Opulent, frenzied music echoed through the abandoned luxury bar, forming an absurd contrast with the deathly silence outside. The three players sat on high stools, savoring vintage wine whose amber liquid shimmered faintly in crystal glasses—wine sealed for an unknown number of centuries.
Then, from the depths of the backroom, came a dragging sound.
It did not resemble human footsteps. It was heavier, slicker—like something viscous being rhythmically slammed against the floor. Each impact sent faint ripples through the surface of their wine.
“Smash!”
All three slammed their glasses down almost simultaneously and reached for the laser rifles resting beside the counter.
The next second—
“BOOM—!”
The wall separating the backroom from the bar—crafted from expensive polished wood—exploded inward as if struck by an invisible battering ram. Splinters and dust erupted into a gray shockwave that surged toward them.
The three reacted instantly, dropping and rolling away the moment the first impact hit. The shockwave skimmed past their helmets. Aside from scattered splinters clattering harmlessly against their Carapace Armor, they sustained no damage.
But then something strange happened.
Under the influence of Garry’s portable tape recorder—still playing Bohemian Rhapsody—the smoke and dust did not disperse normally. Instead, they drifted apart in slow, exaggerated waves, like a stage curtain being theatrically drawn open.
When the intruder was fully revealed, all three froze.
Garry muttered under his breath, as if he had just seen a ghost.
“Holy crap… that thing is messed up.”
The creature stood about two meters tall, but its form defied biology entirely.
Its body was hollow—constructed like a woven lattice of blood-red and purplish-blue “threads.” These strands writhed faintly, evoking the unsettling image of exposed nerves and vascular tissue forcibly extracted and braided together.
The entire structure had been stretched and twisted by some unseen force into the shape of a vertical, dripping harp.
At the top of the frame was a human face—stretched beyond recognition, its features blurred by tension and pain. From its occasional spasms and trembling “strings,” it was clear the subject was still alive.
And had been alive the entire time.
The three players were used to aiming for vital points. Hearts, heads, cores—instinctive targets.
But this thing had none.
AlphaBravo raised his weapon experimentally and fired twice.
Two laser beams struck cleanly. Two strands of flesh melted away from the “harp body.”
What followed was not a scream of pain.
It was a piercing, metallic shriek—like fingernails dragged across glass, or dozens of harp strings snapping at once.
“Oh,” AlphaBravo said calmly. “It’s just a display piece. All form, no substance.”
Fear comes from the unknown. Once understood, it loses its grip.
All three opened fire.
A lattice of laser fire tore through the creature. It convulsed under increasingly sharp, distorted shrieks before collapsing inward. Its body dissolved like ice under a furnace, releasing a wave of biting cold as it vanished.
Frost spread rapidly across the floor, centered on its remains.
When silence returned, only a broken harp lay in the middle of the frozen ground.
Item Identified:
Name: Damaged HarpType: ToolQuality: Dilapidated
Description:Friedrich Payton was the finest harpist in Perditia’s Upper Hive, proud of his unmatched musical skill—until the Governor invited a strange performer to court.
It was the most beautiful music Friedrich had ever heard.
Upon returning home, every piece he played sounded unbearably grotesque. Driven by obsession, he sought out the mysterious musician… and was welcomed without hesitation.
“The situation in the Upper Hive and Top Hive is becoming clear,” AlphaBravo said, holstering his weapon as he read the item description. “The Governor invited a Slaanesh-aligned performer—likely a daemon or something similar. This is the result.”
He turned his visor toward Garry.
“From the description, music is the trigger.”
Garry quickly reached down and shut off the tape recorder at his waist.
Name groaned. “Your stupid tape recorder almost got us killed. When that thing burst in, all the dust made it impossible to see anything.”
“I didn’t know it would react to music,” Garry said defensively.
After a pause, he frowned. “But are we sure it’s Slaanesh-aligned? It could also be Drukhari. They’re artists in their own way, and they love tormenting victims. They even showed up in the game’s CG.”
AlphaBravo nodded slowly. “That’s possible. In some ways, Drukhari are even more likely.”
Then he crouched beside the harp.
“But you missed something important.”
He pointed at the item description.
“‘Upon returning home, Friedrich found all the pieces he played to be unbearably grotesque.’”
Name tilted his head. “Pleasure threshold?”
“Exactly,” AlphaBravo said. “That’s classic Slaanesh corruption.”
His voice sharpened.
“After experiencing a higher form of pleasure, everything else becomes unbearable. What was once exquisite becomes disgusting—like eating filth or drinking waste. Even if it was once refined.”
He stood.
“With that detail, Drukhari are unlikely. This is Slaanesh-aligned. We just don’t know if it’s a daemon or a Fallen Astartes.”
“And we don’t know where it is,” Garry added, looking out over the silent sprawl of the Upper Hive. “This place is enormous. How are we supposed to find it?”
“We do know,” AlphaBravo said.
He turned toward the distant silhouette of the Governor’s Spire—towering above the hive like a black needle piercing the sky.
“Where else would a Slaanesh-corrupted being be… if not the most luxurious, most decadent place on the planet?”
Garry paused. Then nodded.
“…Right.”
AlphaBravo raised his communicator.
“Requesting permission for escalation. We’ll start by collapsing the Governor’s Mansion with orbital firepower. Then we proceed from there.”