"Su… Supreme Overlord, my lord?"
The residents of Commorragh whispered the name with trembling voices, their hearts seized by unspeakable dread.
As if that being was more terrifying than the nightmares themselves.
The Supreme Overlord, Vect, was a name known to every corner of Commorragh. People feared him, obeyed him. Even the mere mention of his title was enough to spread terror.
And yet, the contents of those posters and flyers were utterly audacious, mocking the image of that ruler.
For example:
The Heir of Asurmen vs. the Supreme Overlord!
In the illustration, the Heir of Asurmen stood amidst the adoring crowd, distributing soul-essence, while the shriveled, grotesque Vect was shown flogging his own underlings while shouting about taxes.
Another depicted the Heir of Asurmen striding toward the throne to the cheers of the masses, while Vect fled in panic. The slogan beneath read:
When the Heir of Asurmen arrives, Commorragh will know peace!
Yet another showed the Heir confronting Vect directly, majestic and imposing, the prophesied figure who would cast the Supreme Overlord from his black throne.
These posters and flyers carried precise messages:
The noble lineage of the Heir of Asurmen. His wealth and generosity. His promise to end the suffering of the Drukhari, to heal the soul-wounds inflicted by She Who Thirsts, to abolish the Soul Tithe.
In short, they displayed his strength and magnanimity.
At the same time, they exposed Vect's origins as a slave, dissected the roots of his twisted character, and denounced his oppression of Commorragh.
They pointed out with sharp clarity that the Supreme Overlord's power rested solely upon fear—fear that was already crumbling.
The message was simple: weaken Vect's terrifying image and awaken a spirit of rebellion.
Eden, born from one of Terra's great ancient cultures, knew the importance of such ideological warfare.
He had to let everyone in Commorragh understand:
Who the Heir of Asurmen truly was. Why he had come. The hollow essence of Vect's power.
He needed every citizen of Commorragh to recognize their plight, and what they could gain by rising up.
Only by overthrowing the Supreme Overlord could they be free from torment.
The Redemption Satellites were the perfect example to hold up—a glimpse of the future worth yearning for.
Of course, Vect's rule was deeply entrenched. To truly shake it would not be so simple.
"No… I didn't see anything!"
Terrified, the citizens of Commorragh dropped the flyers, avoided looking at the posters, and dared not whisper a word.
Especially when the Kabalite warriors of the Black Heart arrived.
The people fled back to their dwellings in panic, struggling to blot the entire memory from their minds.
The Black Heart warriors swept the streets clean of every poster and flyer, then publicly tortured a handful of the unlucky.
They flayed their victims, hacked off their limbs, and hung the remains in plain sight.
Their agonized screams filled the air.
The warriors proclaimed that no one was permitted to view, keep, or even think about any blasphemy against the Supreme Overlord.
Or else they would share the same fate.
Scenes like this repeated themselves across Commorragh. Every poster and flyer was destroyed, none dared to hide them, none dared to speak of them.
As if those images, those words, and even the very name of the Heir of Asurmen had never existed at all.
"Perhaps… no one can ever shake his rule…"
Valek muttered from a spire balcony, overlooking the cleansed streets below.
Such was Commorragh—the Dark City under Vect's grip. For millennia, none had challenged him. No human Imperium, no brutish Orks, no Necron tomb legions, no daemonic host had displaced him.
His reign endured, and Commorragh remained ever the same. Forever.
Valek quietly shut the case filled with soul-elixirs, extinguishing the greed within his heart.
He dared not indulge treacherous thoughts. He chose instead to submit once more to fear—to submit to the Supreme Overlord.
The Archon resolved to hand this disloyal treasure over to his superiors, to prove his loyalty and explain everything.
Let them decide the fate of those pure souls.
As for the Heir of Asurmen? Surely, he would stir no greater storm. Just like the countless rebels Vect had executed before.
Valek had seen it all too many times.
…
Commorragh, the Sprawlos District.
This was the Dark City's outer rim, a tangled network of corridors and chambers, where the River Khaides, thick with poisonous green ichor, wound its way through ruins.
"Ugh… the pollution here is severe. It'll take a long time to cleanse this place."
Eden stood on the riverbank, watching the murky currents carry along slender airships once adorned with noble Eldar finery.
Now they were scavengers' tools, used to dredge corpses from the water. Every day, countless bodies floated downstream from the central districts.
The dead still had value—as fodder for slaves.
But Eden's gaze lingered more on the wrecked airships themselves. Perhaps they still held remnants of technology to be salvaged.
Such was Commorragh: even the most wretched wasteland concealed relics of priceless science.
Yet no one ever thought to use them.
The Drukhari sat amidst mountains of treasure, yet tormented by She Who Thirsts, they saw only the souls of others. The whole race driven to madness.
