"The road is a little narrow, that's all. Not your fault."
Eden didn't take offense at the rude behavior of the Drukhari hunting-warriors. Instead, he remained graceful and approachable.
Such conduct made the warrior feel that this truly was the bearing of a noble from the ancient Aeldari Empire. His respect deepened.
The descendant of Asurmen's response caused the entire hunting squad to halt. The Archon in charge came forward to pay his respects to this high-born presence.
After all, this was a lineage of true nobility.
That was why Eden disguised himself as a noble—to inherit the lingering prestige of the Aeldari Empire.
The Aeldari Empire had once been a theocratic slaver state.
Even after the Fall and the Dark Age, the worship of the priestly families still lingered in the genetic memory of the Drukhari.
And the remnant noble bloodlines valued this above all else.
Eden was pleased with the Archon's attitude and handed him a contract.
It was a reward for the hunting squad.
The special contract worked much like a promissory note. In certain hidden Webway black markets, it could be exchanged for large amounts of soul elixirs.
Fair and trustworthy.
If he wanted more power and loyalty, prestige alone wasn't enough. Real benefits had to bind them together.
Such rewards made the hunters all the more enthusiastic. Gratitude toward this Asurmen's descendant welled up in them.
Eden looked at the hunting warband and encouraged them warmly:
"You've all worked hard. Keep it up—every effort will be properly rewarded."
To outsiders, it might have looked like he was addressing his own troops.
"It is our honor, my lord!"
The Archon expressed his thanks and led the force forward, continuing the "pursuit" of Asurmen's descendant through the Webway.
They put on quite a show of diligence.
Eden needed the hunt to continue—he had to buy time.
Maris watched the scene, dumbfounded.
Only now did she realize that this hunting force had been tasked with capturing people like herself—strictly speaking, sworn enemies.
Yet under the Asurmen scion's manipulation, they were all but kneeling in oath-bound loyalty.
Titus was even more impressed. He had fought desperately to hold back the xenos, and still could not subdue them. But his gene-father had effortlessly won their obedience.
It was power beyond mere strength of arms.
"There's nothing surprising in it."
Eden turned to Maris, sighing: "Life in Commorragh is harsh—especially for the Kabals. They suffer too much injustice, which gives us our opportunity."
Supreme Overlord Vect ruled through brutal oppression, seizing the entrances to the Webway and imposing a crushing tithe of eleven parts in soul-levy—sometimes harsher even than the Imperium's taxes.
Perhaps he had even learned from the Imperium's "advanced methods."
The Kabals risked everything in their raids, only to see more than half their spoils snatched away before they could even savor them.
The pitiful remainder was barely enough to keep themselves alive.
This was why Commorragh was locked in such constant strife. Unless one clawed and killed for more souls, the predation of She Who Thirsts would drag them into eternal torment.
Such was the way of Commorragh—none saw it as unnatural, any more than Imperial citizens questioned being born to loyalty and servitude, minted as the Emperor's coin.
It had always been so.
But the arrival of this Asurmen's heir brought change.
For the first time, Kabals received souls as easily as picking up gold bars from the ground.
And these hidden profits were untaxed by the tithe.
Who could refuse?
Eden suddenly thought of a troubling question.
If Vect seized such vast amounts of soul-tribute, where were they going?
Surely not all consumed by himself and the Black Heart Kabal.
Given the Black Heart's actual condition, their wealth didn't match the scale of the tithe.
Much of it must have been diverted elsewhere.
Eden reasoned until one conclusion remained:
The Black Throne, and the Emperor's clone. Only such a monumental work of flesh and sorcery could devour so many souls.
Every Drukhari art relied on souls as its prime material.
He frowned.
"That thing is going to be a huge problem…"
Eden could already smell the taint of Chaos. Such a provocative project could not fail to attract the attention of the Dark Gods.
Especially Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways.
For him not to meddle would be unthinkable.
And Slaanesh, the Prince of Excess—who considered the Drukhari his forbidden prey. The Dark Prince would never permit them to craft an artifact capable of walling off the Warp.
The Black Throne… measures had to be prepared.
This might even need to be reported to the Emperor himself. Perhaps the Master of Mankind could intervene, and the clone could be destroyed before it was unleashed.
Whatever happened, Eden needed a solution before disaster struck.
From a certain angle, Commorragh was humanity's hidden jewel—its future hope. It could not be allowed to fall into ruin.
But for now, the first task was Vect: overthrowing the Supreme Overlord and seizing Commorragh's highest throne.
Though weakened by noble uprisings and schisms, Vect's foundations were still formidable. His reign had lasted twenty millennia—longer even than the Imperium itself. Bringing him down would not be easy.
Still, Eden had plans.
