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"Damn you, Changer of Ways—don't even think about twisting my mind!"
Eden received a fleeting premonition from Tzeentch in the Warp, but he instantly rejected it and severed the connection.
Now was a critical moment—such temptations were absolutely untouchable.
To withstand the Changer of Ways' confusion, decisiveness was the key. The more hesitation, the more doubt, the tighter the snare.
Once cut off, Eden no longer spared the matter a thought. He threw himself into the Redemption Satellite Zone's emergency affairs.
Not only did the Redemption Arena's rift have to be sealed, but the surrounding areas had to be purged of daemonic taint. He also had to prepare for the influx of people that would soon follow.
In addition, he ordered the recall of fleets scattered beyond the Zone and forbade the Kabal from venturing into the galaxy or other regions—every asset was to stand by.
And then, with Titus, Ilyss, and a cadre of elites, he set out for Commorragh—time for the final harvest.
...
The Spires of Commorragh
Black, heavy smog cloaked the spire districts, a fog born of endless fire and smoke.
The Dark City thundered with constant gunfire and battle-cries. Kabalite warriors and desperate residents clashed in streets and alleys. The Blackheart Kabal bore the brunt of the fury.
Through ceaseless propaganda and the lure of soul-elixirs, Commorragh's inhabitants had come to believe wholeheartedly that the scion of Asurmen could lead them out of their damnation.
Their hatred for the Supreme Overlord and the Blackheart Kabal only deepened.
On a balcony high above, Eden gazed down upon the burning districts, a line of Kabalite Archons arrayed behind him, bowing with respect.
The Dark City longed for the Asurmen heir. And at last, that exalted figure had come—come to fulfill his promise, to break them free of Asdrubael Vect's cruel reign.
"You feel it, don't you?"
Eden's voice was soft, as though savoring something intangible.
The Archons exchanged confused looks.
High Archon Smith stepped forward, feigning the same insight: "Lord Asurmen, I feel it. The heat of it!"
"What?"
Archon Vruk frowned, utterly baffled. "What's coming? Have the enemy arrived?!"
"The fire of wrath," Smith explained smoothly. "That is what Lord Asurmen means. Wrath is rising from the people—it will ignite the Dark City, unstoppable."
The others nodded, finally understanding.
But Eden shook his head, dissatisfied. "Too slow. Still far too weak. We must add more fuel, let the blaze roar higher."
Chaos daemons could invade at any moment—he could not afford delay.
"What fuel do you mean, my lord?"
"The Supreme Overlord's death."
The words shocked the Archons. Had not everything they'd done already been aimed at Vect's downfall?
Smith, however, quickly adjusted: "Truly brilliant, Lord Asurmen. A perfect climax, as though staged in the arenas themselves."
The people still clung to a shadow of fear for Vect. But if he died—if he truly died—that shadow would vanish, and the Blackheart Kabal would collapse.
Vect was protected by the City's strongest defenses and cloaked in countless doubles. Killing him outright was nearly impossible.
But that hardly mattered to Eden.
What mattered was belief. If the people believed Vect dead, then he was dead.
All that remained was the right moment.
Weeks later, Eden sensed the Warp shifting. Vect had entered the final stage of "ascension to godhood." The tyrant was on the cusp of becoming a mighty Warp-born entity.
It was exactly what Eden had hoped for.
So long as Vect was bound to the Immaterium, he could not interfere in Commorragh.
Without hesitation, Eden led Titus and his Redemption Kabal into one of Vect's strongholds. There they seized a "Vect"—a flesh-crafted clone painstakingly designed by a Haemonculus master.
Then Eden paraded his prize through the streets.
"THE SUPREME OVERLORD HAS BEEN CAPTURED!"
The cry spread like wildfire among Asurmen's faithful.
Many rejoiced, though some doubted—how could Vect fall so easily?
Eden wasted no time. In a central plaza, he staged the public execution of "Asdrubael Vect."
...
The Execution
On the towering scaffold, "Vect" was shackled to a brutal Haemonculus contraption. Voice-projectors recited the tyrant's crimes one after another.
Below, the crowds gathered, eyes filled with hate, hope, and a trace of dread.
From afar, destructive energy washed across the plaza—but the shielding fields held firm.
The Blackheart Kabal had launched its weapons, desperate to prevent the execution.