Not just the ruling cabals—even the Imperium had never dared reach this deep, clinging instead to their xenophobic rejection of alien technology.
But that was before. Perhaps, in time, he would unearth Commorragh's hidden treasures.
Several days earlier, Eden—the Heir of Asurmen—had secretly reached this outer zone.
Any further, and he would move beyond the Redemption Satellites' influence, straying into danger.
But he was determined to push on—through the outskirts, into the inner districts, and finally to the heart of Commorragh—dragging Vect down from his throne.
And then, claim the Dark City for humanity itself—a city of the Webway so magnificent that even the Emperor would salivate at the thought of it.
As for what to do with the Drukhari, Eden already had some ideas. Once Vect was toppled, he would begin to implement them.
Flipping through recent reports, Eden reviewed the Custodians' progress on investigating the Emperor's clone and the Black Throne.
This was, after all, an issue the Imperium could not ignore.
According to current intelligence, the Drukhari sought to use their mastery of bio-sorcery and soul-science to fashion a high-purity clone of the Emperor.
Then use that clone to command the Black Throne.
But Eden suspected it was not so simple. With their ancient technologies, the Drukhari might unleash something far greater.
And he suspected the meddling of the Chaos Gods as well.
He could only hope these lurking perils did not spill into Commorragh.
Yet what to do with the Emperor's clone—that was the true question.
The Custodians' stance was to destroy such a blasphemy outright. Eden opposed them.
He told them clearly: if they did find the Emperor's clone, it must not be destroyed unless absolutely necessary.
For such a creation of advanced biotechnics was of incalculable research value.
And beyond that—such a body might represent hope. A way for the Emperor, at last, to step forth from the Golden Throne.
Eden himself had studied how to free the Emperor from His entombment. One critical path had been the idea of clones.
But the Emperor's soul was so vast and powerful that no mere body could bear it.
Even a temporary possession would require something as resilient as a Primarch.
To speak nothing of full incarnation through a clone.
Deep within the Dreamweaver, Eden's forbidden laboratories had already attempted such experiments. Every one ended in failure.
Now, however, the Magi Biologis saw a new chance.
Within the Savior's realm, they rushed to study Drukhari soul-transfer science—the ancient craft of moving souls into new vessels.
A technology they called resurrection.
One inherited from the lost empire of the Aeldari.
The Magi Biologis proclaimed: if the Drukhari truly succeeded in cloning the Emperor's body, then they might finally have the chance to let Him step beyond the shackles of the Golden Throne—
—to walk once more through a clone-body.
The Golden Throne was one of the cruellest instruments in the galaxy, a torture device in which the Emperor had suffered for ten millennia. Eden often thought about bringing Him out to breathe free air, to enjoy Himself.
To show Him the Savior's Domain, to arrange comforts, to let Him behold the latest changes of the Imperium.
It was a good thing. A thing the Emperor Himself would wish to see.
Eden sighed with emotion. Among all the Primarchs, perhaps only he truly treated the Emperor best.
As for the Black Throne, it too could serve as a source of research—on its technology, its linkage to the Golden Throne. Perhaps he could even use it to ease the Emperor's torment.
If he truly seized both artifacts, it would mean the Drukhari had unwittingly labored for millennia on behalf of the Imperium.
Now, it was only a matter of finding that heretical laboratory.
At present, more than a dozen squads of Custodians, White Scars, and countless Mandrakes combed the Webway and the galaxy for clues.
The Khan himself, while guarding the Redemption Satellites, was ever ready to sally forth and join the battle for the Emperor's clone.
"…Though when the time comes, I'd best keep my distance from the Black Throne."
Eden shivered as he read the descriptions in his intelligence briefs.
That brutal machine always gave him a sense of foreboding, as though disaster clung to it.
He disliked anything tied to the Golden Throne.
No matter how long had passed, the memories of such constructs still made his skin crawl.
He had sat upon a Blackstone Throne before. That sensation of living death could never be forgotten.
As he frowned, a new message flashed before his eyes.
Inquisition intelligence. Its content nearly made him laugh aloud.
"Good grief… those Blood Ravens really know how to make a scene…"
A group of Blood Raven defectors had stolen Custodian vehicles, smuggling them to a secret black-market voidport for resale. But the Custodians quickly traced them, stormed the site with Inquisition allies, and destroyed the market.
They found the stolen vehicles—yet discovered their parts had all been swapped out. The Ravens had only sold them the empty shells.
The thieves themselves were long gone.
And during the chaos of the battle, someone even plucked the Mark of Purity and holy seals straight off a Custodian Dreadnought.
Eden had every reason to believe this was the work of that notorious anonymous forum poster.
Likely a high-ranking Blood Raven—perhaps even Chapter Master Gabriel Angelos himself.
