On the orbit of the planet Angrev Primus, the void had become a ravaged graveyard. Under Inquisitor Furia's orders and cries, the fleet—adorned with the Holy Hammer Knight Order's emblem and golden twin-headed eagle prows—assembled into orderly ranks, prepared to confront the traitor warships that emerged from the shadows, bearing curses thousands of years old.
Without any communication or probing, both sides unleashed the purest and most destructive rage the moment they met. This was a feud between loyalists and traitors spanning millennia, a war that could only end with the utter defeat of one side.
The names of these renegade warships had long faded from the memories of the world. Back in the age of the Great Crusade, when the Emperor still walked among the stars, those names were symbols of honor. These ships were once the pride of human civilization, their magnificent hulls shining with the Emperor's glory and the grand vision of humanity's unity and revival.
But after Horus' Rebellion erupted, they and their crews betrayed the Emperor and joined the forces of the dark gods. Since then, they vanished from the Imperial front for ten thousand long years.
When their hulls—corrupted horribly by the forces of Chaos—appeared within the detection range of the Inquisitorial fleet's augur arrays... The thinking man retrieved the names of the accursed from the very bottom of their databases. Alarms blared sharply from the consoles. Those cursed names flashed across the projector screen, marked as critically dangerous identifiers.
Once splendid, majestic Gothic hulls, like their owners, had been so warped by chaotic energies that they were beyond recognition. Tentacles, like living blood vessels of mingled metal and flesh, snaked around turrets, sensor arrays, and thruster nozzles, draining the growing despair and pain within. The hulls' surfaces were lumpy, exuding constant mucus, and covered with fleshy pustules that opened and closed like slow, breathing vents. In some areas, bronze-like textures melted and re-solidified, shimmering with an iridescent oily sheen.
Instead of ordered running lights, the portholes flickered with sinister pink and purple glows, and twisted dancing shadows could be glimpsed inside from time to time.
"For the Emperor! Purge those filthy traitors!"
"Let them feel the wrath of the Golden Throne!"
Inquisitor Furia stood on the bridge, shouting in a hoarse voice, her fanaticism at its peak. Having witnessed the miraculous power that moved stars, she was convinced the Emperor's gaze rested upon this very place. The holy will was fighting beside them through that mysterious nameless existence. The Emperor must know how his servants served with unmatched passion and loyalty.
Lances of light slashed through the darkness, unleashing deadly energy. The massive batteries thundered, casting tons of shells upon enemy vessels. Torpedoes silently traversed the void, seeking out weak points in armor. Swarms of fighters burst forth like bees, bombarding the enemy ships with fierce firepower. Ships occasionally exploded with supernova-like flashes.
The traitor fleet was formidable but disorganized, lacking cooperation among its members. The Imperial fleet, in contrast, was precise and powerful, operating in concert and enjoying numerical superiority. The void battle didn't last long; the Imperial fleet quickly gained obvious dominance. The traitor ships fought isolated battles, unable to support one another. As time passed, the Imperial advantage became more pronounced—victory became inevitable.
"We must execute a rapid airborne operation."
"Even if the Nameless Ones have foiled the daemons' schemes, I'm worried they might try something else."
Crowe and Canoness Setheno agreed they must make for the surface as soon as possible to thwart the next Chaos move.
Several gunships and two entire squadrons of escort fighters launched from the flagship's deck. Despite their modest but lethal firepower, they plunged straight into the atmosphere of the Chaos-cloaked Primus. The planet's surface had become a nightmarish hell, filled with blasphemous artwork.
After a perilous dogfight, the strike team landed in the area once belonging to the hive capital's upper echelons. Once thriving, the Upper Hive was now the very model of Slaanesh's corruption.
The buildings no longer followed any scientific principle. Spires twisted in spirals, their surfaces coated in unknown, mirror-smooth material reflecting psychedelic colors—or massive, pulsating organic tissues and instrument parts coexisted, playing strange melodies. Streets were covered in supple skin, providing a soft, yielding touch with every step. The air was thick with an intoxicatingly sweet scent—a blend of exotic spices, sweat, blood, and some kind of aphrodisiac.