Eden noted the incoming fire, his heart tight—but his face remained calm, every inch the master of fate.
This was being broadcast to all of Commorragh.
And in their frenzy, the Blackheart Kabal only proved the illusion true. Their "Supreme Overlord" must indeed be here—why else would they strike with such madness?
Unless, Eden mused, the Archons themselves were complicit. They too longed to be rid of Vect, ready to aid in his downfall.
Closer study revealed the truth. The destructive barrages were all for show—thunderous but imprecise, deliberately falling short of piercing the shields.
"They truly are eager to be rid of him…" Eden thought with grim amusement.
The heir of Asurmen ruled not because of unmatched cunning or brutality, nor because of benevolence.
But because his very presence aligned perfectly with everyone's interests.
Even if Eden declared he would abdicate, the Archons would rush to cloak him in silks, begging him to remain Commorragh's master.
No one wanted his fall—for it would mean Vect's return.
And that fate was unthinkable.
"Lord Asurmen, the time has come," Smith murmured urgently, almost giddy.
Eden nodded and stepped into the center of the scaffold, his gaze sweeping the silent throng.
He saw reverence. He saw expectation.
The lever was thrown.
The contraption tore into "Vect." A scream rang out—not from flesh, but from soul. His body was peeled apart before all eyes, reduced to nothing, not even ash.
The entire spectacle was streamed across every projection the Redemption Kabal could touch.
All of Commorragh saw.
Silence fell.
The tyrant who had ruled for countless centuries was gone.
Some wept quietly. Others shook in relief, or trembled with vindication.
For the Dark Eldar, Vect's cruelty had rivaled even She Who Thirsts.
"People of Commorragh—"
Eden seized the last motes of "Vect's" dust, scattering them into the void.
"I, the heir of Asurmen—your Savior—have fulfilled my promise. Asdrubael Vect, the cruel tyrant, is no more. From this day forth—you are free!"
His voice boomed over the hushed throngs.
And then the flood broke.
The Dark Eldar wailed, sobbed, shouted. Across the Dark City, district by district, voices rose in cathartic release.
They had waited for this moment far, far too long.
Even the barrage slackened for a heartbeat.
"Great and noble Heir of Asurmen, I acclaim you as Commorragh's rightful ruler!"
No one knew who yelled it first, but in the next instant every Drukhari present dropped to one knee before Eden, reverent and solemn.
"I'm willing to be your ruler—but not yet. We have more urgent matters."
Eden certainly wanted to take Commorragh sooner rather than later; this wasn't some polite threefold refusal. It was simply the wrong moment. The Supreme Overlord might be "dead" in name, but the Chaos daemons were practically at the gates. If he accepted the title now, any catastrophe would be blamed on him and poison the future of his rule. Better to let the Blackheart Kabal carry that burden—for now.
"Lord Asurmen, I beg you—open the Redemption Satellite Zone to us! Let us go there and live, and ease She Who Thirsts' torment upon our souls!"
A frail Commorragh resident bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the ground. He yearned for that dreamlike city: the Goddess of Life Isha's protection, the Aeldari Empire's old grandeur reborn, a place to sense yesterday's splendor.
"I will consider it…"
Eden answered gently, as though residence rights in the Redemption Satellite Zone were a priceless privilege. Inwardly, he was delighted. He'd been ready to plant a shill to bring this up if no one did. The Dark City, in his long plan, belonged to Humanity.
Imagine it: once the Imperium settled here, logistics and production would surge; the Adeptus Astartes, Astra Militarum, and Battlefleets could appear anywhere in the galaxy at a moment's notice through the Webway. How much striking power would that unleash?!
Give it time to stabilize, and the Savior would launch a war to sweep the stars—so the monsters and the long-besieged or barely-held fronts would finally learn what a tide of Titans really meant—what overmatch looked like.
The Imperium's suffering subjects, long waiting for deliverance, would meet true redemption and praise the Savior's name. Even the Inquisition would be overjoyed—what once took years to answer could, via Commorragh's Webway nodes, be answered the same afternoon.
But getting the Drukhari to cede Commorragh would be unimaginably hard; all of them had to be relocated. That was why Eden had spent years extolling the Redemption Satellite Zone—softening resistance for the eventual move.
He preferred not to resort to force. If Kabalite arms melted into the Dark City's labyrinthine Webway and waged guerrilla war, rooting them out would be a nightmare for Humanity.
