53. The Emperor's Sword (4)

Survival was no inborn right, but a trophy many had thrown themselves forward, one after another, to wrest from this indifferent galaxy.

So Astropath Isaac thought.

His black robe brushed the floor, and a pair of cold, massive hands controlled him, making him walk according to the will of their owner. Isaac felt a wave of revulsion spread from the shoulder being touched through his whole body, and he could hear the heavy breathing behind him.

Damn traitor.

The Astropath cursed silently, yet kept up the appearance of someone willing to do anything to survive. Trembling with fear, bowing and scraping, he walked with his head lowered, and was brought to a place of darkness.

Isaac recognized it at once. This was the hangar aboard the Sword of the Emperor. In the past, it had been bright and spotless. Servitors had carried out the highest-standard cleaning here. It had been a good place. He had liked the hangar very much.

But not anymore.

Now, it was a vile, blasphemous, spine-chilling place. Just one glance was almost enough to make Isaac vomit out his soul.

The floor was covered in human skin, trembling softly in the faint breeze. Entrails hung from the ceiling, and innocent victims, no longer human in shape, were suspended there, joined to one another by each other's intestines. They screamed miserably, but all it drew was roaring laughter from the traitors below.

Isaac's hands trembled faintly—by the Emperor! He wanted to detonate his psionic power at once and blow himself and every traitor here to pieces, but he could not. Yes, he could not.

Before I die, there is still one thing I must do.

A tingling chill spread from the back of his head to his eyes. With his whole face numb, the Astropath stammered to