The carving didn't take long. Although I didn't need to feed on her emotions, it was a nice snack and satiated my soul more strongly than most other things. She didn't fear me; I could sense that much, but her pain was delicious. I watched as my soul gained a slight luster of gold from the flecks of agony I consumed.
"Interesting," I mumbled, closing my eyes as I finished carving. "Your chambers are located to the left of mine, should I call for you. Now, politely leave me." Her presence lingered briefly before she departed, hesitance tinging her exit. I knew my mother would question me about keeping a Mon-keigh so close, but I'd think of something.
In the meantime, I ventured further down my wing of the tower, leaving my room and entering my personal experiment chamber. I had convinced Mother to have a Haemonculi tutor me for a while. Though a dangerous experience by all measures, the 9ft tall Haemonculi became like a cool uncle once you started using agonizers on the flesh puppets.
He taught me many intriguing things, including elixirs to revive oneself from a drop of blood, how to regenerate lost limbs, and the creation of such concoctions—thankfully, using his supply. The man had worked with the Cult of Venom for an untold number of years and rarely caused trouble, except for one experiment involving Tyranids.
A bomb explosion in his laboratory released some Carnifex, creating quite the chaos for the Wych Cult to clean up. Here, I set up a cloning station, another on an agri-world in the Segmentum Tempestus. Convincing Mother for that excursion took effort, but she eventually approved, accompanied only by some Sslyth guards.
Disregarding these thoughts, I checked my most recent experiment. A large Astartes stood before me, even by their standards, he was immense—easily 8ft tall and weighing double that of a full-grown Drukhari. I had extracted the gene-seed from a particularly brutal Carcharodon Astartes.
I cloned the man, trying to understand how the gene-seed was created. The augments on him, even by Drukhari standards, were exceptional. The craftsmanship in creating these warriors was astounding. They were endlessly loyal to the Emperor, conditioned throughout their entire lives.
"Wakey wakey, Sharky," I said, tapping the glass separating us. His eyes snapped open, slitted like a predator's. "I need to run some more tests, so try to stay alive this time, Number 43." I smiled and activated a button, testing a new toxin on the Astartes.
I recalled reading in my past life about a disease capable of wiping out all beings with gene-seed, designed by some mad scientist from humanity's golden age. I wanted to create a lesser version—not to kill, but to maim or disable them for some time.
It needed to be aerosolized, preferably. While I had some successes, most attempts ended with my favorite test subject dying from random complications. Drukhari technology never fell from its glory; we had access to most of it from the height of our power.
A blue gas filled the tank. The Astartes writhed intensely but gradually grew still, his eyes locked on me. Promising, very promising. I could see he wanted to escape, and it took longer than intended—two minutes of constant contact—but progress was progress.
His skin rapidly turned red as his body fought the toxin, but it was vastly unsuccessful. This new poison was the brainchild of Alera and Viveth, working in tandem. I was merely testing its effects. I enjoyed experimenting, and this one had been more interesting than previous failures.
Ending the procedure, I began the next. I let the Astartes close his eyes and activated the stasis field again. A young male Drukhari, a clone of a slave I bought over a year ago, lay strapped to the table. I had been cloning this one for my newest venture: genetically altering myself.
The last few experiments ended with the poor boy exploding, and despite all our wisdom, the Drukhari had few things capable of easy cleanup. "Don't explode this time, please," I whispered to myself, hating the thought of cleaning viscera off the walls.
The Drukhari clone, Number 36, stared at me wide-eyed. Experiment 1 exploded, Experiment 2 grew into an amorphous blob, Experiment 3 leaked blood from all orifices until exsanguination, Experiment 4 died from fear, Experiment 5 died of old age. Thirty-odd failures followed.
I had a good feeling about this one. My research was based on the body changes Drukhari experience during genetic enhancements, plus the modified gene-seed I had reverse-engineered. I planned to make myself the equivalent of a Primarch in a Drukhari body, but the challenge lay in obtaining a sample.
The damned bastards were scattered throughout the stars, and the only accessible one was too much hassle. I started with the secondary heart operation, generally the easiest part. While Drukhari physiology differs, modifying the design wasn't too hard. The second phase, however, was annoying.
Drukhari have much lighter bones than humans, tremendously lighter. Other aspects compensate, making us fast and deadly. Creating an organ to solidify the bones is a hassle, especially for a species that no longer eats or drinks. Disregarding these thoughts, I implanted the Ossmodula.
All the while, the Drukhari clone screamed bloody murder. I did not allow any drugs to dull the senses—this doubled as an excellent meal. The last implant for today was the Biscopea, to boost muscle growth and form the basis for future upgrades.
The clone's screeching intensified, tears staining his eyes, but I felt no sympathy. This was for my future. I needed to be strong. I couldn't fall into mediocrity—not now, not ever.
