The thing before them seethed with a Warp-presence so horrific that Titus felt its corruption in the very marrow of his bones. Compared to this Warp-spawned filth, even the Lord of Change, whose physical form had only recently dissolved back into the empyrean, seemed pale by comparison.
This Verminlord was none other than the Master of Clan Eshin: the Nightlord, Sneek.
He had manifested expecting an unforeseen challenge, yet found himself disappointed. Neither the human specifically marked by the Great Horned Rat, nor these wretched rats, nor even the Tzeentchian daemon had proven to be anything more than brittle fodder.
Sneek felt he was wasting his time. As an assassin, he did not fear the passage of time, but he loathed being tethered to targets of no consequence.
Around them, the lesser skaven immediately succumbed to the Verminlord's terrifying aura. Their musk-glands failed, drenching the floor in the foul stench of terror and abject submission. Among the squealing masses, only a select few dropped to one knee in the shadow-wraith posture of the Eshin, bowing their heads. These were the spies and infiltrators Clan Eshin had embedded within Clan Moulder, now offering frantic homage to the Lord of Eshin and the Grandmaster of Assassins.
"Well, Lord Titus, it seems this isn't just another lackey," Gadriel remarked, tightening his grip on his power fist and plasma pistol. He stepped ahead of Titus, clearly intending to anchor the line against the first strike.
"Indeed. It is large," Titus replied, his voice devoid of fear. "But the Emperor's Light is enough to cast it down." Without hesitation, he raised his bolter and unleashed a rhythmic string of thunderous reports.
Despite his towering stature, Sneek's movements were impossibly fluid. The Nightlord's weeping blades carved dozens of jade-green arcs through the air, shearing the bolt shells apart with such preternatural speed they lacked the time to detonate.
"Engaging a foe head-on is a failure of the assassin's craft... but for you, it is more than sufficient," Sneek hissed, his disdain deepening. His ten-meter frame crouched low on all fours with a predatory grace that felt sickeningly natural. His crimson rat-eyes locked onto the three Astartes.
With a blurred flick of his wrist, dozens of warp-stars streaked toward them like las-bolts.
Metaurus lunged forward, thrusting the Relic Shield before his brothers. The shield, thrumming with sanctified power, rang with a series of heavy clangs as it intercepted the projectiles.
"Ugh—!" Metaurus cried out, forced to cast the relic aside. Even through the reinforced servos of his power armor, the impact brought a jolt of agony, and the warp-stars were already hissing as they ate through the hallowed ceramite with unnatural corruption.
Titus seized the opening. Roaring a challenge, he charged Sneek, revving his chainsword while maintaining a steady stream of suppression fire.
Sneek let out a cold, chattering laugh. He did not meet the brute force head-on; instead, he leaped backward, dissolving into a pool of living shadow.
An instant later, a trail of sickly green bale-light slashed toward Titus's exposed back.
Titus must have sensed the warp-flare behind him. With a desperate but calculated roll, he evaded the killing blow and lashed out blindly with his chainsword.
The blade met only air. Sneek, whose form had shrunk within the shadows to the size of an ordinary skaven, whispered from directly behind the Primaris Lieutenant: "Impressive. You have piqued my interest. You are the first human to evade my opening strike. I shall claim your skull as a trophy for my Pillar of Trophies."
In the hierarchy of Clan Eshin, the Pillar of Trophies was the ultimate metric of lethality. Once a gutter runner ascended to the rank of Assassin, their standing remained static unless they dared challenge the Black Thirteen or the Deathmasters. Strength was measured by the "trophies" one claimed, be it the head of a high-value target or a guarded relic. The more impossible the kill, the higher the assassin stood.
Titus knew nothing of Eshin tradition, nor did he have any desire to converse with xenos or daemons. He remained silent, swinging his chainsword in a frenzied arc to force Sneek back.
Metaurus and Gadriel attempted to flank the creature, but they were chasing ghosts. They couldn't even track Sneek's shadow. As for escape, the entire sub-level was now saturated with a malice so thick it was tangible. Thousands of Eshin assassins lay hidden in the crevices of the Hell Pit, a level of total atmospheric control that Clan Moulder itself had never achieved.
"Hah... For the Emperor," Metaurus exhaled, his dark features set in grim resolve beneath his MK X helm. "It is but a return to the Golden Throne."
…
Within the Warp.
Lucius knew that no amount of "protagonist energy" would allow Titus to best Sneek in his ascended Verminlord form. Sneek was merely playing with his food.
He turned to the Emperor. In the wake of their defeat at the Forge of Souls, Nurgle and Khorne had withdrawn in a fit of divine fury; Khorne's parting insults, in particular, were exceptionally colorful.
Slaanesh, however, remained. The Dark Prince sat with legs crossed, appearing as a breathtakingly beautiful woman with silver hair and amethyst eyes, watching the unfolding carnage with predatory amusement.
"This is the final chance, Emperor," Lucius said.
In the Imperium, sacrifice was the standard currency, and an Astartes was merely a high-value coin. But Titus was different. The Emperor (and GW) held him in high regard, making his survival a necessity.
The Emperor saw the opening Lucius had provided. Had Lucius willed it, the Astartes would never have made it this far.
"Very well," the Emperor sighed, conceding. He swept a hand through the aether.
Golden motes of light coalesced into the form of a black-haired girl in ornate golden plate, great feathery wings unfurling from her back.
"My Lord... Saint Celestine answers your call," the maiden said, kneeling in fervent devotion.
"Oh my~ what a darling little thing~"
A voice, as melodic as a siren's song and heavy with sensuality, cut through the air. Slaanesh narrowed her eyes into crescent moons, gazing at the Living Saint. "Why not come to big sister? I have so many fun things to show you~"
Celestine snapped her head toward the source of the voice, spotting the youth in black robes and the devastatingly seductive woman beside him. As the Emperor's Greater Daemon, she could sense the abyssal evil radiating from them.
In an instant, Celestine drew the Ardent Blade, its holy fire erupting as she leveled it at Lucius and Slaanesh.
Slaanesh didn't flinch. If anything, her excitement grew. "Such a rude child... but that only makes me more spirited~ Ahh, I can already see the look on your face after I've broken you... that delicious 'Kill me' expression~"
"You… what did you say?!" Celestine lunged forward, but the Emperor's voice commanded her to halt. He cared little for Slaanesh's games, but Celestine was a functional tool he wasn't prepared to lose yet.
"I have summoned you for a mission," the Emperor stated. "Go. Save them. The Imperium cannot afford to lose them."
Celestine lowered her blade and bowed deeply once more. "As you command, my Lord!"
As she departed, she threw one last vitriolic glare at Lucius and Slaanesh. To the Dark Prince, the "fierce" expression was merely adorable, heightening her perverse anticipation.
"Keep your drool off my robes," Lucius muttered, looking at Slaanesh, who was practically hanging off his shoulder while staring longingly at Celestine's retreating back. At the same time, his own curiosity was piqued. He truly wanted to see if the Living Saint could hold her own against the Nightlord.
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