Chapter 39: The Six Rings of Slaanesh
"To save Fulgrim, come to the palace in the center~"
An impossibly seductive voice whispered through the warp-tainted air, its honeyed tones sliding like silk through Francis's consciousness. Even without seeing its source, he knew this belonged to a being of terrible, predatory beauty.
Francis stood motionless for a moment, considering his options with the cold calculation that had served him well in countless battlefields. Then he made his decision.
"I don't want to save him," Francis called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Can you let me go?"
Silence stretched between them like a taut wire. The daemon had expected many responses—rage, desperation, noble determination—but not this casual dismissal.
"Don't you want to save Angron? He's on the third circle."
The voice returned, musical and patient, while Francis took a moment to appreciate its craftsmanship before responding.
"Your voice is nice, but you can have Angron too if you want him."
"Aren't they your brothers? Would you let them die just like that?"
"I have twenty brothers and thousands of sons, so one or two less won't make much difference." Francis's tone remained conversationally casual, as if discussing the weather. "If you want them, consider them gifts. I didn't bring anything else anyway, so... can you let me go now?"
His words cut through the warp-touched air, reaching the hidden daemons lurking in the shadows. They had witnessed countless mortals succumb to temptation, yet never such casual indifference to familial bonds. This Primarch spoke of his brothers like expendable assets.
Francis waited, but the silence stretched on. The humans trapped in the surrounding cages watched him with desperate hope, their eyes bright with need and madness.
"Mercy, Primarch," one whispered, voice cracking. "Please, just one coin. Just one~"
"Next time for sure," Francis replied, already walking past them. "I'm a bit busy right now."
As he moved through the crowd of lesser daemons, Francis noted their confusion. How would ordinary mortals know of Primarchs? These were no mere humans, though he had more pressing concerns than cataloging daemon taxonomy.
The corridor ahead gleamed with obscene wealth, the first circle of Avidity, where greed consumed all who entered. Precious gems studded the walls like captured stars, while golden statues lined every path, each one lifelike enough to suggest they had once been living beings who reached out in greed.
Francis passed them all without a glance, muttering as he walked. "Your trials need work. You should be whispering constantly about how valuable and rare these treasures are."
Almost immediately, tempting voices began their seductive chorus in his ears.
"I meant you should whisper to others," Francis clarified patiently. "I'm the Emperor's son, so even if I only inherit one-twentieth of the galaxy, I'm still richer than your collection here. This makes me question your business skills as daemons. Please... be professional."
Three days later, having found no exit but discovering a door leading deeper inward, Francis covered his face with his hands. When confronted with the absurd, laughter was often the only appropriate response.
"Alright, so this is how we're playing!" He picked up a discarded combat knife, still relatively clean, which suggested its owner hadn't been here long. "Fine, I'll go take a look."
Beyond the dark threshold, the space opened into a vast cavern dotted with floating islands connected by narrow bridges.
The second circle—Gluttony.
Each island bore a single massive dining table groaning under the weight of elaborate feasts, while around these tables, mountains of corrupted flesh gorged themselves endlessly. When thirsty, they would lower their distended heads to drink from lakes of wine.
Their eyes held only despair, yet their bodies continued their endless consumption.
"Someone help me!" one wailed between mouthfuls. "I'm so hungry, why am I always hungry!"
The gluttons swelled until they burst, leaving nothing but putrid waste. Francis ended their suffering with precise knife strokes, granting them the mercy of true death before advancing to the next level. Each kill felt like a small act of kindness in this realm of endless torment.
The third circle, Carnality, resembled a pastoral meadow of soft grass beneath a false sky. Young men and women wearing animal masks cavorted naked among the wheat, their hollow laughter echoing across the fields.
At the center, Angron lay upon a golden haystack with a blade of grass between his teeth, surrounded by maidens who caressed him with worshipful hands.
"Angron!" Francis pushed through the crowd, shoving the attendants aside. "Angron, wake up! How did you end up here?"
But Angron only stared at the artificial sky with vacant eyes, a mindless grin splitting his features as if his higher brain functions had been surgically removed.
The great gladiator, the Red Angel who had never known peace, finally lay at rest—and it was the most horrifying sight Francis had ever witnessed.
Francis shook him, slapped him, and shouted his name, but nothing worked. Angron simply lay there, lost in empty bliss, while his daemon-tormented mind finally found silence.
"What did you do to him?" Francis demanded, his voice cracking with anger.
The displaced revelers began to change, their masks melting away to reveal their true forms—writhing limbs, excess flesh, and bone blades drawn from impossible sheaths.
They lunged together at him with inhuman shrieks.