His cries of anguish resonated throughout the chamber, echoing off the cold, unyielding walls. I watched, detached, as the Biscopea began to take effect, its tendrils of power seeping into his muscles, forcing them to grow and adapt in ways nature never intended. His body twisted and contorted in response, muscles swelling grotesquely beneath his skin, pushing the limits of what the Drukhari frame could handle.
Blood vessels ruptured, his skin stretched to the brink of tearing, but the enhancements held. This was a crucial moment. If the enhancements took, he would become a living testament to my ingenuity. If not, he would simply be another failed experiment, another mess to clean up.
I carefully monitored the vital signs displayed on the control panel. His heart rate spiked, blood pressure surged, but he clung to life with a tenacity I found commendable. The clone's screams gradually subsided to whimpers, then to a strained silence, his body too exhausted to produce sound. I leaned in, studying the minute changes in his physiology, noting the increased density of his bones and the thickening of his muscle fibers.
"Remarkable the first minor success since the start." I whispered to myself, more to break the silence than anything else. The clone's eyes, bloodshot and wide with fear, met mine. There was a spark of something in those eyes, something that could almost be mistaken for understanding. But that spark faded as his eyes rolled back, unconsciousness claiming him at last.
I turned away, making detailed notes in my logbook. There was much to learn from this experiment, much to refine. The augmentation process was progressing, albeit slowly. I needed to speed up the integration of these enhancements into my own body, but patience was key. I knew it would be many years before the process was perfected, likely a couple decades if I continue without assistance.
Leaving the experiment chamber, I walked down the dimly lit corridors of the tower. The eerie silence was broken only by the occasional distant scream or the hum of arcane machinery. My next destination was the library, a vast repository of forbidden knowledge accumulated over millennia. Here, among the ancient tomes and dark scrolls, I would find the secrets needed to perfect my transformations.
Hours passed unnoticed as I delved deeper into the arcane lore. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows, dancing across the walls, giving the room an otherworldly ambiance. The knowledge was intoxicating, a heady mix of science and sorcery.
Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door broke my concentration. I looked up, annoyed at the intrusion. The door creaked open, and a slender figure slipped inside. It was the Mon-keigh, her presence unexpected but not unwelcome.
"You summoned me?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. I laughed a little internally. It appears the reality of her station is creeping in on her.
"I did not," I replied, my irritation evident. "But since you're here, you can assist me."
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and dread. I handed her a tome, pointing to a specific passage.
"I need you to learn our language. I can't keep speaking this gothic tongue." I commanded.
I felt a surge of anticipation. The pieces were falling into place. I would transcend the limitations of my kind, becoming something greater.
The night wore on, filled with the chanting of arcane rites and the scribing of intricate sigils. By dawn, I had made significant progress. The Mon-keigh proved to be a useful assistant, Celeste had a small fear of me, a constant source of sustenance that I was not complaining about. I dismissed her with a wave, her eyes hollow from the night's exertions.
As she left, I turned my attention back to my work. The next phase of my experiments required a live subject. I had heard rumors of a captured Archon from a rival Kabal being held within our dungeons. An Archon's physiology would provide invaluable data, and their suffering would be an exquisite bonus.
I descended into the depths of the tower, the air growing colder and more oppressive. The dungeons were a labyrinth of cells, each containing the broken remnants of those who had crossed our path. The Archon's cell was guarded by two imposing Incubi, their Klaives gleaming in the dim light.
"Open the cell," I ordered, my voice cutting through the silence. The guards complied without hesitation, the heavy iron door creaking open to reveal the Archon shackled within.
He looked up, defiance burning in his eyes despite the chains that bound him. "What do you want, you treacherous wretch?" he spat, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"I want what you have," I replied, stepping into the cell. "And you will give it to me, willingly or otherwise."
I motioned for the guards to restrain him as I prepared my instruments. The Archon's screams filled the dungeon as I began my work, each cry of agony a testament to my skill and determination. I carved some ancient runes upon him and when done I sent the Incubi away after restraining the man again.
As the hours passed, I extracted the data I needed, pushing the boundaries of what was possible. The Archon's body was a canvas, and I was the artist, painting a masterpiece of suffering and scientific discovery.
When I finally stepped back, covered in blood and sweat, I knew I was one step closer to my goal. The Archon's body lay near-lifeless on the table. But the runes worked as anticipated, if a little weaker than my liking. I could work on perfecting them eventually but for now they would do.
They essentially acted as a kill switch; they were suffused with inklings of warp energy each rune carved held the purpose of 'persuading' the one afflicted with servitude and should thoughts become more in line with betrayal an explosion follows suit.
The runes were something that were much more difficult to find and after having reviewed the library 100's of times was the only book that even had a few runes to base this off of. The fall of the Aeldari magic was disappointing. The lack of study material means that I will likely have to either visit a craft world or subject several Aeldari to my whims.
However, that will be for a different time. For now I have classes with Viveth to look forward to. I believe my first raid is coming soon and there is much to prepare.