The flame, ignited by alcohol, began as a dim blue before turning bright yellow. The grotesque artist sizzled as the oil covering his skin caught fire.
Ignis turned and walked out. He opened every execution chamber, witnessing each form of grotesque punishment. He engraved these images into his memory—there would come a day when this debt would be settled, with the vanguard of Slaanesh and his followers.
At the end of the corridor of execution rooms stood an iron door with an electronic lock. It appeared to require a palm print to open.
The fire behind him grew larger. The execution chamber where Francis had been confined was now entirely engulfed in flames, spewing thick black smoke.
There was no automatic sprinkler system here; the fire only spread more wildly.
Ignis pondered how to open the door. Smashing it with a hammer might be stupid, he thought, but it's the only option right now.
He raised the hammer, ready to strike—but the lock clicked open before he could.
"Damn it, fire alarms again? What new stunt is that lunatic pulling now?"
A man emerged from inside, the skin of his upper body a map of horrific scars, with hardly an inch of intact flesh remaining where his eyelids once were.
He looked dumbfounded at the uninvited guest standing before him—and then his vision sank into darkness forever.
Ignis shook off the filth from his hammer, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. Another man was there, headphones on, head bobbing to some aggressive beat. The rhythm was wild, his movements even wilder.
Then his head exploded—violently. The flying headphones smacked into the wall of monitors and bounced back to land at Ignis's feet, still blaring deafening noise.
The Salamander stomped down hard, crushing the thing as it twitched on the floor. Who knows what cursed song was playing in that damned thing.
Ignis tossed the headless corpse aside and examined the console in front of him. Smart devices were usually designed to be idiot-proof—so even fools could use them. It didn't take long for Ignis to figure it out. The system could control the surveillance network, the ventilation, even the disinfection system—by sealing the shutters and releasing toxic gas through reversed ventilation.
What kind of sick place needs something like this? he wondered. A "Pleasure Chamber for Giant Squids"? Whatever the purpose, this was good news for Ignis. It was a far simpler solution than burning the place down with alcohol.
The system display indicated that the gas was a corrosive toxin—capable of destroying a person's respiratory system within moments of inhalation. Just thinking about it made his spine crawl. But this place was beyond salvation; even those imprisoned here were already corrupted by Slaanesh.
Ignis felt a pang of pity—but he knew too well that releasing them would only let the Dark Prince's influence spread further, endangering the people of New Eridu. Yet to personally end their lives in such agony… that weighed heavily on any conscience.
Even knowing it wasn't his fault—that the servants of the Prince of Pleasure had committed the atrocities first—Ignis still bore the burden. He was here to stop the infection from spreading further, to prevent more innocent suffering.
Lowering his head, he clenched his fists. The last time such an order had been given, it was by Sergeant Volkanic. Now, it was his turn to make the call. His reason told him this was the right choice—sacrifice the infected so that New Eridu might be saved. But his conscience, his morality, protested bitterly. At least let them die without pain, he thought.
Like Iori… at least grant them their final dignity.
Every Salamander warrior knew the creed of the Promethean Cult—self-reliance, self-sacrifice, and absolute loyalty. The meaning of sacrifice was to bear the cost for others, to become the price oneself.
The brand on his face grew scorching hot, as if to burn him. He knew he was not perfectly loyal to The Emperor—by some measures, he was a heretic—but in this moment, prayer was all he had left.
Yet the great being upon the Golden Throne did not answer him.
Frustrated, Ignis lifted his head and watched through the surveillance feeds as the horror within the Garden unfolded.
Another blasphemous performance had begun. On the main stage stood a figure, neither wholly man nor woman, cracking a long whip like some twisted beast tamer. With each lash, "animals" crawled from backstage—cats, dogs, bears, wolves, even lions and tigers—all lining up obediently.
They lacked all savagery, docile as livestock.
Of course, they weren't animals at all—they were humans. Men and women alike, with animal heads sewn onto them, animal hides stitched into their flesh, and tails grafted to their spines. Their limbs were broken, twisted, or folded by mechanical devices to mimic animal movement. With every crack of the whip, they moved in agony, bodies trembling despite the gags stuffed in their mouths.
Being a "beast show," there were acts like tightrope walking, cycling, and balancing on balls. But the performers couldn't control their mutilated bodies; failures were constant. Each mistake brought the lash—a bladed whip that tore flesh from bone.
The grand finale was, of course, the flaming hoop. But these "animals" could barely walk—how could they leap? Under the tamer's whip, the first to try was a lion. He forced his broken body into a run and jumped—but failed to clear the one-meter-high ring. He fell, and the ring collapsed onto him. The flames caught his dried fur, igniting instantly. He rolled to extinguish it, but that only earned him another savage beating.
Blood spilled and sizzled away under the flames. The audience erupted into ecstatic cheers, bottles flying onto the stage—spilled alcohol feeding the inferno consuming the poor beast.
He tried again to smother the flames, but as more bottles shattered around him, the fire swallowed him whole. Finally, he exhaled softly, surrendering to the blaze.