Francis met them with his combat knife, each strike accompanied by daemonic screams. When one attempted to block with its claws, the impact rang like struck metal before Francis's backhand split it from skull to groin, black ichor spattering the false grass.
His blade swept horizontally, decapitating three flanking attackers in a single motion. Their heads tumbled through the air, expressions still locked in predatory hunger.
"You know I'm also a Primarch, right?" Francis observed, stepping over the carnage. "Do you really need to be so aggressive? Unlike my brothers, I take no pleasure in getting my hands dirty with begotten filth like you."
A severed daemon head tried to speak, but Francis crushed it under his boot. He didn't like blood, but for his brother, this was nothing.
Francis dragged the catatonic Angron toward the next level, his brother's weight serving as a constant reminder of what Chaos could steal from even the mightiest warriors.
The fourth circle, Paramountcy, presented him with a vision that would have broken lesser minds.
A figure in golden armor stood holding the Imperial banner, surrounded by Francis's brother Primarchs, the High Lords of Terra, and countless Astartes. The golden figure's face radiated paternal warmth.
"Francis, come quickly. The Imperium will be yours from now on."
Francis walked directly up to the vision and swung his knife, cutting only empty air. The illusion didn't even have the courtesy to feel solid.
"So it's an illusion now. You should have made it solid at least; letting me cut it a few times would have been more satisfying," he called toward the unseen center of this realm. "Also, the Emperor would never talk like that; your illusion doesn't come close to his authority when he speaks."
The fifth circle, Vainglory, was a garden of winding paths lined with beautiful flowers and thorns. Gentle breezes carried whispered flatteries that spoke to the deepest vanities of the soul.
"You cured the flesh-change of the Thousand Sons~"
"You saved countless loyal Astartes~"
"You are the Emperor's most outstanding son~"
A mirror lake reflected the Emperor's image, but closer inspection revealed it was Francis wearing his gene-sire's golden armor. Around the lake's shore, other victims stood transfixed by their own reflections, held immobile as thorns slowly pierced their flesh.
Francis shook his head and continued forward. He had heard enough empty praise in his life to recognize it when whispered by daemons.
The sixth circle, Indolence, was a golden beach beneath an artificial sun. A celestial choir sang lullabies while fragrant sea air promised rest, and voices whispered that lying down here would bring perfect peace, eternal respite from the burdens of duty and war.
Francis felt the temptation more keenly here than in any other circle.
The promise of rest called to every exhausted fiber in his enhanced physiology, but he sighed and methodically cut down the entire choir. Their song died, revealing the beach for what it truly was—an endless expanse of bleached bones.
Beyond the beach rose the shining palace itself: an impossibly tall fortress balanced atop twisted stone pillars that writhed like living serpents. Inside, mirrors reflected infinite versions of Fulgrim—some in his noble form, others showing his four-armed, serpentine corruption, and still others twisted into barely recognizable flesh.
"Congratulations, you've passed. Come in quickly~"
The seductive voice returned, but Francis had reached his limit.
"You don't have a reward for completing trials?" he announced, his voice echoing with genuine fatigue. "Forget it. I wonder why I had such an expectation of you? These six trials of yours are meaningless. I'm tired today."
He paused, then continued with unexpected emotion. "This whole thing of yours isn't working out. We can't be together, do you understand? This kind of forced attraction is suffocating. We're just not compatible."
The honesty in his voice cut deeper than any blade. Here was a being who had walked through the very heart of temptation and found it disappointing—not because he was pure, but because he was practical.
An ear-splitting shriek filled the realm, and Francis felt reality twist around him like a breaking rope.
"Francis, what's wrong? Why are you spacing out?"
Fulgrim's voice cut through the disorientation. Francis found himself back on Isstvan V, his brother's finger leaving a shallow indent on his forehead.
"Weren't you asleep just now?"
"No, you just froze when I mentioned whipping the Emperor."
Francis stroked his chin thoughtfully while pieces fell into place. The daemon's trap had been specifically designed for him; it knew his personality, his relationships, his weaknesses. That level of preparation spoke to intelligence gathering far beyond just another Chaos corruption.
"This is really troublesome now. That was clearly aimed at me specifically." He looked at his brother with new understanding, seeing past the surface corruption to the complex web of influences beneath.
"How about this? I have another method to remove the daemon from your body. Want to try it?"
But even as he spoke, Francis wondered if any of them could truly escape the tendrils of Chaos that seemed to reach for every Primarch. The vision of Angron, lost in blissful oblivion, haunted him.
Was that peace, or was it the ultimate defeat?
[End of Chapter]