In Ignis's vision, the girl's body gradually lost its warmth, the soft red hue dimming into lifeless darkness.
O Emperor, receive her soul, protect her from the foul grasp of the Prince of Excess, grant her eternal rest, free from the torment of daemons.
Ignis prayed silently, reaching out his right hand, attempting to close the girl's now dull and lifeless eyes.
Perhaps it was divine will, or perhaps the Emperor had heard his plea—she did not resist. When his fingers brushed across her eyelids, they gently shut.
Ignis exhaled a long sigh. He tore a strip from the tattered bed sheet and wrapped it around the girl's body. In life, she had been stripped of dignity and warmth; at least now, she could be granted a final shred of respect.
"Damn it." Ignis looked at the shrouded form before him, tearing off another piece of cloth to cover her face. "I will avenge you. Your name will be etched upon my armor. I'll reclaim your blood debt, even if Slaanesh itself descends before me—I'll leave two marks upon its accursed face."
His twin hearts pounded with fury, threatening to burst from his chest. His three lungs drew in great gulps of air, the sound of his breathing heavy as a forge bellows, stoking the fire of his wrath ever hotter.
But vengeance alone was not enough. Ignis knew that to destroy this wretched den, he would need reason as well as rage. The time will come, he told himself. And when it does, they will know the wrath of the Son of Vulkan.
He straightened, slapped his face lightly to calm himself, and forced his expression back into composure.
The next step, as he had planned, was to find the wine cellar—and the others who had been taken captive.
Ignis pushed open the door. The Thiren servant—its eyes and mouth crudely sewn shut—turned toward the sound.
"That chick seems done for. You want me to toss her out?"
Ignis forced himself to respond in a cold, detached tone, though the words made his skin crawl.
Her name was Iori, he reminded himself. Everything she was—destroyed by this cursed place. It's fine. I'll avenge her.
That was all he could do. Only vengeance… He could not save her. The corruption of Slaanesh, once begun, never ceased. But he could still remember her name—could still punish those responsible. So many young, bright lives extinguished here, nameless and forgotten.
Just like that wretched Francis, whose "avant-garde performances" were painted on the bodies of his victims. They never even had the chance to leave behind their names.
The Thiren hesitated for a moment, then turned and shuffled into the room. Some grotesque device on its back hissed, filled with bubbles and strange fluid, its movements slow and unnatural.
Ignis shut the door behind them and watched as the abomination approached the shrouded girl, reaching out to touch her with trembling hands.
Then Ignis's hammer came down in a thunderous boom, splitting the creature clean in half. Its upper body burst into a crimson mist of blood and flesh.
He shook the gore from his weapon, stepped into the bathroom, and washed it carefully until no trace of blood or hair remained before holstering it again. The incendiary bottles were secured tightly on his belt—even the one tied with a neat little bow.
When he stepped back into the corridor, he activated Fire-Sight and began tracking the heat signatures of Iori and the servant who had brought the wine. Following their trail, he moved through the hallways.
With each sealed door he passed, his enhanced hearing picked up the muffled sobs, feigned laughter, and cries of agony from within. Behind every sound was one—or several—tormented souls. Ignis longed to smash down every door, to drag out the tormentors and pulp their skulls beneath his hammer.
But it was not yet time. He needed to wait for the right moment.
He clenched his fists so tightly that the muscles in his right arm began to spasm, barely restraining his fury.
At the corridor's end stood a door leading elsewhere. There were no guards—no one had expected any guest to take interest in what lay beyond.
Past the threshold, the lavish decor vanished, replaced by cold concrete stretching into darkness. The dim lights overhead flickered weakly, barely illuminating the way. Twin tracks marked the floor, trails of neglect amid layers of dust.
It was clearly a repurposed section of old piping. Amazing, Ignis thought grimly. They've carved out an entire space beneath the ground. I wonder what it was once for.
The path sloped downward, twisting as it went. Soon, the faint scent of alcohol reached him.
Ignis found the wine storage—three whole warehouses of it. Examining the labels, he selected the strongest spirits, dragged several barrels outside, then swung his hammer, smashing the rest and letting the liquor flow freely across the floor.
The fumes spread quickly, drawing the attention of several servants. They approached, confused—then darkness took them as Ignis struck.
Their broken bodies were cast into the flooded cellar. Soon, the heavy scent of alcohol masked the stench of blood.
He didn't ignite it yet. Not until the captives were found.
Iori's heat trace pointed deeper into the complex. It was almost as if the cinnamon-skinned girl herself was guiding his path.
Along the way, he encountered more servants. Some gasped at the sight of him, unfamiliar and imposing, even offering to escort him back. None survived the encounter.
Before long, he reached the cells where the living were kept.
Dim light revealed rows of cages lining both sides of the corridor. Within each ten-square-meter room huddled seven or eight people. Seeing Ignis approach, they recoiled in terror, retreating into the corners like wounded animals.
There were both women and men—some frail, others muscular—but all alike in their despair.
A sudden scream pierced the air, summoning a jailer.
It resembled the servant at the VIP door—its eyes and mouth sealed, its torso bare. From its elbows extended three whip-like tendrils, grotesque weapons befitting the touch of Slaanesh. At its appearance, the prisoners covered their mouths, trembling in silent dread.
The creature raised an arm to strike, but the Salamander moved faster. In a blur of motion, Ignis's hammer cleaved through the darkness—and the abomination's upper body exploded into ruin.
A few captives gasped, some even wept in joy.
Ignis did not share their relief. The mark on his face burned fiercely—proof that every soul here had already been tainted by Slaanesh.
Corrupted.
And corruption meant purification.
His steps faltered. He walked on, counting how many souls needed cleansing. With each cell he passed, the number grew—and his resolve wavered.
Then the stench hit him: blood mingled with waste. Not the alchemical scent of Slaaneshi concoctions, but the raw, human odor of slaughter.
Ignis realized he had reached the corridor's end. Behind him, countless eyes stared in desperate hope.
He turned away. He could not face them. He could not give them the salvation they sought. All he could offer was release.
If only I were a powerful psyker, he thought bitterly. If I could call upon the Emperor's light to cleanse them…
But the burning mark on his face reminded him—he was no more than a Primaris Space Marine, and even a Librarian might not have succeeded here.
Still, he lifted his head. The blood stench came from several rooms ahead.
"Hang in there, sweetheart. My masterpiece is almost complete."
The voice froze him where he stood. That voice. Francis—the loathsome, penguin-shaped degenerate.
Ignis smashed the door open. The vile little man was there, carving patterns into a chained girl's body with a knife made from human bone. Startled, he turned to shout—only to be seized and slammed against the wall by an armored gauntlet.
When his senses returned, he found himself staring into two crimson, glowing eyes filled with hate.
"Wh–who are you?! Help! Someone help me!" he shrieked, soiling himself in terror.
"I bring Iori's vengeance," Ignis growled, his voice like grinding metal.
"Iori? Who—who is Ior—Aaaahhhh!"
Ignis spat acid across his face, watching as the creature's head dissolved into a bubbling ruin.
Yes, Ignis thought coldly. Who is Iori to him? Just another toy. Another body without a name.
The chained girl managed a weak smile as she looked upon Francis's corpse. Then her head slumped to the side, lifeless.
Ignis pulled out a lighter, untied the incendiary bottle with the bow, lit it, and hurled it onto the remains. Flames roared to life, consuming the grotesque artist.
This is only the beginning.