lost the manor Eden had gifted him.
But he believed he could "patch the heavens":
win a little each day, and slowly win back what he had lost.
Failing that, he could rely on his beloved fighting unit to earn more rewards.
Zzzzt—
A burst of fire flared in the dark.
Keratin scraped the alloy cage, throwing sparks.
"Oh, my precious, you must be hungry, hm?"
Catching the noise behind him, Sanaa scampered over, terrified that his cherished war-beast might sour in mood.
A foul mood could affect its combat performance.
He gazed upon the cage's occupant—a gleaming, metal-sheened, savage Tyranid Warrior—his eyes full of fondness.
It was his most precious asset, ranked 3,895th among Tyranid fighting units of the Redemption Arena.
He counted as a recognized Tyranid handler here.
Thanks to meticulous cultivation, the mutated Tyranid Warrior's combat power was impressive—
far beyond a normal Warrior's.
Sanaa drew out an expensive metal ingot, slotted it into the feeder, and let his pet absorb it.
Tyranid fight-units were the favorite "battle-pets" of the Arena's wealthy patrons.
They would spend fortunes on bespoke breeding and augmentation, pouring in rare biomass, precious metals, and all manner of high-energy resources,
to make their Tyranids deadly beyond compare.
Drukhari nobles and off-world magnates alike would empty vaults or scour the galaxy for rarer reagents to feed their pets.
One noble had even fed his own ancient-relic chariot to his Tyranid, simply because the relic contained a top-tier, irreplicable galactic alloy.
Its value was beyond measure.
He believed it would power up his Tyranid—and it did:
after absorbing the archaic metal, the mutant spawned a harder carapace that even heavy artillery struggled to crack.
Even a relatively poor player like Sanaa
had steeled himself to feed his ancestral bagpipe, a metal relic of the ancient Aeldari empire, to his beloved Warrior.
He scrimped and saved, providing daily rations of pricey biomass and metals.
The Tyranid lived better than he did, with its own dedicated cleaner.
In truth, all of this was building an army for the Savior's Tyranid clone-avatar—Blade-Wing.
Eden invested none of his own resources, yet acquired torrents of mutated swarms— far stronger than typical broods.
All he provided was bio-signature authorization, so the rich patrons who bought Tyranid units could issue simple commands, and then willingly pour their resources into the swarm.
"My little darling… I'm counting on you."
After feeding his pet, Sanaa gently patted its metal carapace, then returned to his seat, satisfied.
Just then, a comm request pinged from the adjacent VIP suite. When Sanaa accepted, the partition curtain rose.
"Sanaa, brother—why stare at that readout? There's no private match to bet on today."
Heye's hearty laughter rolled in.
Lately, the alien king had been thick as thieves with Sanaa, the Heir's soul-poet, trading tips on Tyranid cultivation.
In Heye's eyes, if a pauper like Sanaa could raise a Tyranid to such heights, it must be technique.
He himself simply hurled money and materials at the problem.
Sanaa eyed the massive, multihued, metal-sheened Tyranid in Heye's cage with open envy.
The alien king had become locally famous in the Redemption Satellites—luck had handed him mountains of winnings, which he then plowed entirely into Tyranid husbandry.
He'd poured in enough resources to buy several planets, force-evolving a bottom-tier gaunt into a mighty Hive Tyrant, a beast that could flip and crush super-heavy tanks and brawl against several Chaos Dreadnoughts at once— a terrifying war-asset.
After a brief exchange—comparing their latest Tyranid-raising notes—the two scoundrel friends fell quiet.
They were waiting for today's grand spectacle.
Rumor said it was a millennial-caliber extravaganza, prepared with exquisite care by the Arena, promising the galaxy's most extreme thrills.
BOOM—
As the Harlequin troupe's performance ended, a doomsday weapon detonated in the central "city" of the arena, throwing up brilliant blossoms of flame.
In an instant, the Ork megafortresses, Tyranid bioships, and serried Drukhari spires across the arena-city erupted in roars.
Dozens of Titan-class war engines and war-beasts readied for action.
Their mere footfalls and engine-thunder shook the entire arena-city.
The grand performance had begun.
...
Meanwhile, beneath a street outside the Redemption Arena—
"At last… the moment has come…"
A Black-Heart Kabal strike team had hidden underground for nearly a year to avoid detection.
Now, with a forbidden artifact gifted by the Supreme Overlord, they would unleash annihilation!
Vmm—
The proscribed device—a Spatial-Rend Engine—spooled up, its instantaneous plasma surge vaporizing every life nearby.
The orb-machine punched through the street, rose into the sky, and gathered power.
Space around it visibly tore, the other side of the Veil showing a Chaos-ridden night.
KRAK!
Just as the energy peaked, a chain of artillery lances erupted beside the orb, churning chaotic eddies.
The "fireworks" were courtesy of the Redemption Satellites.
The warp-engine bucked violently; its beams slewed off-axis and speared toward the center of the Redemption Arena.
Zzzzt—
A colossal rift nearly a kilometer long ripped open in the air above the arena's heart.
Horror-thick warp-stench and unnameable whispering spread outward, freezing hearts in their chests.
"Hss—"
Eden sucked in a cold breath, jolting up from his throne to stare at the ghastly tear.
He could scarcely believe it. "Such a massive rift—was that part of our program?"
Not long ago, he'd ordered the arena's management to hype the festival, to give the audience something fresh and thrilling.
But this was too thrilling!
Ilyss swallowed, her voice shaking.
"L-Lord Asurmen… I don't think this is our program. It's an assault by She Who Thirsts!"
Hiss—
With a maniacal carnival of music, countless Slaaneshi Furies swarmed from the rift, darkening the sky.
On the ground, savage Seeker vanguard cavalry pounded forward, roaring their wrath.
Pain and torment were coming.
The aura was so terrifying that the entire audience fell silent.
And in the very next heartbeat, a tidal cheer exploded.
"Worthy of the great Lord Asurmen! Worthy of a millennial spectacle! To conjure such majesty!"
Sanaa and his fox-friend Heye were shaken to their cores, cheering themselves hoarse.
Like the rest, they felt the ticket price had been worth every soul.
This might be the single most spectacular day of their lives!
…???
The Slaaneshi vanguard had just set foot in the center of the arena, drawing breath to roar— only to have their cries drowned beneath the ovation.
Facing their prey's wild jubilation, they froze, bewildered…
(End of Chapter)
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