His task now was to "recharge" as many Kabals as possible, binding them with his rewards while delaying for time.
If all went well, in half a year he could complete his preparations and launch a full counteroffensive.
Before long…
Eden and his companions arrived at a massive fragment of Webway landmass, where they rejoined Ilyss and the others.
Within the shard was a hidden black market run by rebel forces.
Now, it all belonged to Asurmen's heir.
He purchased the entire fragment, the market, and the minor Kabals within.
By Drukhari terms, it was a permanent contract of hire: as long as their souls could be restored, they were bound to his service, while he was bound to provide their soul-pay.
At this moment, the interior of the land-shard bustled with activity.
Kabals of the Redemption Satellite District gathered here via illicit, unsupervised Webway passages, then fanned out to other zones on their missions.
Eden had inherited the legacy of the noble rebels, becoming the new leader of resistance.
He led those Drukhari who could no longer bear the cruel tyranny—toward the overthrow of the Supreme Overlord.
"What a sight of vigor, of all things flourishing…"
From a broken tower-spire, Eden gazed down at the thriving base, deeply moved.
And there were many such places. All was moving in the right direction.
He need not over-manage. The structures he had built were self-sustaining and expanding.
Soon, Eden entered a secret chamber.
He had to change guises quickly and seek out the Khan—before the primarch rampaged and butchered his people.
...
The Webway
The shrieks of Drukhari echoed endlessly.
Dozens of Space Marines sped upon their hovering bikes, like streaks of white lightning.
They swung their power-sabres in flashing arcs, reaping xenos lives, until no foe remained.
Only then did the killing ride cease.
The warriors dismounted and stalked through the wreckage, finishing the still-living with short blades—leaving none alive.
They were the White Scars.
All bore white ceramite plate, long hair, and faces slashed with scar upon scar—deliberately marked.
From the day they were inducted, every White Scar cut scars into their own flesh, giving their names to the Chapter.
The Khan rode his moon-drake toward them.
He had followed the coordinates left by the Emperor, and from afar he beheld his gene-sons.
Yet the primarch saw something strange: his sons appeared to be welcoming another presence?
Shriek!
A cyber-hawk wheeled above, crying out.
The Khan smiled faintly.
It was Anzuq, his old companion.
Its wings beat in harmony with the storm-winds of Chogoris, its blood the rivers of the steppes, its gaze the leaping fire of the plains.
And with its cybernetic augmetics, Anzuq could record all it saw.
It was his eye in the sky.
The primarch was just about to summon his companion Anzuq—yet the cyber-hawk suddenly dived and vanished from the skies.
More engines thundered in the distance. With hawk-like sharpness, the Khan's eyes discerned what lay ahead.
Several White Scar companies, riding jetbikes, surged forward, clearing the path.
They soon opened up a roadway.
Vrrrmmmm!
The roar of an immense engine rolled out, rattling the Webway itself.
Fierce and overwhelming.
A massive dark-gold jetbike came into view, instantly seizing every gaze.
The machine was no ordinary bike—it was like a super-heavy tank at breakneck speed.
Several times the size of a normal jetbike, it mounted warship-grade engines, bristled with proscribed weaponry, and married speed with sheer mass.
Unrivaled.
To the White Scars, it was the mount of dreams—an apex steed even the Khan's own moon-drake paled before.
It was, without question, the pinnacle of the Chapter's hierarchy of honor and envy.
And more—
The cyber-hawk Anzuq wheeled and alighted upon the banner fixed to the rear of the massive bike, utterly tame and obedient.
And that banner… bore no connection to the White Scars.
"???"
The Khan blinked in confusion. "My Anzuq… defected?"
Eden, astride the colossal dark-gold bike, led the White Scars onward—headed straight to meet the Khan.
Ever since word reached him years ago that the White Scar primarch still lived, Eden had not been idle. Under the guise of the Savior Primarch, he had traveled to Chogoris, the White Scars' homeworld.
There, he met Jubal Khan, the Chapter Master.
That lord of the Khan's sons had been ambushed by the Red Corsairs, tortured to the brink of oblivion.
Though rescued, what remained of his body survived only in a life-support sarcophagus, a fate crueller than even interment within a Dreadnought.
For a White Scar, it was worse than death itself—to never again draw a blade, mount a steed, or ride a bike.
Jubaal had begged for death more than once, yet duty bound him to endure, issuing orders from his prison of glass.
The sight broke the hearts of his sons.
Eden could not stomach it either.
He commanded the savants of his domain to use panacea and the finest arts of healing. Miraculously, Jubaal was restored—able once more to fight beside his kin.
For this act, the White Scars' gratitude toward the Savior Primarch ran deep.
