At the instant the Asurmen's Heir appeared in projection, the air grew cold, runes of frost crawling across the walls.
All the shadows came alive.
The denizens of Commorragh realized their silhouettes were twisting—within them gleamed icy, predatory eyes.
They were the dreaded nightmare-creatures of the other dimensions, grotesque amalgams like statues corrupted by darkness.
In the past, their arrival would have driven the people to terror.
But now, it was different. Now they knew: the nightmares were the will of their Savior—the Asurmen's Heir.
Bayron stared up at that noble phantom, as if salvation itself had descended.
"Our Savior… has come!"
At once, a tide of black phantoms surged from the shadows.
Clambering, twisting, leaping across obstacles, they formed a vast, dark flood.
With a roar, it slammed into the violet abominations, shielding the citizens of Commorragh from the claws of Chaos.
"The Sun of Commorragh! Guide us, O Lord!"
"Do you see? Do you see him? We are saved!"
The survivors wept, trembling with relief.
They looked to the phantom of the Asurmen's Heir, tears pouring, reverence overflowing.
Some, overcome, cut their own flesh to scrawl runes of devotion in blood.
And such scenes were mirrored throughout the Dark City.
Eden had broadcast the phantom everywhere the signal could reach, unleashing the full forces of the Redemption Satellite Zone:
the Mandrake-born Shadow Legions, the Redemption Kabal's armed cohorts, Incubi squads, Orks, even Tyranids.
Their task was not to destroy the daemons—only to protect civilians, guiding them to the satellite zone.
For now the rifts were new, Chaos had only begun to pour through. With local cabal forces and defenses, they could just hold the line.
It could not be helped.
If the Dark Eldar were devoured by Slaanesh or any of the other gods, the Ruinous Powers would only grow stronger. Better to claim them—make them his own.
Through the mask of the Asurmen's Heir, he could fold them into his dominion.
More importantly, this was a chance to relocate the Dark Eldar from Commorragh's core into the satellite zone—
—and then claim the very heart of the webway.
Commorragh, jewel of the ancient Aeldari empire, the greatest of webway cities. To call it the capital of the galaxy was no exaggeration.
One of the richest prizes in existence.
"This gamble… one bike into a starship—no, a battleship!"
Eden rubbed his hands at the thought, excitement scattering the clouds of dread.
The greater the storm, the greater the profit. Risk and reward marched hand in hand.
And for Commorragh, this was worth staking everything.
Besides, retreat was impossible now.
The Emperor Himself had gone all in. If Eden tried to run, the Emperor's psychic backhand would spin him like a top.
"Children of Commorragh, I am the Asurmen's Heir, of ancient noble blood, your Savior!"
Eden drew a deep breath, addressing the whole Dark City through projection.
Fortunately, during his propaganda war against Vect, he had laid a full comms grid. Without it, this broadcast would have been impossible.
Now his words spread across every sector, reaching almost every Dark Eldar ear.
"Know this grim truth. Through the Supreme Overlord Vect's mad ascension plan, vast rifts have torn through the veil of Commorragh.
Slaanesh, the Dark Gods, and even the Primarch of Man have intruded. This city cannot withstand such calamity—it stands upon the brink of annihilation.
I strove to save this Dark City, but failed. Nothing can undo what has come."
His solemn voice laid bare the disaster, laying all blame at Vect's feet.
The destruction of Commorragh demanded a scapegoat—and who better than the tyrant who had caused it?
The Asurmen's Heir's lamentation crushed what little hope remained.
Dark Eldar collapsed to their knees in despair.
It was like telling humanity that Holy Terra had been destroyed—that the Imperial Palace lay in ruins.
"What… what do we do?"
Bayron stared hollowly at the phantom of the Asurmen's Heir, his last lifeline snapped.
"What else?!"
Nearby, a kabalite warrior laughed bitterly. "We die. Our souls taken by She Who Thirsts, condemned to eternal torment.
Do you hear? We all die!"
He slashed his throat open, blood gushing as he fell.
Lying in a spreading pool, he choked on crimson froth.
"At least… not in their claws…"
His eyes closed in death.
But in that moment, he still heard the Asurmen's Heir's voice.
"Yes. I cannot save this city. But I can save you—my noble kin.
The Asurmen's Heir does not break oaths. I vowed to save the Dark Eldar, and I will.
Now is the hour of that promise."
