"By the Emperor, you cannot escape the Custodes' tracking lock—even across the Webway!"
The Custodian commander glared at the anonymous poster, whose avatar was a giant raven, and replied through gritted teeth.
But his words were quickly drowned out by countless other replies.
The thread had already become the forum's hottest topic, drawing in even more spectators.
Voices of every kind chimed in:
Conservatives called the thread blasphemy against the Custodes, demanding its deletion before it angered them.
Radicals argued that this was the true spirit of the Empyrean Net: if nothing could be said, if everything must be censored, then the Imperial Forum had no reason to exist.
Sarcastics sighed and mocked, lamenting that losing Custodes vehicles was far too dangerous—what if heretics or xenos learned Imperial core technologies?
Spectators nodded at everyone's points and gleefully upvoted, fanning the flames and keeping the thread trending.
"Perhaps I should contact the Savior himself to erase such sacrilegious content…"
The Custodian commander thought grimly.
But in the very next moment, his breath caught in his throat.
For the Hope Primarch—the Savior himself—had liked the post!
His account was no anonymous mask; the badge of authority was clear, and the forum system even highlighted it in bold red with a blazing recommendation banner.
And then, just as quickly, the like was removed.
"Apologies, slip of the hand," came the Savior's brief reply, before going offline as if nothing had happened.
In truth, content on the Imperial Forum could not be deleted by anyone except the Machine-God's systems. Only when posts contained vital heretical or xenos secrets would they be auto-censored. Everything else remained untouched.
That was Eden's design: people must be free to speak boldly, so that hidden truths could surface.
All useful data was automatically extracted and stored into a central database.
In this way, if the Empyrean Net ever exposed real heretical or xenos activity, names could be compiled, and the Inquisition dispatched to "deliver warmth."
The Forum might be free, but freedom did not mean without boundaries. Evil would always be brought to justice.
Realizing the Savior would not interfere further, the Custodian commander abandoned the thought of escalation. He simply reported the situation while continuing to monitor the thread.
Though unable to control the Forum itself, the Custodians acted swiftly, determined to erase the shame of their blunder.
"Emperor preserve us, the Custodes' Shrike transport even still has armaments aboard! The quality's amazing—I'm tempted to buy one myself!"
The anonymous poster uploaded another reply, this time flaunting close-ups of spare explosive ordnance mounted on the Custodes' vehicle rack.
The forum grew doubtful.
"Swear it by the Emperor—is that stolen from the Custodes?"
"Little crow, you've slipped! You must be the thief!"
"You're finished. The Custodes will come for you any moment now. Prepare to eat a bolter round!"
"Someone here lacks loyalty—Inquisition, deploy!"
By now, the forum's denizens—under the tutelage of tech-adepts and grease-monkeys—had become fluent in the Empyrean Net's unique lingo, adapting seamlessly to its culture.
The anonymous poster grew flustered, protesting desperately:
"By the Emperor, I swear I'm not with the Blood Ravens! I was only observing the deal through remote sensors. I almost got spotted just now—perilously close call!"
Clearly, he wanted to distance himself from the infamous Blood Raven traitors. But no matter how he explained, no one believed him.
Suddenly, the Custodian commander noticed a new reply appear:
"You should've sold that Custodes transport sooner—it would've fetched more! Pity you dropped it too late. Hahahahaha!"
His eyes narrowed. He turned sharply toward the driver's seat beside him.
There sat Jubal, White Scars captain, hands on the controls while his other fingers danced across a dataslate. A faint smile played across his lips.
But under the commander's stare, Jubal calmly lowered the slate.
"What are you doing?"
The commander's voice was cold, suspicious that the mocking message had come from this very man.
"Just checking the map…" Jubal said blandly, feigning innocence. "Why, Custodian, has something happened?"
The Custodian commander studied him for several long seconds before finally returning his gaze to his own data.
He remained certain Jubal was the culprit—but pursuing it further would only make things more awkward.
What mattered now was recovering the lost vehicle quickly, and securing Custodians with access to the Forum itself. Only then could narratives be countered, and loyalty reinforced.
For if they rejected the Net entirely, the Custodes risked losing ground in the war of words.
The galaxy had changed with the Primarchs' return—especially the Savior's rise. No longer could the Custodes dictate terms alone. They too had to adapt, if they were to guard the Emperor well.
Then the post updated again.
