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Chapter 498 - Chapter 499 – Savior: This Archon Smith is a Talent

Crimson Harbor.

The streets were narrow and winding, flanked on both sides by jagged spires that stabbed upward like a forest of blades.

Now was the ebb of the Black Sun's pulse — dawn.

That shackled, dying star hung as always above the city, casting down its cold, malignant gaze.

The air reeked of metal, rotting flesh, and pungent spices — acrid, grotesque, yet sickly alluring.

Few dared walk the streets. Somewhere, unnoticed, more posters had been plastered across walls, with even more leaflets scattered on the ground.

As if no one ever cleaned them away.

The passersby all hunched their shoulders and averted their gaze, their silhouettes warped in the crimson half-light.

None dared look directly at the posters or the handbills — lest a warrior of the Black Heart Kabal see them read such blasphemy and punish them for it.

"Asurmen's Heir… truly a formidable figure. If only he would slay that old wretch Vect!"

Dark Eldar trader Bairon ground his teeth at the thought.

He kept his head low, hiding his expression — and the dangerous thoughts flickering behind his eyes.

Only now did he realize he could even dare think the Archon's name without being overcome with terror.

In these past days, he had learned too much from furtive glances at the posters and leaflets.

That Asurmen's Heir was generous, distributing souls, promising to cast Archon Vect down from the throne.

That he could even shield mortals from the gnawing torment of She Who Thirsts.

That Archon Vect had once been no more than a wretched slave — beneath even them — who through guile alone had clawed his way onto the Black Throne.

And ever since, he had shackled the Drukhari people, stealing from them their chance to win souls of their own.

That cowardly creature, so the stories went, was weak, fearful, trembling behind the throne whenever danger arose — unworthy of their fear.

Now, a rumor spread like wildfire:

That if one whispered "Glory to Lord Asurmen!" or "Down with Vect!" upon encountering nightmare creatures, one would be rewarded with souls.

Precious souls.

Others claimed you could even summon nightmare beasts at a mirror in the dead of night.

If fortune smiled, they would appear — and would bestow the same reward.

Bairon longed for such an encounter in some shadowed alleyway, for such a boon of souls.

He had trafficked in Tau hides and Ork bones for years, yet never gained nearly as much as the reward promised in the rumors.

Suddenly he froze in terror.

Not only him — the other passersby also halted in shock.

For upon the great clocktower in the city's center, strung from its stonework, hung several corpses of Black Heart warriors.

Their bodies were broken and twisted, their bones warped — the work of nightmare creatures, beyond doubt.

"Good riddance to the bastards," Bairon thought inwardly with grim satisfaction, keeping his face carefully blank.

He knew these warriors. They had executed many in the streets, his own neighbors among them.

Thwack-thwack-thwack—

Shards of crystal poisoned with venom ripped through the onlookers, striking several to the ground, writhing in agony.

A squad of Black Heart warriors had arrived, discovering the mutilated remains of their comrades.

They rushed forward, splinter rifles blazing, scattering the gathering crowd before panic could spread further.

Screams erupted. The throng broke apart in chaos, fleeing through the labyrinthine alleys.

Bairon, swept along, darted into the maze of narrow streets.

But he had not run far before a black shape slid free of the wall ahead of him — clutching a bucket of paste.

"Th-the nightmare creature…"

Bairon's blood ran cold. Tales said such monsters butchered the unwary.

He froze, barely daring to breathe.

But the Mandrake ignored him entirely. It brushed paste across a wall, slapped a poster upon it, and turned to vanish again into shadow.

Before it could melt away, a faint, quavering voice broke the silence:

"G… glory to Lord Asurmen…"

The Mandrake paused, turning its burning gaze upon the trader.

With no one else in sight, Bairon clenched his fists and forced the words out again, as if swearing an oath:

"Down with Vect!"

The tax on souls at Crimson Harbor had grown unbearable.

She Who Thirsts stalked ever more hungrily.

His family wasted away — pale, emaciated, tortured by the gnawing hunger.

If this continued, they would be forced like the outcasts to flee into the further Webway ruins, risking death at the hands of daemonic storms… or perish outright.

He had no choice but to gamble.

A blur of shadow — suddenly the nightmare stood before him.

Bairon nearly fainted.