As the lion's body blackened into charcoal, attendants righted the flaming ring, doused it in fuel, and reignited it. The tamer raised his whip once more, summoning the next beast—a bear.
Ignis could watch no more. He turned away, facing the execution chambers he had passed earlier. Apart from Francis, others still lived—barely. Most were flayed, skinned raw, or stacked like carcasses, their blood and spines harvested as trophies. The walls gleamed with hung remains, pale as dried fish.
There's no saving this place! Ignis roared inwardly. It's all been defiled by Slaanesh! There's not a single untainted soul left! Keeping them alive only prolongs their torment—it's better to end it now, grant them eternal peace!
Even if their souls might be seized by Slaanesh or his warlord, he couldn't let them continue suffering here.
At that moment, Ignis recalled the battle before he arrived in New Eridu—aboard the combat barge, when Sergeant Volkanic had ordered the purging of crewmembers infected by Nurgle's plague. Did his heart ache the same way then?
He believed it did. The old sergeant had treated him like both son and brother, defending his infiltration of the cult of Slaanesh as his own oversight—not Ignis's failure.
He remembered the gift Volkanic once gave a ship officer—a dagger with a sheath decorated with Salamander hide from the beasts of Nocturne.
Such a gentle warrior… how could his heart not have ached? Yet Volkanic had known that leaving them to linger was crueler still. Deliverance was mercy.
"Don't forget," the sergeant had said once, his heavy hand on Ignis's shoulder, "we were not made Space Marines because we're stronger, smarter, or faster—but because we understand the weight of duty better than anyone."
"I believe in you, Ignis. You have the deepest empathy among us. Some call it weakness—but we know it's a gift. It's what lets us understand true responsibility."
"You will be a great warrior. When you understand the meaning of sacrifice, you'll be greater than I ever was."
But you never told me, sergeant—how hard it is to sacrifice others. How many times have you endured this pain?
No answer came. The show continued; the beasts all failed, their corpses burned black. The audience didn't care—they were ecstatic, drunk, and high on pink crystals, groping and laughing in madness.
Insanity spread through the hall. Ignis's skin crawled; he couldn't let this abomination spread. He had to end it here.
Sacrifice is the foundation of the Imperium.
For the first time, Ignis truly understood those words. If he didn't sacrifice the mildly corrupted now, it would lead to far greater ruin. If they gathered enough souls, the Dark Prince's legions would tear open the veil between this world and The Warp, dooming all of New Eridu.
If that happened, everyone—the Cunning Hares, young artist Emile, the Phaethon twins—all the new life he had built here—would vanish. Their souls would belong to the Prince of Pleasure. Nothing could be more horrific.
To sacrifice one's honor is also a form of sacrifice. Ignis loathed the thought, but he saw no other way. He would forever bear the stain of releasing the gas. He would forever be haunted by his conscience.
But this was a trolley problem—and he couldn't save everyone. He could only choose to save the greater number.
Drip, drip.
Water fell onto the console. The Salamander had made his final decision—he would personally press the button that would end their lives.
Ignis wiped his face and brushed the water from his chest. When he looked up again, his eyes burned with unbridled fury. He would remember every death here—and make Slaanesh pay for every drop of blood.
He activated the disinfection system, hesitated briefly, and pressed Confirm.
Nothing happened. The screen flickered with the words: [Biometric Identification Required], and a palm-scan module rose from the console.
Damn it! Of course a system this important would need multiple layers of authentication! There's no way it could be that easy to start!
He slammed his fist against the console in frustration, careful not to break it completely. If it needed a palm print, then it could only mean one thing—the owner, Von Aurn.
Ignis searched through the security feeds, intent on finding him and taking his hands for the scan.
But the suited man was nowhere to be found on any monitor—as if he had known Ignis's intentions beforehand and gone into hiding.
No way... is there really no other option?
"Looking for me, are you? And you've broken quite a few things along the way."
The smooth, measured voice of Von Aurn echoed from behind. "I welcomed you as an honored guest… and this is how you repay me?"
Ignis turned. The university lecturer was gone—what stood there now was neither man nor beast.
Like all of Slaanesh's disciples, he lacked eyelids, his skin pale beneath a silk-like, lavender robe that exposed his right chest. The material looked like leather—but not any kind of leather one could name. Around his neck hung a scarf made from a Thiren's tail, fastened with an obscene amethyst brooch carved with lewd symbols. From his back trailed a scaled tail—reptilian, adorned with gold rings inlaid with gems. His face still carried that same placid smile, his oiled hair gleaming under the firelight.
"You damned abomination!" Ignis drew his combat knife and hammer, ready for battle.
"Oh, come now, my friend," said the Gardener, drawing a pair of short blades crafted by Ignis himself. "Are you not a monster too? What a pity we must meet as enemies."
He pulled out a vial of strange liquid and plunged it into his neck.
A low, ecstatic groan escaped his throat as veins bulged around the injection site. His heart pounded violently—its rhythm visible even through his robe.