The phantom's voice rang with renewed fire:
"From this day forth, the Redemption Satellite Zone opens its gates. All Dark Eldar may come.
My forces will hold the daemons long enough for you to escape.
When the evacuation is complete, I will seal every passage to the Satellite Zone, forever barring the claws of She Who Thirsts!"
He pressed on, his tone blazing:
"This scourge of Chaos is terrible, yes—but it cannot end our race.
In the Satellite Zone, you will dwell under the blessing of Isha, our Mother of Life, free at last of the Thirsting One's corruption.
I, the Asurmen's Heir, will grant you sanctuary, souls, arms and ammunition, and a new life—hope itself!"
As he spoke, the projection raised its hands high, voice swelling to fervor.
Not a retreat into ruin—but a march toward renewal.
"From this moment begins the Great Exodus of Commorragh!
All who will follow me, go now to the evacuation points.
Transports await to bear you to the Satellite Zone.
Hurry, my children! She Who Thirsts is ravenous, our time is short.
In seven Dark Nights, the passages will be destroyed. Any left here will perish utterly.
But remember: the end of Commorragh is not the end of us. It buries our torment and heralds our rebirth!"
The phantom's words echoed ceaselessly across the city.
Despair turned to awe—then to wild joy.
Bayron clutched his child close, sobbing with relief.
"We live! We will reach the Satellite Zone—the paradise of the Dark Eldar!"
"Save me…"
A bloodied hand clutched at him.
It was the kabalite who had slit his throat. Eyes snapped open once more, realizing he might yet survive—that he too might reach the fabled Satellite Zone.
And bitter regret filled his gaze.
Perhaps he had cut too soon…
The doomed kabalite thrashed on the ground, realizing he might still be saved. He grabbed the sleeve of a nearby Drukhari merchant.
He was desperate not to miss out on the Great Exodus—or the promised resettlement.
"Warrior, I can save you—but you'll escort us to the Redemption Satellite Zone."
After a moment's hesitation, Bayron chose to save the kabalite—and set the terms of a pact.
With abominations everywhere, a blade at their side could mean survival.
Once the kabalite swore, Bayron yanked a stim-injector from the warrior's gear and plunged it into him. The dose dragged him back from the brink.
The Drukhari body—and spirit—are resilient.
Even mortal wounds can be snatched from death's jaw. With a Haemonculus on hand, a corpse could even be stitched back together and revived.
After that, Bayron's group rushed for the evacuation zone.
Everywhere, the Asurmen's Heir had mobilized armed cohorts and skiff-transports.
Working with local kabals, they held Chaos at bay while lifting one district after another to safety bound for the Satellite Zone.
In that moment, all of Commorragh moved as one under the Asurmen's Heir—united to weather the cataclysm.
Though not yet crowned, with Vect's death the Asurmen's Heir was, in truth, the sole ruler the Drukhari would heed.
No one dared disobey the commands of noble blood—least of all now, when obedience meant survival.
Boom. Boom. Boom—
...
Commorragh, Evacuation District.
Batteries thundered, shredding scattered daemon probes.
Forces from the Redemption Satellite Zone carved out safe quadrants and opened corridor after corridor for refugees to pass.
Compared to the chaos outside, order reigned here.
Kabalite warriors showed no fear—only disciplined, silent execution of the plan: extract, embark, withdraw.
The Asurmen's Heir stood behind them. The high one had arranged everything.
All they had to do was follow orders.
The ragged refugee columns felt that iron calm settle over them. Panic ebbed.
They boarded the transports to the Satellite Zone in orderly lines.
One after another, skiff-transports lifted off, banking toward webway spurs that would carry them to safety.
Aboard a transport, hold bay.
"Perhaps this is the last time we'll ever see the Dark City…"
Through a porthole, Bayron watched war-wreathed Commorragh dwindle behind them.
From this day forth, they were leaving the home of generations—never to return.
Realizing this, a faint smile touched his face; the fear in his chest began to melt.
It was a good thing.
Under the tyrant Vect and the constant threat of abominations, few Drukhari truly loved that city—fewer still wished to remain.
And after years of the Asurmen's Heir's relentless messaging, the Redemption Satellite Zone had become their shining ideal.
The lingering glow of the ancient Aeldari empire; a dreamland of sanctuary. Many had begged, paid fortunes, and still failed to earn a place there.
But now, all could go—under Isha's blessing—beyond the grasp of She Who Thirsts.