He could, if he wished, trace the man through the psychic net and expose him. But why bother?
The Blood Ravens were cautious; once alerted, they would erase their accounts and vanish. Better to leave them under watch.
The Custodians and Inquisition had classified the whole affair, ashamed to admit it had happened.
Eden reviewed the Blood Ravens' history and found them a tragic lot.
They still bore the scars of Acheron, of three Aurelia crusades, and the Kaurava campaign. Losses had nearly annihilated the Chapter.
Chapter Master Gabriel held together the last remnants, merging shattered companies, recruiting new blood.
He promised that once rebuilt, the Blood Ravens would rise again to fulfill their mission.
But rebuilding such a Chapter was a colossal burden, requiring immense resources.
And scarcely had the effort begun when the Great Rift tore the galaxy apart, scattering their companies into silence. The Imperium lost all trace of them.
In recent years, sightings of the Blood Ravens had returned—yet their reputation was poor. Petty thefts and scavenging were their hallmark.
Much of their wargear was recognizably the relics of other Chapters.
Their explanations were dubious: "A gift from a brother-Chapter," "found on the field," "no one else was using it," "we dug it up and repaired it."
All oral accounts. None recorded formally.
Most Chapters, embarrassed by their losses, kept silent. But when they crossed paths with Blood Ravens, they often answered only with fists, reclaiming what was theirs.
Still, enough aggrieved voices reached the Administratum, weeping as they reported theft.
The Ravens even plundered the grieving Angels of Absolution, who were so destitute they wept openly. They stole a single battered bolter—the only weapon of a fresh initiate.
That recruit had once been saved by a Blood Raven veteran in battle against Orks.
"Close your eyes, brother," the Raven had said when the fight was over. "Let us pray together to the Emperor, and offer our loyalty."
The initiate obeyed, praying earnestly.
"What do you see, brother?" asked the Raven.
"Darkness. I see darkness before me."
The Raven's voice was heavy with sorrow: "This is our Imperium. The Emperor needs us to save Her, brother."
But when the initiate opened his eyes, he was bewildered:
"My bolter… where is my bolter, brother?!"
The Blood Raven was gone—along with the only weapon the boy had ever been issued.
Some scholars of Chaos declared the Chapter surely corrupted, its behavior tainted by the Ruinous Powers.
Others pointed to Gabriel's ties with Eldar farseer Macha and even Harlequins, denounced by the Inquisition and the Sororitas alike.
Yet some argued the Blood Ravens remained loyal, stealing only to gather the resources to rebuild.
After all, they never struck loyal warriors in battle—only unattended equipment.
Eden, however, was convinced they were simply addicted to theft. Wealthy enough, yet unable to resist.
One day, if those Raven cubs stumbled into his grasp, he would make them bleed properly—paying him back in relics.
…
"Savior…"
Ilyss hurried toward him, the Lhamean secretary's face clouded with concern.
"More of our bases have been attacked. And in Commorragh, the propaganda has all been erased. The people dare not speak Your name. Their fear of the Supreme Overlord only grows."
Eden was not troubled.
"This was expected. They can tear down posters and burn leaflets—but they cannot erase memory.
In fact, this deepens the impression. It plants more anger in their hearts.
Now, the Drukhari know the Heir of Asurmen exists. They will not forget."
He looked out over the green waters of the Khaides and smiled.
"And the greater the Black Heart Kabals rage against it, the more it shows Vect's fear.
It proves that I am a threat—that I may be his equal.
That is exactly what we want them to believe."
Relief softened Ilyss' expression. "Then should we prepare more propaganda? What we've used so far cannot last."
"Of course. We must continue, until Commorragh itself seethes, yearning for the Heir of Asurmen."
This was why Eden had tasked the Shadow Legion with the campaign. They could evade pursuit, endlessly reposting and distributing.
Later, when their enemies were too exhausted to respond, he would unleash holo-projectors and orators to spread the message openly.
But not yet. Commorragh was vast—an empire in itself. If he risked the real machines and staff too soon, losing them would be ruinous.
Cheap posters and leaflets would do for now.
Eden paused, then gave new orders to his secretary.
"Summon Lady Beda. We need her for our propaganda. As Vect's concubine, she knows many of his hidden secrets. Perfect for scandalous campaigns."
He envisioned a giant poster, draped across the gates of Vect's very palace.
Sometimes, the battle for power was brutally simple. Humiliation, scandal, pride.
Such were weapons too.
"And another thing…" Eden added.
"From now on, every vial of our soul-elixir will bear the Heir of Asurmen's image and slogans: Down with Vect!
When the time is right, flood the streets of Commorragh with them."
White, glowing vials scattered across the alleys of the Dark City—who could resist picking them up?
And then? Let the Black Heart try to stop it.
(End of Chapter)
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