Blurry images appeared—grainy snapshots of a Custodian Gratatus-pattern Dreadnought smashing through the gates of a black-market enclave. The hulking machine tore down barricades, while terrified smugglers cowered in awe at the Custodes' might.
The anonymous poster wailed in terror:
"By the Emperor, I was wrong! The Custodes tracked me through the Net—they're here!"
Suddenly, the forum fell silent.
No more jests. No more mockery. For fear gripped them—if the Custodes truly had such means of pursuit, then loose words could be fatal.
A long pause followed, until one soul dared ask:
"Poster… are you still alive?"
No answer came.
Just as mournful eulogies began to be typed, the anonymous account flickered once more:
"I got stepped on by the Custodian Dreadnought—barely lived. Damn it all! The Inquisition's fleet has the starport surrounded. I need to slip out while I still can… farewell, brothers!"
And with that, silence.
The thread went cold.
Everyone guessed the outcome: the Blood Raven renegades were finished, the black-market purged. As for that "brave soul"—if he was Inquisition bait, perhaps he would survive. But if a smuggler or noble profiteer, capture would mean ruin.
No one knew the truth. And the Custodes would reveal nothing.
At last, the commander exhaled in relief. Whatever the truth, the matter was resolved.
He focused fully on the mission again. Drawing upon the Net's databanks, he combined the Custodes' intel with White Scar scouting reports, locating a likely trade hub.
Together, the golden warriors and the khan's riders sped toward it.
...
Webway – Secret Base, Aelindrach Gate
Eden perused the Custodes–White Scars joint reports and nodded in approval.
"They've found the trail."
At last, they had caught threads leading to the Emperor's clone. The hunt could continue without his constant oversight.
Now, Eden could spare more of his strength to deal with Vect, instead of being stretched so thin.
Then—suddenly—he felt it. His head snapped toward a ripple in the void.
BOOM!
A distant roar thundered.
A scorching crimson pillar of light flared, unstoppable in its force.
The Webway itself cracked under the strain, rending open into a jagged wound. Through it, malicious eyes peered in.
The She Who Thirsts—Slaanesh!
Every soul in the sector froze in terror, scarcely daring to breathe, lest they draw the gaze of a Chaos God.
Even Eden felt the suffocating hunger, that insatiable lust pressing upon him, so vile it curdled the spirit.
Thankfully, the rift slowly sealed.
"So… this is the power of a forbidden artifact?"
Eden's face hardened as he gazed into the fading disturbance.
It was clear: Supreme Overlord's forces had successfully struck one of his hidden Webway bases.
And if such a weapon tore through the Webway within the Salvation Satellite Zone—or his own strongholds—the devastation would be unimaginable.
Far worse, every such rift risked inviting daemons and Chaos powers. For daemons slipping into the Webway was far easier than breaching realspace—almost effortless.
The gravest danger was that this could become like the Emperor's own Webway breach—an open gate into realspace, spewing forth endless daemons.
And unlike the Emperor, Eden had no Golden Throne to suppress the tide.
Though it was unlikely Vect would go so far as to risk his own annihilation, Eden knew he could not discount the possibility.
Before long, Ilyss arrived with a report.
The Lhamean secretary still trembled with fear as she bowed.
"My lord Asurmen's Heir, our black-market base… has been annihilated. An unknown weapon obliterated the landmass. Nothing remains of the structures.
Fortunately, the strike force withdrew without discovering this place."
"Alert all our bases to strengthen defenses," Eden ordered with a frown. "Our enemy's raids grow fiercer."
It was fortunate he had prepared ahead—building new defensive systems and transferring most personnel and resources into this hidden bastion.
Otherwise, the blow would have fallen upon him directly.
Against a Supreme Overlord like Vect, armed with forbidden technologies, it was like walking on a razor's edge.
He never played at attrition. He simply flipped the table in one strike.
One day, he might hurl a space hulk filled with daemons down like a meteor.
But to endure endless beatings was impossible. The Salvation Satellites had been forced into passive defense too long. They would not hold forever.
Now the plans were ready, the soul-energy abundant, the war-stores full.
It was time to strike back.
Eden must drive into Commorragh itself, striking Vect's power and authority, to trade blow for blow—to steal his house as he tried to steal Eden's.
Shhh—
A chill wind slithered through unseen cracks, toppling candles, throwing the chamber into flickering gloom.
A malignant humming followed. Symbols of ice lit across surfaces, and in the mirrors, shadows flitted.