None of the survivors on the ground were sane humans anymore. All had become raving cultists and hedonistic lunatics. Their minds and souls were utterly warped, immersed in endless orgiastic frenzy and hysterically burning away their lives, simply to please the Dark Prince.
People cheered and screamed around convulsing corpses, their faces warped by false ecstasy induced by hallucinogens. Some whipped each other with spiked lashs, flesh and blood flying from each blow, their bodies soaked but showing no pain. They gasped and shrieked as if in anguished climax.
Others were drawn into meaningless, hideous orgies and frenzied dancing. Hoarse singing, maniacal laughter, screams of pain; bodies bent and twisted at angles beyond human limits. The entire world had become a womb of agony and pleasure, every corner of the air thick with depravity and madness.
Upon landing, Crowe and his team were immediately attacked by zealots and madmen.
"Grant them mercy!" Crowe shouted.
But they were too corrupted by the powers of darkness, no longer human. Drake and the other Grey Knights activated their power halberds and struck down the mad cultists, hoping to save these wretched souls and let them find peace in the afterlife.
Tarautas stood atop a high platform, watching the distant slaughter with cold detachment.
He had joined the Emperor's Sons' army during the Horus Heresy. Back then, in their desperation for manpower to win the Siege of Terra, they didn't care at all about the quality of the chosen. Any man of the right age was dragged to the surgical table. Those who survived became Sons of the Emperor; those who didn't were dumped in mass graves.
Tarautas was one of the lucky ones. He survived both the surgery and the Siege. When Guilliman's retribution army arrived on Terra, he managed to hitch a ride on a transport, get back to a fleet ship, and escape the loyalists' vengeance.
Hiding in terror for millennia, Tarautas eventually became the current leader of the Hedonist Host. He was also the chief executor and promoter of the Angrev ritual. He had served the God of Pleasure for years and was well-rewarded—he had four arms, two of which were ornate tuning-fork bones capable of slicing power armor. Living gems moaned with shifting emotions, and oozing tentacles for self-pleasure sprouted from his splendid purple armor.
Three centuries ago, he received a divine revelation, instructing him to bring the chosen planet here and prepare it as a stage for the Dark Prince's delight.
Why eight? Because eight is Chaos' sacred number. Tarautas mildly suggested maybe six would be better—for six is the Dark Prince's favorite number, a figure of personal delight. But alas, eight is also the sacred number of the Chaos God the Dark Prince hates most.
Even worse, evil influences from the Imperium had already polluted the warp, and the Great Daemon had grown stubborn, ignoring sound advice to maintain their authority.
The Masque of Slaanesh insisted on eight planets, ignoring his suggestion.
"You should be banished from the Temple of Pleasure—if you don't even know your master's likes and dislikes."
"Keep flying around. Even if you fly until you die, you'll never get back into the Temple of Pleasure."
Tarautas grumbled inwardly at his employer. If not for the promised reward, he wouldn't continue this thankless work.
Now, with the ritual interrupted, all the efforts would be wasted, the blessing ceremony ruined as well.
"Stop the lackeys of the false Emperor from reaching the ritual's core! Make them pay, make them scream in despair!" Tarautas ordered his subordinates.
Only by killing the accursed servants of the Corpse King could his rage be soothed.
Crowe, Setheno, and their elite unit cut through the resistance like a blazing knife through butter, charging toward the palace distorting with chaotic power, cutting down mad cultists and lesser daemons along the way. The fighting was fierce: Slaanesh's followers fought with psychic attacks and sensory manipulation in strange, unpredictable ways. Traitors, including Emperor's Sons, would spring ambushes from time to time.
But the loyalty and will of the Grey Knights and Adepta Sororitass were stronger than adamantine.
After a series of arduous battles, they finally broke through the defenses and stormed into the ballroom of the Masque of Slaanesh.