To the Drukhari, this was a great clear-and-resettle—a mass relocation out of filthy Commorragh, a coveted residency in the Satellite Zone.
Lives turned upside down in a single night. A windfall beyond hope.
None would linger for the Dark City; all were impatient for the Satellite Zone.
There was no mourning aboard the transports—only celebration.
They chattered about the new life awaiting them: the wondrous cityscapes, the holy statue of the Mother of Life, the soul-gardens, the Redemption Arena—every detail a familiar dream.
Some even felt a twisted gratitude toward She Who Thirsts: without the invasion, the Asurmen's Heir might never have opened the gates to all.
Of course, the original residents of the Satellite Zone were less thrilled.
They grumbled that this flood of outsiders would crowd their great city and dilute their highborn dignity.
Fortunately, the refugees would be staged in outlying sectors first—and would need effort and service to earn full residency.
They would become new labor, or join the musters—fuel for the city's growth.
Thus, by Eden's audacious hand, the annihilation of Commorragh became a demolition-style exodus—a win for all sides.
The Drukhari reached their longed-for haven; Commorragh itself would be left vacant.
Seal the right webway mouths, isolate it from the Satellite Zone, close the Grand Rift, drive out the daemon tide—
—and Eden could finally claim the webway metropolis he'd coveted for so long.
It would be the victory the Emperor Himself had awaited—at last, after millennia, humanity would command the webway.
Yet even as the first wave sailed gladly for sanctuary, Commorragh's condition worsened.
...
Spire-top terrace.
"The rifts are growing faster than projected. At this rate, we won't hold them back…"
Eden stared upward. The tears in reality yawned wider like vast, bleeding wounds.
Not only across the city—soon even the Black Throne's domain might be at risk.
The Throne's repairs might never finish.
He flicked to a vox-projection, hailing the White Scar Primarch:
"Old Khan—how much longer can you hold?"
The Primarch gunned a sacred engine across a causeway, pulverizing a snarling daemon engine as he replied.
His face was stone; the strain, immense.
"At this rate of rip-expansion, without reinforcements—three days at most."
He glanced aside, a spark of hope in his eye.
"Tell me straight: do we have reinforcements?"
Eden sighed. "We do. Just… not the kind you're expecting."
A pulse rolled through the aether—a psychic message.
The signal he'd been waiting for.
His reinforcements were the Grandfather's own—Great Unclean Ones and their hosts, swollen with vengeance.
After the War in the Garden, they had… changed. And they were eager to surprise their old enemies.
—
Not long before.
The Garden of Nurgle, Immaterium.
Thick yellow fog swaddled a foul expanse—a jungle where life and plague took physical form, a kingdom of rot and toxin.
But in many places, the groves were charred black.
The scars of war had not yet healed.
Since the battle that ravaged the Garden, Nurgle had slumbered long, assailed by rival gods and the Cursed. The power of pestilence had withdrawn.
Few Great Unclean Ones had stirred to trouble the galaxy.
Most had returned to the Garden—those who ventured out did not raid but… prepared.
And the reason had a name: the newly raised First Favorite, a Great Unclean One—
Barag the Glutton.
Before Grandfather slept, he made his First Favorite steward of the Garden.
But Barag—the sly infiltrator, the gluttonous Great Unclean One—had utterly warped the Garden's ways.
"Grandfather! Giving the Garden to Barag was a complete and utter mistake!"
A sickly storm broke as twisted, screaming vines punched through the mud.
The Second Favorite, the Generous One, the Rainfather—Rotigus—strode into the Garden, seething.
Fresh from the Immaterium fronts, Rotigus had learned a galling truth:
By Barag's orders, Great Unclean Ones not engaged at the front had suspended their realspace invasions— hiding in the Garden, "researching" a new grand plan.
Rotigus knew Barag: a glutton who feasted and shirked, who had barely lifted a claw in war.
He doubted the oaf could produce anything of worth.
This "grand plan" reeked of avoidance and indolence.
As Rotigus waded into the First Favorite's bog, the air filled with the soft, silly lullaby of plague-flies and the Nurgling choirs.
The little musicians hushed him with tiny fingers to lips, worried he'd wake the First Favorite and his "guests."
Rotigus found them head-down in the muck, snoring—
the First Favorite sprawled wide, and several other top-rank Great Unclean Ones in laughably contorted sleep.
Only one thought remained to the Rainfather:
"Ruined… they're all ruined."
(End of Chapter)
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