War Hammer: The reality Bender Chapter 22 22: The Traitor and the Ambush [Bonus]

"...How very strange."

Miriael narrowed her vertical, entirely inhuman pupils, scrutinizing the enemy standing before her.

The individual who had just appeared before her—judging strictly by physical appearance—was completely and utterly a baseline mortal. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about him.

And that was precisely what was so strange.

Given the potency of a Slaaneshi Daemon Prince's aura of dark seduction, its effects should have instantaneously overwheld the willpower of anyone who rely laid eyes upon her. It possessed the capacity to effortlessly enthral and corrupt even the most iron-willed Imperial Champions, reducing them to obedient, fawning slaves.

Yet, this mortal was completely unaffected.

This anomalous reality piqued Miriael's curiosity, though she quickly formulated a rational explanation.

Either he was an individual whose willpower was so astronomically imnse—perhaps one in a trillion—that he could outright ignore such warp-borne influence;

Or, the rotting corpse chained to the Golden Throne was actively focusing His gaze upon him, shielding his mind from her seduction.

Regardless of which scenario was true, the prospect was more than enough to excite Miriael. She intensely desired to offer him to the Prince of Pleasure.

"Heehee... what a discourteous guest. Rather than welcoming my descent, you resort to such vulgar, barbaric actions."

Miriael let out a light, tinkling laugh. "However, I shall forgive your rudeness. Would you care to join and experience the absolute zenith of ecstasy within the Pleasure Palaces of the Empyrean?"

Having literally just had two of her arms vaporized by plasma, Miriael extended an invitation to Rowan in a manner that was quintessentially Slaaneshi.

However, the mont her words fell, Miriael watched as Rowan's expression twisted into one of extre, visceral nausea.

Gag—

He violently clutched his stomach, his face contorting as he dry-heaved.

"Absolutely revolting. You look worse than the maggots festering in an underhive sewer. For the first ti in my existence, I regret possessing eyesight."

"What a tragic lack of aesthetic appreciation for a follower of the False Emperor."

Miriael shook her head.

To a Slaaneshi daemon, such provocation was practically aningless.

Losing interest in Rowan, Miriael shifted her gaze elsewhere, having discovered targets far more enticing.

Behind Rowan, the other three mbers of the kill-team had recovered from their psychic suppression. They swiftly advanced, forming a disciplined combat formation and standing in absolute readiness.

"Oh, could this be..."

Miriael's gaze locked onto the winged form of Lucia, profound astonishnt rising within her corrupted heart.

That was... a Living Saint of the False Emperor?!

Well then. She mused that while the inexplicable erasure of those souls and the Neverborn was still highly illogical, at least there was now a vaguely plausible explanation.

"That bastard Malvin actually dared to deceive !"

Miriael cursed inwardly in extre displeasure.

For a Fallen Sister of Slaanesh, hunting down her forr sisters of the Order of Our Martyred Lady, corrupting them, and forcing them to kneel before the Lord of Excess was one of the rarest, most exquisite pleasures of her eternal existence.

The problem was, attempting to corrupt a Living Saint of the Emperor? Even if Miriael's mind was utterly drowned in warp-madness, she wasn't delusional enough to entertain such an impossible daydream.

Though... perhaps this offers a different flavor of ecstasy?

Her thoughts pivoted, and a surge of perverse joy washed over her.

Following her fall, the immortal Miriael had tasted every conceivable extre of pleasure, to the point of near-numbness. Her threshold for stimulation had been elevated to a degree a mortal mind could not fathom.

Now, suddenly presented with the genuine possibility of experiencing true, absolute death... this unprecedented, unknown experience actually caused her to quiver with excitent.

On the other side of the corridor, Lucia gripped her weapons with bone-white knuckles, the holy fire upon her chainsword blazing with incandescent fury.

Since ascending as a Living Saint, many of her mortal emotions had seemingly faded into obscurity. Yet, at this exact mont, a violently profound hatred and killing intent boiled endlessly within her heart.

The twisted remnants of Battle Sister vestnts, the tongue mutated into a slithering serpent, and the faintly recognizable facial features...

Drawing upon the archives of the Ecclesiarchy, she instantly identified the abomination standing before her.

"Shaful traitor! You have defiled the glory of the Order of Our Martyred Lady, forsaken the light of the God-Emperor, and willingly reduced yourself to the lapdog of a Ruinous Power!"

Every single syllable dripped with righteous fury. The pure white wings upon Lucia's back trembled slightly from the sheer force of her rage. "Today, you shall be purged!"

Miriael rely tilted her head languidly. A trace of mockery flashed through her vertical pupils as pink warp-energy slowly writhed around her severed stumps, seemingly attempting to regenerate the lost limbs.

"Tsk, tsk. Still parroting the sa tedious dogma. Glory? Light? Those are nothing but lies woven by the False Emperor, shackles forged to bind pathetic wretches like you."

She leaned forward slightly, her tone dripping with dark seduction. "Do you truly believe that rotting corpse upon the Throne can offer you anything? Nothing but endless sacrifice and hollow delusions. Co to . Throw yourself into the embrace of the Prince of Pleasure, and you shall finally..."

Wait.

Before she could finish her sentence, a violent premonition of danger spiked within Miriael's mind.

Threat detected?!

With absolutely zero ti to process the thought, she surrendered entirely to her transhuman instincts, violently throwing herself to the side without warning.

In the very next microsecond, dozens of blindingly incandescent plasma spheres blanketed a massive area, hurtling directly toward her original position!

Rowan let out a cold sneer.

Are you serious? Are you genuinely serious?

Did this idiot actually believe that when two utterly irreconcilable enemies encountered one another, they were obligated to have a polite conversation before fighting to the death?!

Monts prior, Rowan had been multitasking. On one hand, he had established telepathic communication with his retainers, violently reining in their fanatical urge to charge forward blindly, forcing them to quickly formulate a tactical assault plan.

Simultaneously, he had utilized his ontological dominion to covertly reconstruct the shattered components of the Leman Russ Executioner main gun, successfully launching a devastating ambush right in front of Miriael's face.

Having learned from his previous attempt, Rowan had utilized his dominion over reality to forcibly alter the plasma discharge. The mont the plasma cleared the muzzle, it violently fragnted, transforming into a sweeping curtain of rain that exponentially expanded the kill-zone!

"AARGH!"

An agonizing shriek tore from Miriael's throat.

Despite her instinctual evasion, she had failed to escape the blast radius entirely. A plasma sphere impacted directly against her chest, the kinetic and thermal shock staggering her towering, mutated fra.

"Unfortunate."

Observing the result, Rowan sighed inwardly.

This was the primary flaw of a universe governed by willpower and the immaterium. Every nad powerhouse practically possessed a preternatural danger sense, rendering them highly resistant to ambushes.

It was no wonder that assassin units across every faction were constantly relegated to the bottom of the tactical hierarchy.

From the Officio Assassinorum of the Imperium, to the Lictors of the Tyranid Swarm, to the Deathmarks of the Necron Dynasties—they were perfectly capable of butchering baseline fodder, but their efficacy plumted drastically when deployed in high-tier engagents.

Still, the outco of the strike was tactically acceptable.

"Initiate Plan B! Kill her!"

Rowan roared the command.

As his voice fell, the forms of Lucia and Leonardo vanished from their positions like phantoms. Trailing brilliant, golden afterimages, they charged toward Miriael with apocalyptic, unstoppable montum.