The palace's interior was lavish in the extreme: if an ordinary human wandered in by chance, they would not be able to look away, would fall into corruption, and end up as a slave of the Pleasure God. But Crowe and company, boundlessly loyal to the Emperor, ignored all temptations and whispers as they pressed deeper inside.
After more fierce battles, they entered the magnificent hall, where a colossal, exquisitely crafted planetarium—made of gold, silver, bronze, and living crystal—floated. Seven planets orbited in perfect recreation of the Angrev system.
On a crystal stage symbolizing the stars stood the Masque of Slaanesh, the mastermind behind the ritual. Her dance embodied ultimate beauty twisted with horror. Each movement caused subtle tremors in corresponding planets of the planetarium, affecting the entire Angrev system.
The Masque of Slaanesh turned to face the intruders, her mask displaying whatever each observer thought most beautiful. She shrieked, mingling rage, hatred, and malice. It was these very people who had ruined the grand dance she prepared for centuries to regain the Dark Prince's favor. She was just one step away from earning her master's approval and being able to dance for him once more.
Her hatred was so intense that, without giving Crowe and the others time to react, she began her soul-consuming, bewitching dance. Crowe and the others felt their bodies immediately grow heavy, their thoughts befuddled, and heard irresistible depraved music urging them to abandon resistance and join in eternal ecstasy. Their movements slowed unconsciously, stiffening and trembling in the blasphemous rhythm—as if dancing with one another.
Hopelessness surged in Crowe and company, their bastions of will about to collapse before the fearful assault of art. Just then, traitors—including Tarautas, the Emperor's Son—burst in from a side door, firing at Crowe and his men.
They felt doomed.
Suddenly, without warning, a green light appeared beside the Masque of Slaanesh. In the next moment, a flamboyant figure leapt out, spun three and a half times in the air, and landed steadily on the stage. The visitor was none other than Datch.
His arrival stunned both sides. He was now dressed as Michael Jackson the Crazy Dancer Outfit—shiny black retro coat, white socks, silk hat, and his signature pose with one hand tipping the hat, standing en pointe. In such a bizarre and terrifying setting, he seemed irrational and outlandish.
"Ladies and gentlemen of nobility, wretched daemons and lackeys all!"
Datch's voice was passionate and full of enthusiasm.
"The time has come to end the boring old era. Let's dance with youth, let our passions burn!"
Before finishing, he stomped his foot and his body flowed into motion—not a martial style, but a dazzling mashup of breakdance, robot dance, and moonwalk, perfectly attuned to a street rhythm. His moves flashed with lightning speed, full of force and beat. Each pose seemed sculpted; every slide defied physics.
As he danced, a surging, energetic, and robust rhythm arose from nowhere. Instantly, two musical flows and two dances clashed in this profane temple, shattering the seductively depraved demon-song the Masque of Slaanesh had woven.
Her rhythm struck at the soul—a corrupting poison. Datch's, meanwhile, was wild and passionate, brimming with unreasonable vitality.
Crowe and the others suddenly felt buoyant, the trance of overwhelming music and loss of self-control receding like the tide.
"Can... something like this really be done?"
Furia, who began to moonwalk across the stage as though at her own concert, was, for the first time in her life, struck dumb with shock and disbelief. Crowe, Mordachi, and the others looked the same. Even Tarautas had forgotten his ambush, staring in disbelief.
But both sides were skilled warriors. New fighting soon erupted.
The Masque of Slaanesh, her rhythm disrupted, howled with hatred, her art defiled, her ritual trampled, and the culprit—the man before her—still dancing his idiotic, ugly jig. Enraged beyond reason, she lunged at Datch, trying to tear him apart. Still dancing, Datch casually threw two Pokéballs. Skarbrand and the Changeling appeared from nowhere, facing the Masque of Slaanesh.
Even without orders, Skarbrand roared and swung his massive axe at her. The Changeling flashed a sly grin, form constantly flickering, conjuring unpredictable illusions and magic to confuse the foe.