"My lord, forgive me — I meant no insult—"

Terror seized him. What if the rumors were lies? What if he had merely drawn the beast's wrath?

But then… the Mandrake smiled.

Grotesquely, horribly — yet unmistakably, a smile.

"Asurmen's Heir… Black Sun of Commorragh…"

It rasped in broken Aeldari tongue.

And into Bairon's trembling hands it placed a crystal vial of pure souls — and a small statuette of Asurmen's Heir.

Bairon shook with elation, tears stinging his eyes.

This treasure would sustain his household for a year.

"The Black Sun… Asurmen's Heir is my sun!"

"Traitor! You can't escape!"

The shout came as Black Heart warriors surged into the alley, armor black and cruel, inlaid with gems and barbed spikes, their eyes burning with malice.

Their captain glided forward like a specter, blade flashing in an elegant, lethal dance.

In seconds, half a dozen fleeing souls were reduced to blood and torn limbs.

Bairon's hope collapsed into despair.

He had been seen worshiping Asurmen's Heir — he and his family would be dragged out, tortured in the streets.

"What a dull hunt," the captain sneered, flicking blood from his blade as he closed on the terrified trader.

"Ah, a rat. A little rat squeaking praise for Asurmen's Heir."

But before he could strike, his men stiffened in horror.

The captain's shadow writhed, alive.

Cold steel flashed from the dark.

"Shadow— behind you!"

The captain spun, blade raised—

Schlk!

A head flew, blood spraying across the alley's walls.

The captain crumpled to the ground, headless.

The Mandrake melted back into shadow.

The squad froze in terror. In such tight quarters, they could not fight these nightmare things.

"Fall back!"

But as they turned to flee, another black silhouette stepped from the wall, barring the way.

There were two.

The warriors' courage shattered.

And then — from among them — a hoarse, trembling voice rang out:

"D-down with Vect!"

The rest gaped. One of their own had cried the forbidden words.

But to their shock — the nightmares actually paused.

"You've not heard the tale?" the warrior said. "Speak the slogans — honor Asurmen's Heir — and you may live… even be rewarded."

They all had seen the leaflets, heard the whispers.

And though Vects wrath was dreadful, in the face of death, fear of him paled.

One by one, they echoed the words:

"Down with Vect… glory to Lord Asurmen!"

The moment the words were shouted, the nightmare creatures stilled.

Their cold eyes lingered on the kabalite warriors, as though weighing their worth.

"It works!"

The Black Heart warriors trembled with relief, their terror transforming into fevered excitement.

They raised their blades high, voices echoing louder with each shout:

"Down with Vect! Glory to Lord Asurmen!"

Their cries grew more frenzied, more sincere, especially as they thought of the crushing burden of the soul tithe they paid.

This was the difference between Commorragh and the Imperium.

The Imperium demanded heavy tithes as well, but the faith in the Emperor made such burdens feel like offerings. The faithful believed their sacrifices brought protection, that greater devotion meant sweeter days — and even the chance of returning their souls to the Golden Throne.

Only under unbearable hardship did rebellion fester.

But Commorragh lived under nothing but tyranny. Fear was the only leash Archon Vect held, and when that fear faltered, the Drukhari's natural instinct was not submission — but the bitter thought that the Archon was stealing what was theirs.

Even here, many wondered:

What does the Archon do with all those souls he hoards?

"Down with Vect!"

"Kill the old wretch!"

"Glory to Asurmen's Heir!"

The shouts reverberated through the alley, loud enough to spill into the streets beyond.

Then — silence.

The kabalites froze.

The nightmares were gone, leaving only the clatter of crystal soul-vials upon the stones.

And standing at the alley's end were two more Black Heart warriors — who had seen and heard everything.

The air turned heavy, poisonous with dread.

"Kill them."

The rebels' eyes hardened. With snarls, they charged, blades flashing, desperate to silence the witnesses before their betrayal could be spread.

The two warriors fled, panic lending wings to their feet. They knew that if caught, they would be butchered. Only by escaping to summon reinforcements could they hope to survive and see the traitors executed.

In moments, their figures vanished into the alleys.

Time passed.

From the shadows of a corner came a faint stirring.

"I… survived?"

Bairon finally dared to breathe.

His legs had long since turned to water; he hadn't even been able to run, cowering in silence while blood was spilled around him.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, only to freeze again — his gaze caught by the glitter of crystalline soul-vials scattered across the ground.