Eden had gone further—sharing his abundance with the Chapter, providing arms, supplies, and even leading them through the Webway to exact vengeance on the Red Corsairs.
He fought and feasted alongside them, raided their foes, and even smashed Huron Blackheart himself with a mighty blow before slipping away.
They struck with allies of the Terror Legion, broke their hated enemy's skull, and escaped before retribution could catch them.
To this day, Huron still hunts for the faceless thief of his humiliation.
The vengeance lifted a weight from the White Scars' hearts. Their morale soared, their reverence for the Savior Primarch grew ever deeper.
In the aftermath, Eden became like kin to them.
He joined them in bike-modifications, reawakened their cyber-hawk mascot from stasis, organized great star-spanning races, and often rode with them to slay orks.
He treated them as though they were his own sons, promising too that he would help them find their true father, the Khan.
What harm was there, after all, in a brother primarch tending his sibling's sons and beloved pet?
So it was that, within the White Scars, Eden's standing became that of a stepfather—not sire, but no less cherished.
For the Khan had been gone too long.
Most of the White Scars alive had been born in his absence. Their devotion to their gene-sire was vague, more religious than real.
The Savior Primarch, by contrast, was present—protecting them, fighting beside them, sharing poetry, calligraphy, and machinecraft.
He won their hearts in ways memory alone could not.
And so this spectacle arose—
The Savior Primarch, leading a throng of White Scars as though they were his own brood, arriving in the Webway to meet the Khan.
His presence eclipsed even that of their true gene-father.
Eden pulled a drifting stop before the Khan. His warriors reined in likewise, their discipline forming a half-ring about him.
The Khan stood alone, exhaust smoke blowing across his face.
And the White Scars' armor now bore the Savior's sigils, their steeds carried his colors, even their hair was cut in new fashions.
The Khan's breath came faster.
"Is this… is this still my White Scar Chapter?!"
He barely recognized them.
"Ah, my brother Khan!"
Eden vaulted from his bike with warm cheer. "Finally found you!"
He turned to the stunned White Scars and chided lightly, "Well? Don't just stand there—greet him!"
At last, Jubaal and the others dropped to one knee, heads bowed.
"Father."
Seeing their gene-sire in the flesh, their emotions had been too tumultuous to react at first.
The Khan inhaled deeply, thoughts in turmoil.
Not long ago, the Emperor—his own father—had sent fractured psychic messages, urging him to cease his slaughter and come here, to meet a brother.
But the one before him was a stranger, a primarch he had never known.
Yet the Warp-sense was clear: this was indeed one of the Emperor's sons.
"What is this…?"
The Khan wrestled with it: Had Father found another lost son while I was in the Webway? Surely not a bastard? And why is he bound so closely to my gene-sons?
He called to Anzuq, perched upon Eden's shoulder. The hawk ignored him.
The Khan sighed. His beloved companion was lost.
He looked at Eden, his voice stiff.
"I have lingered in the Webway too long. There is much I must learn…"
For all his reputation as a wild rider, the Khan loved lore and record, collecting ancient Terran texts, devouring histories.
The White Scars were like him—warrior-poets, more cultured than their feral image, perhaps the most cultured Chapter of all.
Eden liked them for it.
Their blend of Eastern Terran steppes and Astartes traditions reminded him of his own home.
Drinking, feasting, riding, and dueling—yet also masters of poetry, calligraphy, and curved blades.
He had prepared for this.
He offered the Khan a dataslate.
"Here is the chronicle of the Imperium since the Heresy, the current state of mankind, and records about me—the Savior Primarch. Read it, and you will understand."
Then he returned Anzuq.
"This companion of yours was gravely wounded in battle, memories lost, data shattered. It languished in stasis, near death. My savants healed it, revived it. You may need to know it anew."
With that, Eden turned and left him space.
He knew well the Khan would likely break with rage and grief once he saw what had become of the Imperium. Better to give him time.
Later, they could speak of the Imperium—and of Commorragh.
The Khan lifted his arm, gazing at Anzuq.
The cyber-hawk looked back with alien eyes, struggling to recall its master.
"Old friend…"
The primarch stroked its head gently, softening toward the stranger who had restored it.
He called after Eden's back.
"Thank you, brother."
Eden did not turn. He only lifted a hand in easy dismissal.
That was how men of Chogoris liked it.
But before the moment could settle—
A greater shriek split the air.
A vast, dark-gold cyber-hawk, armored and radiant, stooped down in a gale of wings, alighting upon Eden's shoulder.
It was his creation—a perfected counterpart to Anzuq.
The Khan stared: Eden's ornate armor, his colossal bike, the towering bird upon his arm.
He felt outshone in every way.
At last, he understood.
This new brother of his… was even more flamboyant than Fulgrim.
(End of Chapter)
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