"M-My lord—they're here!"
Ilyss shivered violently.
Eden said nothing. He rose from the obsidian throne, hands clasped behind his back, and strode outside.
Though terrified, the Lhamean followed, knowing the hall was no safer.
They stepped into the vast courtyard.
The sky was thick black, lightless. At its center, the Aelindrach portal rippled like dark water, something writhing to emerge.
No one could see what.
Ilyss and the Dark Eldar warriors around her felt helpless dread closing on their lungs.
The air itself grew heavy, like the silence before death.
Whispers of nightmare tales told in Commorragh surged back to them—horrors and absurdities of beings from the Shadow Realm, recounted by trembling survivors.
No one dared breathe.
The darkness itself had come alive.
Shadows everywhere.
"Mandrakes…" Ilyss whispered in ancient Aeldari tongue.
The terror of Aelindrach. The creeping nightmares.
Through arcane rites, anyone could call them—by standing alone before a black mirror; by immersing in pools of blood, mercury, and flesh; by inhaling the mournroot herb until trance; by wielding obsidian tokens.
If the ritual pleased, the Mandrakes would answer.
But the price was never gold. They demanded prisoners, yes—but what they truly sought were memories, true names, heartbeats, and souls.
Fail to pay, and the summoner would be devoured.
Eden had pledged them an inexhaustible tithe of souls.
Never before had one bound so many of the shadow-spawn. Should he ever fail to provide, they would tear him apart.
The Mandrakes were worse than daemons, for they could slip into realspace with ease, through any shadow.
For the people of the galaxy, this meant nowhere was safe. Close your eyes—and they might already be there.
This was why Eden had to hold the Salvation Satellites. If the devices storing the Goddess of Life Isha's energy were destroyed, he could not keep the soul-flow.
The Mandrakes would consume him before Vect struck.
Yet, the higher the cost, the greater the reward.
Eden walked calmly across the square. Shadows stretched under his feet like living tides.
Figures rose from them—grotesque humanoids, carved with runes, eyes glowing with shards of ice.
Their spindly limbs clutched cruel instruments of torture.
Mandrakes.
Masters of terror, nightmares, and inescapable pursuit. They hunted without end, their deepest delight being prey that resisted longest.
Even their deaths could call more horrors of Aelindrach to feed.
When they swarmed, the land itself would be cursed—drenched in perpetual fear.
"How exquisite…"
Eden moved through the tide without fear.
Wherever the Heir of Asurmen passed, the Mandrakes knelt.
Even the Dark Eldar warriors at the gates bowed under the pressure.
Eden gazed upon the endless crawling legion of terror—and smiled.
This was his Shadow Legion. The last piece was in place.
He raised his hand and gave the command:
"Go—my Shadow Legion! To Commorragh! To every spire! Let its dwellers behold your terror!"
The horde of shadows surged, flooding toward the Dark City.
Eden had already marked their targets, their methods.
The nightmares would drown Commorragh, his dark gift delivered.
He would become the power none could ignore, none could defy.
...
Commorragh – Crimson Port, Spire District
The Dark City was ever gloom-soaked. Now, between its towers and statues, shadows writhed thicker.
Streets lay empty, lamps sputtering.
"Father… what is that?"
A child pointed, eyes wide.
"Back inside!"
The Kabalite merchant snatched his child and dragged him into the shop, bolting doors, lighting every candle.
In whispers, the family huddled, as the merchant told a tale—a nightmare he had once lived.
He had been part of a convoy, ferrying fine human slaves for a Kabal. On the return through the Webway, it began…
As his trembling voice, the shifting candle-flames, and twisting shadows mingled, fear etched deeper on every face.
The district was cloaked in dread.
...
Spire – Archon's Palace
Valek, Archon of the Defiled Kabal, cowered in his grandest hall.
Every lamp blazed, every field activated. The chamber gleamed with poisoned crystal guns and darklight lances aimed at every entry.
His Incubi guards stood poised, shadows banished where possible.
"The darkness has come…"
Hollow-eyed, sleepless for days since murdering his master and swearing to the Black Heart Kabal, Valek finally knew fear.
He knew the nightmares were coming—for him.
And he could not escape the curse.
A noise.
He turned toward the vast glass wall.
On the far building, a shape scuttled like a spider down the vertical stone.
Its head snapped unnaturally sideways—locking eyes with him.
The hunter had found its prey.
(End of Chapter)
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