Ambush to the Face

"...How strange."

Miriael narrowed her inhuman, slit-pupiled eyes, studying the enemy before her.

The person standing in front of her, by all appearances, was a complete and utter mortal—nothing special about him at all.

Yet that was precisely what made it so strange.

A Slaaneshi Daemon Prince's aura of charm should, by its very nature, affect the will of anyone who laid eyes upon it, effortlessly seducing and corrupting even the most iron-willed champions of humanity into obedient servants hanging on her every word.

But this mortal remained unaffected.

Because of this anomaly, Miriael felt a flicker of curiosity, but she quickly came up with an explanation.

Either he was one in tens of millions—a mortal whose will was strong enough to completely ignore such Warp-born influence;

Or the rotting corpse bound to the Throne was watching over him, shielding him from her charm.

Either way, it was enough to excite Miriael, and she wanted to offer him to the Lord of Pleasure.

"Heehee... What an ill-mannered guest. Instead of welcoming my arrival, you make such a crude gesture."

Miriael let out a light laugh. "But I forgive your rudeness. How about joining me, and sharing the ultimate pleasure in the palaces of the Empyrean?"

Having just had both arms vaporized by plasma, Miriael extended an invitation to Rowan in a manner most befitting Slaanesh.

But the moment her words fell, Miriael saw Rowan immediately twist his face in utter disgust.

Ugh—

He suddenly clutched his stomach, his expression slightly contorted, and let out a dry heave.

"Disgusting. You look worse than a sewer maggot. First time I've regretted having eyes."

"Truly a follower of the False Emperor with no sense of aesthetics."

Miriael shook her head.

Such provocation meant nothing to a Slaaneshi daemon.

Losing interest in Rowan, Miriael turned her gaze elsewhere—to a far more captivating target.

Behind Rowan, the other three members of the squad had risen to their feet, swiftly forming an attack formation, poised and ready.

"Ah, could this be..."

Miriael's eyes landed on Lucia, whose back bore wings, and shock surged within her.

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

Well, that explained things. She still found the inexplicably vanished souls and daemons unreasonable, but at least now there was a plausible excuse.

"That bastard Malven, daring to deceive me like this!"

Miriael cursed inwardly with irritation.

For a fallen Slaaneshi Sister, hunting down former members of the Order of the Martyred Saint she once belonged to, corrupting them, and making them kneel to the Lord of Pleasure was one of the rare joys in her long existence.

But the problem was—corrupting a Living Saint of the Emperor? Even if Miriael's mind was clouded, she wouldn't be foolish enough to dream of that, would she?

Still... maybe this was another kind of pleasure?

She reconsidered and brightened up.

Since her fall, Miriael had become undying and had tasted every sensation to the point of near numbness, her threshold raised to heights unimaginable to mortals.

Now, suddenly facing the possibility of true death—an experience she had never known—filled her with exhilaration instead.

On the other side, Lucia gripped her weapon so tightly her knuckles turned white, the flames on her blade blazing bright and hot.

Since becoming a Living Saint, many past emotions seemed to have faded from her heart, but at this moment, fierce hatred and killing intent churned within her.

The attire resembling a Battle Sister's, the tongue twisted into a serpent's, and the faintly recognizable face...

From the Church's records, she instantly identified her foe.

"Shameless traitor. You have defiled the glory of the Order of the Martyred Saint, abandoned the light of the Divine Emperor, and willingly served as a claw of the dark gods."

Every word carried blazing fury, and the white wings on Lucia's back trembled with rage. "Today, you shall be purified!"

Miriael merely shook her head lazily, a hint of mockery flickering in her alien pupils. Pink energy slowly writhed at the stumps of her severed arms, regenerating her limbs:

"Tsk, still with that tiresome rhetoric. Glory? Light? Those are nothing but lies spun by the False Emperor, chains to bind you poor wretches."

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dripping with temptation: "Do you truly believe that rotting corpse on the Throne can give you anything? Only endless sacrifice and hollow delusions. Come to my side, embrace the Lord of Pleasure, and you will—"

Wait.

Before she could finish, a warning suddenly flared in Miriael's mind.

Danger...!?

Without a moment's thought, she obeyed her instinct and dodged to the side without warning.

And in the next instant, several dozen plasma rounds, blazing with blinding light, blanketed a wide area and came rushing straight at her!

Rowan bared a cold smile.

No way. No way.

Surely no fool actually believes that two utterly irreconcilable enemies, upon meeting each other, would bother to chat before a fight to the death, right?

Just now, Rowan was multitasking. On one side, he used telepathy to relay information, telling his three teammates, who were nearly losing their minds, not to rush in and fight head-on, but to first discuss their battle strategy.

On the other side, he secretly used his Reality Warping Ability to repair the Executioner Main Cannon, which had been shattered into fragments, and completed a sneak attack right in front of Miriael.

For this cannon shot, Rowan fully absorbed the lesson from before. Under the influence of his ability, the plasma split the instant it left the barrel, spreading like a curtain of rain, drastically expanding the kill zone!

"Ah!"

A sharp scream rang out as Miriael cried out in pain.

In the end, she still failed to dodge in time. A single plasma bolt struck her chest with precision, sending her tall, twisted demonic body stumbling backward.

"A pity."

Faced with this result, Rowan sighed inwardly.

This was the one downside of this idealistic universe—named strongmen all seemed to possess an uncanny intuition, granting them an extremely sharp perception of ambushes.

No wonder. Regardless of race, assassin units were often regulars on the list of those who ate dirt.

From the Assassinorum of the Imperium of Man down below, to the Lictors of the Tyranids and the Deathmark squads of the Necrons up above, they had no problem bullying the weak in everyday fights, but when it came to high-end battles, they were practically useless.

Still, this outcome was acceptable.

"Plan B! Kill!"

Rowan shouted loudly.

As his voice fell, Lucia and Leonardo's figures vanished from their spots like phantoms, trailing brilliant golden afterimages as they charged toward Miriael with unstoppable speed.