Under thousands of expectant eyes, the Heir of Asurmen furrowed his brow, as if wrestling with an ancestral taboo.
"This is a hard choice…"
At last he "relented":
"For the sake of our people—for my noble kin no longer to suffer She Who Thirsts—I will open the entire Redemption Satellite Zone in the near future.
All residents of Commorragh will be able to move there.
The Zone is still expanding; an official notice will follow soon."
In truth, the Zone could hold every Drukhari even now. Worst case, copy the Imperium's hive-city model: stack the habs to the sky and crush the living space. Let the Drukhari sample Humanity's… specialties. Given their numbers, there was room to spare.
These words spread by holo-projector across Commorragh, moving countless Drukhari to tears and filling them with hope.
Seeing those expectant faces only pleased Eden more. He could have given the immediate order to evacuate, but that would be premature—and incomplete. Some would refuse. He needed an irresistible spur—Chaos at the door.
And that spur was almost here.
Eden's voice hardened.
"My noble kin, do not forget: the Supreme Overlord's venom remains—the Blackheart Kabal still stands.
From this moment, any Blackheart forces rejecting Asurmen's rule will be annihilated.
Go—take vengeance. Take back what is yours!"
At his call the Drukhari struck Blackheart garrisons with redoubled fury, and ever more of the Blackheart Archons bent the knee. No one hurried out to "clarify" that Asdrubael Vect still lived. Those Archons knew he wasn't dead; they simply agreed to act as though he was. That was the only path to unite the city and end his rule.
—
Deep beneath Commorragh, in the Black Throne district—
Asdrubael Vect floated within a nutrient bath, umbilicals webbing from his vat to a monumental engine beyond: a masterpiece of Haemonculi cruelty and art—the Black Throne. Upon it sat a towering frame, serene and coiled with unimaginable strength, cables lancing into its skin.
The key—the perfect clone of the Emperor of Mankind.
Blup—
Bubbles spurted from Vect's lips. News had reached him—his "execution."
His first thought: "Damn. I've been made the decoy."
He calmed himself. Such trifles meant nothing. Ascend to apotheosis, seize the Black Throne, and the Dark City would be his again.
A thousand centuries of hunger and ambition burned in his eyes. At last he would break the fate of a pawn and step into a new order of being. From now on, he would know no fear.
Then came the second blow: the domain's relic defenses had been compromised—Chaos turncoats had cracked them from within.
—
After the execution, Eden left the Blackheart fighting to its own momentum and withdrew to a warded palace. The Archons could manage the "topple Vect" narrative; he would rule from the shadows.
He had a greater task—a main-account swap.
Vrrmm—
Somewhere within the Webway—
"Brother, I need you here. Now!"
A figure in ornate, gem-studded gold armor hurried out of his private cabin—radiant, flamboyant, undeniably the Hope-Primarch, the Savior himself.
Eden had swapped back to his main identity. Tension lined his face; his pace was clipped. A disastrous message had arrived.
A data fault—no doubt Tzeentch's work—had crippled the holy machine meant to guide the Emperor's soul deep into the Webway and awaken within the clone. Repairs were frantic; success unknown. Meanwhile, the Chaos Gods' forces had breached the Black Throne's defenses; an assault—or abduction—of the Emperor's clone was imminent. Time was razor-thin.
"What happened?!"
With a tail-flicking drift, the Great Khan slewed the relic skimmer—the Pale Hawk—to a stop before Eden, anxious and ready. Of late, Jaghatai Khan barely dismounted—one might think the craft his true body.
"Your combat power—still top-tier, right?"
"I am the Warhawk of Chogoris. Even among the Primarchs I rank near the fore!"
The Khan spoke without doubt.
"Good." Eden exhaled—"If two or three dozen—maybe more—Greater Daemons strike at once, you can cut them down… right?"
"Of cour— Thirty Greater Daemons?!" The Khan's face paled; his voice wavered. "You mean… me?!"
"Tch…"
Eden saw his hesitation and knew the truth—no Primarch could stand alone against that tidal wave. But this was the reality they faced.
He sighed. "Looks like I have to do it myself…"
If Eden could merge his soul with the Emperor's clone—under the Emperor's guidance—he might hold the line. He already had the machinery to channel the Little Sun's soul-fire through a proxy body.
This was their only chance.
(End of Chapter)
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