The Masque of Slaanesh was every inch a greater daemon of Slaanesh—even when surrounded, she fought back with terrifying might. Her dance became deadly art, battling fiercely with Skarbrand and the Changeling.
"Tsk, a tough fighter," Datch said, dancing as he produced from his game inventory an item labeled "100% chance to catch when grasping a sword with a blade." It wasn't lethal, so it was rarely used.
Datch struck a stylish start pose, seamlessly blending it into his dance. With a light swing of his longsword, he took aim at the Masque of Slaanesh.
In the midst of furious battle, the Masque of Slaanesh twisted away from Skarbrand's wild blows at impossible angles. Suddenly, as if seized by an invisible force, she knelt with a thud, arms raised uncontrollably, locking above her head as if grasping a sword.
The sudden, forcibly imposed kneeling completely threw off her fighting rhythm, leaving her totally defenseless. Skarbrand and the Changeling both grinned wickedly, seizing the moment. They fell upon the incapacitated dancer, who could only kneel with clasped hands, unleashing a brutal, inhuman assault—fists, claws, weapons, sorcery raining upon the beautiful form in a storm as she shrieked in agony.
…
Kingdom of the Brass Throne
Khorne watched the scene through blood-red curtains and a rare, grim joy rose in his furious heart. In the original Lion's Gate War, that great daemon was forced to kneel in humiliation by the Nameless One, and was mocked by the other three gods. Now it was her turn. Poetic justice: none should laugh at another's fate.
…
Seeing the Masked Witch near death, Datch pulled out a Master Ball, ready to capture the Succubus.
Deep in the Pleasure Palace, the Dark Prince, watching the fight, suddenly straightened. Their face, a blend of exquisite beauty and warped features, filled with shock and wrath. Skarbrand and Kairos had already been captured and enslaved by the Nameless One's strange little balls. If the Masque of Slaanesh was captured as well, she too would become a slave and be whipped. At that thought, the Dark Prince instantly issued a divine edict:
Daemons, enter the real universe and prevent the Nameless Ones from kidnapping the Masque of Slaanesh!
Even after expelling her from the Pleasure Palace, the Dark Prince would never let her fall into another's hands. The Masque of Slaanesh could only be herself.
By the Prince's will, a rupture opened in the ballroom. Countless daemons howled and surged in, aiming to stop Datch.
At the same time, the Emperor—watching events unfold—dispatched the Cursed Legion to intervene the moment Slaanesh's hordes charged in.
The Cursed Legion warriors, wreathed in flame and clad in black, advanced in silence and discipline to meet the Slaanesh tide. In an instant, psychic and physical weaponry clashed, thunder echoing throughout the palace, inside and out. Daemon shrieks and warriors' silent determination mingled as the fight intensified swiftly.
"FIGHT! Let's fight!" Khorne bellowed with excitement. Without hesitation, he hurled his army into the field, joining the chaotic war.
However, Khorne's target was not Primus, but Slaanesh's domain in the warp.
Heh! Heh! You fool! Don't like your lands being wrecked and invaded, do you?!
"Khorne, you thick-headed barbarian—butcher!" Slaanesh's roar echoed through the warp, unable to conceal his fury.
Khorne's unexpected strike forced Slaanesh to divert forces to defend his borders, drastically limiting reinforcements on the real battlefield.
With the Cursed Legion blocking daemonic reinforcements and Skarbrand and the Changeling restraining the Dancer...
Datch threw the Master Ball. It flew up to the Masked Witch's head, emitting a ray that enveloped her.
"No, master, save me!!!" the Masque of Slaanesh screamed in terror, begging her powerless patron for help. But only an angry, impotent shout was returned.
The Master Ball's light intensified. Suddenly, the masked dancer's screams ceased. Her form turned into brilliant pinkish-purple rays, drawn into the ball. The ball landed, shook three times, the indicator flashed green, then fell still.
Datch moonwalked over and, with a smooth motion, picked up the Master Ball.
Tarautas and the Emperor's Sons stared in utter despair as they witnessed the scene.