"...How strange."
Miriael narrowed her distinctly inhuman slit pupils and sized up the enemy before her.
As far as appearances went, the person standing before her was nothing more than an ordinary mortal, with nothing special about him.
And that was precisely what made it so strange.
The alluring aura of a Slaaneshi Daemon Prince should have affected the will of everyone who laid eyes on her. It could effortlessly charm even the most strong-willed human champion, corrupting them and turning them into servants who obeyed her every word.
Yet this mortal was unaffected.
The anomaly piqued Miriael's curiosity, but she soon thought of an explanation.
Either he was one in a hundred million mortals, with a will strong enough to ignore such Warp influence;
or the rotting corpse bound to the throne was watching over him, shielding him from her allure.
Either possibility was enough to excite Miriael and make her want to offer him to the Lord of Pleasure.
"Heehee... What an ill-mannered visitor. You see me descend, and instead of welcoming me, you do something so crude."
Miriael chuckled. "Still, I'll forgive your rudeness. Would you care to join me in the pleasure palaces of the Empyrean and share in the ultimate delights?"
Miriael, whose arms had just been vaporized by Plasma, made her invitation to Rowan in a manner befitting Slaanesh.
But as soon as she finished speaking, Miriael saw Rowan's face twist with utter revulsion.
"Urgh—"
He clutched his stomach, his expression contorting as he gagged.
"You make me sick. You look worse than maggots in a sewer. This is the first time I've regretted having eyes."
"What a complete lack of taste. Typical of a False Emperor worshipper."
Miriael shook her head.
That sort of provocation was nothing to a Slaaneshi Daemon.
Miriael lost interest in Rowan and turned her gaze elsewhere, toward a far more appealing target.
Behind Rowan, the other three members of the squad had gotten to their feet. They hurried forward, formed an attack formation, and stood ready.
"Ah, could this be..."
Miriael's gaze settled on Lucia, whose back bore a pair of wings. She was astonished.
A Living Saint of the False Emperor!?
Well, that explained something. The souls and Daemons that had inexplicably vanished still made no sense, but at least there was a possible reason now.
"That Malven dared to deceive me like this!"
Miriael cursed under her breath, displeased.
For a Slaaneshi Sister who had already fallen, hunting down the members of the Order of the Martyred Saint she once belonged to, corrupting them and making them kneel before the Lord of Pleasure, was a rare delight in her long life.
But corrupting a Living Saint of the Emperor? Even with her mind as addled as it was, Miriael wouldn't be foolish enough to dream of that.
Still... Perhaps it would be a different kind of pleasure?
She reconsidered, and her spirits lifted once more.
Since her fall, the undying Miriael had experienced every kind of sensation and was nearly numb to them all. Her threshold had risen to a level no mortal could imagine.
Now, the sudden possibility of attaining true death thrilled her. This unknown experience, unlike anything she had ever known, filled her with excitement.
Meanwhile, Lucia gripped her weapon so tightly her knuckles turned white. The flames along its blade burned brighter and hotter.
Ever since becoming a Living Saint, many of her former feelings had seemed to fade from her heart. But now, seething hatred and murderous intent churned within her.
The clothing, similar to that of a Battle Sister; the tongue, mutated into a long snake; and that face, which she could still faintly recognize...
The Church's records had taught her enough to recognize the enemy at a glance.
"You despicable Traitor. You have defiled the honor of the Order of the Martyred Saint and turned your back on the light of the Divine Emperor, willingly serving as a minion of the Dark Gods."
Every word burned with righteous fury. The white wings behind Lucia trembled with anger. "Today, you shall be purged!"
Miriael merely tilted her head lazily. A mocking glint flickered in her mutated slit pupils as pink energy writhed slowly at the stumps of her arms, seemingly reshaping her limbs.
"Tsk, tsk. Still so tiresome. Honor? Light? Those are nothing but lies spun by the False Emperor, shackles to bind poor wretches like you."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice alluring. "Do you really think that rotting corpse on the throne can give you anything? Nothing but endless sacrifice and empty fantasies. Come to my side. Give yourself to the Lord of Pleasure, and you'll finally—"
Wait.
Before she could finish, Miriael suddenly sensed danger.
Danger...!?
She had no time to think. She followed her instincts and darted to the side without warning.
In the very next instant, dozens of blinding Plasma bolts swept across a wide area and hurtled straight toward her!
Rowan smirked.
No way. No way.
Did some idiot really think that two utterly irreconcilable enemies, upon meeting, would stop to chat before fighting to the death?
A moment ago, Rowan had been multitasking. He sent a message through their psychic link, telling his three teammates—who were nearly out of their minds with rage—not to charge in and start fighting just yet, but to discuss a battle plan first.
At the same time, he used his Reality Warping Ability to secretly repair the Executioner's main cannon, which had been reduced to fragments, then launched a sneak attack right in front of Miriael.
Rowan had taken all the earlier lessons to heart. Under the influence of his ability, the Plasma bolts split apart the moment they left the barrel, spreading across the area like a curtain of rain!
"Ah!"
A scream of pain rang out. Miriael was badly hurt.
In the end, she hadn't dodged in time. A Plasma bolt struck her squarely in the chest, making her towering, twisted Daemon body stumble.
"Shame."
Rowan sighed inwardly at the result.
That was the problem with this reality-bending universe: famous, powerful figures seemed to have razor-sharp instincts across the board, making them exceptionally good at sensing ambushes.
No wonder assassins of every species so often ended up on the list of underperformers.
From the Assassinorum of the Imperium of Man to the Tyranid Lictor and the Necron Deathmarks, they could make short work of weaklings, but they were of little use in high-level matches.
Still, the result was acceptable.
"Plan B! Attack!"
Rowan shouted.
At his words, Lucia and Leonardo vanished from where they stood like phantoms. Trailing brilliant golden streaks, they hurtled toward Miriael with unstoppable speed.
Before you continue