The kabalite warriors had been so frantic they'd left the nightmares' offerings behind. And these were no ordinary draughts — rarer, purer, even more precious than the vial he'd already been given.

Worth decades of his trading wealth.

Bairon glanced around. Then, trembling with greed and terror, he darted forward and scooped them all into his arms.

He could scarcely contain his glee.

These souls were enough to lift his family out of misery forever.

"Abandoned souls… Asurmen's Heir's gift to me…"

With a burst of desperate energy, the trader fled, running faster and faster.

Behind him, or perhaps only in his imagination, the city seemed alive with distant cries:

"Glory to Lord Asurmen!"

Elsewhere, atop a spire — the estate of Archon Valek, one of the Unclean's governors.

The tower loomed over the district, casting its pale glow across Crimson Harbor.

Valek sat hunched on his throne of bone, his body bristling with tubes, strange alchemical fluids surging into him to keep his shattered nerves steady.

Since his last brush with the nightmares, he had flooded his palace with cruel white light. But it brought him no comfort.

The nightmares were not the greatest threat.

No — the real terror was his peers. His superiors. The suspicion in their eyes.

When the nightmares had delivered him gifts in Asurmen's name, Valek had not hoarded them. He had rushed to present them to his overlord, swearing loyalty to Archon Vect.

He had thought it wise.

But from that day forward, the stares of his fellow archons had changed. No longer merely disdainful — but wary. Afraid.

"They think me disloyal. They fear I may already be a traitor."

So Valek had redoubled his zeal, slaughtering suspected heretics, stripping himself of wealth, casting every treasure at Vect's feet.

But still, the suspicion grew.

Nothing seemed enough.

"How can I prove I am faithful?"

He swallowed a handful of nerve-pills, his mind spinning. Death loomed close — whether by madness, or at the knives of his peers.

Click.

He froze at the sound.

Terror seized him. They've come to kill me—

But it was not assassins. Only a familiar box.

The nightmares had delivered again.

With trembling claws, Valek dragged it close. He did not intend to keep it. He would deliver it to his overlord, together with the last of his wealth, to prove his loyalty once more.

But when he pried open the box, he found something new.

Alongside the soul-vials and letters lay a note.

A message, written by the shadowy courtesans who served Asurmen's Heir, gauging each governor's heart and sending tailored replies.

Valek read it — and felt the world tilt.

"Lord Valek, you need not fear. Archon Smith has taken far more."

Smith. His superior.

The note went on — Asurmen's Heir himself had praised Smith by name:

"Tch. I never expected Vect's court to still harbor such talent. This Archon Smith is a man of ability. Send him more souls. Give him more resources. I am reassured when such men hold power."

Valek's vision blurred with tears.

At last he understood.

He had been too slow, too blind.

He was the only one still resisting the gifts, clinging to the old order. And for that, his peers saw him as a danger.

Of course they feared me.

If he did not take Asurmen's gifts, then how could Smith — their favored one — rest easy?

Valek ripped the tubes from his flesh, laughing wildly.

He seized the vials — exquisite, shimmering, the Supreme Dream line of soul elixirs.

He drank deep, and his agony melted away.

Strength flooded him. His mind cleared.

Now he knew what he must do.

Not refuse the gifts — but take them. Take more.

And walk in step with Archon Smith.

At the edges of the Spalos District, the Savior's domain stirred.

The provisional bases of the Redemption Satellites were already preparing to move.

With Asurmen's Heir's influence spreading, more territories had fallen under his grasp, and his forces moved swiftly to fortify and expand.

Souls poured by the barge-load through the Webway. Mandrake kill-teams carried strange machines into the heart of the city, toward one of Archon Vect 's palaces.

The Savior's followers were aflame with purpose. Victory felt within reach.

"May all go well…"

Eden stood upon the deck of a soul-barge, surveying the bustling exodus.

Yet his brow furrowed.

From the Warp, he felt the first tremors of a storm brewing.

And worse — the sacred relic-weapons of the Savior's domain were dwindling. Few remained, and the Webway offered no safe bastion for their holy towers.

He feared he faced a crisis he could not meet.

But he buried his worries deep, and turned his gaze toward Commorragh.

Another quarter awaited his arrival.

(End of Chapter)

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