"An artist's work loses value while he's still alive," he murmured. "Especially his early pieces. But if I kill you, my dear creation becomes a true masterpiece—your final work, your death piece… a priceless rarity."
The twin serpentine daggers—one gold, one silver—danced in his hands, slithering like living snakes.
"Fear not. You are nothing like that drunk fool Francis or the other pretenders. I'll cherish these blades you forged with all my heart. And your skull—I'll adorn it with jewels and display it beside them."
"Want my head?" Ignis growled. "Then earn it."
Rage surged through him—the Son of Vulkan would show this creature what it meant to anger a Salamander. Even without his Mark X Gravis Power Armor, he knew he could crush this monstrosity.
He struck first. Left-hand blade swept in from the right, slicing for the enemy's throat. His hammer rose high—ready to follow through the instant the foe dodged, to crush his skull to paste.
Freed from the weight of the Gravis armor, Ignis moved like lightning. But Slaanesh's spawn were no strangers to speed—the gardener parried the knife with one serpentine blade, twisted in close, and lunged at Ignis's abdomen.
The hammer couldn't strike in time. The short blade was out of position to parry. The snake-blade coiled like a living thing, aiming for Ignis's gut, venom ready to spill.
If weapons won't work fast enough, Ignis thought, then I'll use something else!
He lifted his right leg and drove a knee into the creature's chest—a blow that could have shattered ribs to splinters.
The gardener crossed his arms to block—but the sheer force sent him flying.
He tried to twist midair to land better—but a massive, black-helmeted head smashed into him before he could recover.
The Son of Vulkan's headbutt connected cleanly with his nose—Ignis had aimed precisely for the weak point. He figured that after that hit, the man's skull would be little more than pulp.
Still, the monster didn't go down quietly—his serpentine blades slashed across Ignis's chest, leaving twin cuts. Poison seeped into the Astartes' bloodstream.
The gardener hit the ground, his face crushed, his neck broken, head twisted at an impossible angle.
Ignis touched his chest—blood, and a faintly sweet scent.
He instantly realized it—the blades had been poisoned.
Space Marines had formidable resistance to toxins, but this was Slaanesh's craft—a concoction of perverse alchemy. Dizziness struck; his balance faltered, vision blurring.
At least the gardener was dead—he couldn't attack again. Ignis braced himself against the wall, the ground swaying like a small ship in a hurricane. He would have to wait until his enhanced organs broke down the toxin.
But that thought was short-lived. The corpse on the ground stirred—then stood upright.
With a crack, the gardener twisted his neck back into place.
"So the poison worked!" he said gleefully, watching Ignis struggle to stay standing. "He said no one could resist this venom—and he was right!"
A pinkish-purple mist rose from his skin, its scent intoxicating. His head elongated, purple scales forming across his face. His mouth warped into a tubular maw with a grotesquely long tongue, like that of a monstrous anteater. The lavender robe fused with his skin as violet fur sprouted from his back. His serpentine blades merged into his arms, stretching into clawed pincers. His legs reshaped into hoofed limbs.
The gardener had become a Slaanesh daemon-beast.
The brand on Ignis's face flared painfully, glowing gold as it burned away the lingering poison. The creature's long tongue flicked toward him, tasting the air, searching for a moment to strike.
The daemon-beast lunged, body twisting unnaturally, crashing toward Ignis with terrifying speed. Cornered, Ignis had nowhere to dodge—only to counterattack.
Then he remembered—The Emperor's psychic shield!
With a surge of will, golden light burst before him. The daemon's pincers slammed into the psychic barrier, forcing their way through, inch by inch, toward Ignis's pounding heart.
The backlash rattled him, nearly knocking him senseless—but he steadied himself. The shield was fracturing, moments from breaking.
There was no time for anything fancy. He went for the simplest, surest kill—his combat knife arcing for the daemon's skull, even as he braced to take the claws in his shoulder.
It worked. The claws drove through his shoulder, pinning him to the wall—but his blade cleaved through the daemon's slick flesh, splitting half its head.
Both combatants were on the brink of death. The daemon-beast flailed, striking with its other pincer and lashing its barbed tongue toward Ignis's eyes. But the Salamander was fiercer still.
He stepped forward—driving the claws deeper into his own wound to close the distance. Then he brought his hammer down—smashing the back of his combat knife.
The daemon's head exploded into gore. Its other claw missed entirely.
Agony flared as the pincer tore free, nearly making Ignis faint. His Larraman's Organ kicked in, clotting the wound and sealing the gash.
The corpse on the floor warped again, reverting from daemon-beast to Von Aurn.
"This strike," Ignis muttered, "is for Iori… and all the others who suffered."
He severed Von Aurn's hands and pressed them to the scanner.
Red warning lights flared across the room. The doors locked tight. Air seals engaged. Every exit—even the hidden escape routes—sealed under seamless iron shutters.
The ventilation reversed, flooding the facility with its preloaded toxic gas.
The carefully prepared annihilation had begun.