When the corrosive gas began to pour in, the grand hall's "performance" had just concluded.
The beast tamer stood before the crowd, vowing that next time, he would bring forth an even better-trained creature—one that could finally complete the flaming-hoop act.
The audience cheered wildly—not for his act, but for the grotesque spectacle of sewing animal hides onto human flesh, "returning" people to beasts. Among them were even so-called "animal rights advocates," who proclaimed that this performance was a brilliant satire—a symbolic protest against the cruelty of animal shows, a perverse form of "support" for animal welfare.
They shouted, laughed, applauded, drunk on noise and ecstasy, unaware that every exit had already been sealed.
When the first wisps of toxic gas hissed into the hall, the crowd thought it part of the entertainment. The stinging fumes thrilled them—pain was just another form of pleasure. Like those who savor the burn of chili or the sharp bliss of a blade against skin, they screamed in ecstasy. Some even praised the "owner" for his ingenuity, for adding new thrills to suit every appetite. Several declared loyalty, swearing their lives to him in adoration.
But the man they worshipped—their beloved "proprietor," the Gardener Von Aurn—was already dead, his head crushed into pulp.
Ignis watched these people—no, Slaanesh cultists—and felt a cold dread creeping through his heart. For the pursuit of ever-greater ecstasy, they had discarded even the instinct for survival. Their nasal passages were inflamed, throats blistered, yet they only moaned louder.
The less-corrupted among them began to suffer first—coughing blood, their lungs tearing apart as they inhaled more gas. Their eyes melted in their sockets, optic nerves screaming before bursting under the pressure.
With wet, popping sounds—pop, pop, pop—eyeballs ruptured, fluids spurting down mangled faces. The chemical agent claimed its first harvest. Fewer and fewer still writhed on the ground, and those who could still breathe choked out blood.
Yet a few—those touched by Slaanesh's blessings—were not so easily killed. Twisted by mutation, they reveled in the fumes, laughing as blindness overtook them. Sight was no longer needed; they felt the world through pain.
One, overcome by rage, shattered a wine bottle and lunged at another by sound alone. The jagged glass sliced through scaled flesh, letting more poison seep in—amplifying both agony and delight.
The brawl was brief. The attacker, armed with sharper instincts and sharper glass, gutted his foe with several quick thrusts. The scent of fresh blood ignited the room—madness spread like wildfire.
One dragged a corpse up, exposing his warped body, and began to indulge himself. Another turned feral and fought back, grabbing whatever came to hand—broken plates, glass vases, carving knives. The hall became a slaughterhouse, every object a weapon, every scream a hymn to ruin.
Soon, even the blessed mutants began to falter. Flesh, no matter how altered, cannot resist a gas that eats the soul itself. Their lungs liquefied, their bodies failing one by one.
But in those few short minutes, they had already degenerated—some sprouting scales, tails, or reptilian features, teetering on the edge of becoming full Spawn ofSlaanesh.
Ignis was grimly thankful for his decision. Had this place been left standing, it might have bred the first generation of a true Slaanesh Cult. They would have begun their rituals of devotion to the Prince of Excess, summoning ever-greater blessings.
By then, even a fully armed strike force might not have been enough to cleanse it. For out of such a congregation could emerge a Daemonette—or worse, a Masque of Slaanesh. Even with the Emperor's light, he might well have perished here.
The captives locked in the cells were dead too, piled in heaps near the bars like sardines in a can. Their hands reached out, nails broken and bloody from clawing the floor.
Ignis dared not imagine their suffering. They had been kidnapped, enslaved, used as props—then, tainted by faint traces of corruption, executed by the same poison that slew their captors.
If the cultists in the hall were damned by choice, these were the innocent—unwilling martyrs.
He stared at their outstretched hands, at the bloody grooves they'd left in the floor, and felt as though those fingers were clawing at his own heart.
They died because of my decision.
The Salamander's spirit sank, yet he knew—this sacrifice had meaning. Better this than to let Slaanesh's corruption spread. Even the faintest taint could twist a mind, change a soul—until the victim realized too late that they had become a slave to it.
He turned toward Von Aurn's corpse, rage rekindled—and crushed the man's skull beneath his heel.
Hatred seethed in him so violently that he longed to find that Herald ofSlaanesh who had invaded his dreams—to hammer its skull down into its chest and burn it to ash.
But in his fury, Ignis failed to notice the soft, pink mist curling from the corpse—wrapping itself around him.
"If you crave vengeance," a voice whispered in his mind, neither male nor female, "I can help you."
"I can grant you strength—immortality. Let you hunt your enemies and delight in their deaths. Or perhaps…" the voice cooed, "you'd rather enjoy other pleasures? I can bring that girl back. The one you loved. Iori, wasn't it? Such a clever, pretty thing. What a shame the golden sun stole her soul."
Ignis had almost been listening—until the name Iori froze his blood. In that instant, clarity returned.
He knew who was speaking—the Prince of Pleasure himself, offering him temptation.
Immediately he examined his body, terrified he might already be changing—extra limbs, claws, tails. But aside from his blackened, battle-scarred frame, he was still himself. The brand on his face burned with holy fire.
From another's perspective, one could have seen it clearly—a radiant golden light clashing with the pink mist, pushing it back.
"Ah," purred the voice, trembling with amusement, "so He still favors you. How delightful. I'll have your soul yet… and this world will follow. Let's keep playing our little game."
A mocking laugh rang in his head—then pain like molten metal seared through his skull. His consciousness slipped into blackness.
In that void, he once again saw Him—the majestic figure in golden armor, long hair flowing, radiant and terrible.
"I thought He would take your soul easily," the being said, his tone both gentle and stern. "I did not expect the memory of that girl to save you. Perhaps I underestimated you… child of another world."
"Remember this: hatred is a double-edged sword. Do not let it wound you as well."
Ignis jolted awake, gasping, drenched in sweat.
His mind throbbed, every thought sluggish, his limbs heavy—as though his consciousness lagged behind his body. Two powers—divine and profane—had wrestled for his soul. Any lesser being would have been reduced to a Chaos spawn… or something worse.
Checking the monitors, he saw nothing living. The room's seals had lifted. Though he felt he had only blacked out for moments, hours had passed. The ventilation systems had purged the gas.
Thankfully, this was the outer ring of the hive—not a densely populated area. There would be no secondary contamination.
After resting, Ignis rose. The living were gone, but the dead remained.
He began his final work. As he walked, he hurled makeshift firebombs—ensuring that the alcohol would ignite every corpse.
"I will remember your sacrifice," he murmured.
He lit the last Molotov and dropped it.
Fire leapt along the trails of liquor, devouring flesh and silk alike. The flames roared high—purification through destruction.
The Salamander stood amidst the blaze, feeling the pain and sorrow bound within the fire. Yet the flames bent away from him, leaving his body untouched.
When all was ash, he turned toward the upper levels—there were still bodies to burn.
He hauled two barrels of liquor from the cellar, smashed them open, and set them alight.
If I cannot save them from the gods of Chaos… then let all of this be reduced to ash.