A slave walked carefully along the edge of the corridor.
His modified right palm was fitted with a magnetic hook device, allowing him to grip the cold metal handrail tightly.
The modification did more than simply help him walk. At certain moments, it also allowed him to ignore gravity and the violent tremors brought on by the ship's flight. Of course, when necessary, it also let him keep a firm hold on a weapon. The slaves aboard the Fury of Flame were not all helpless and unarmed.
When faced with danger, they could strike back with their own strength and their faith in The Emperor.
He passed through the gloomy corridor, lowering his head whenever he went by a statue or a painting, paying his respects to the heroic forebears whose names he did not know.
The slave crossed the first bridge level and passed through the burning gun deck. By then, the corridor had grown crowded. Slaves and medical personnel busy with emergency work moved back and forth through the cramped, scorching area. The slave glanced at them, then quickly looked away.
Fire.
He did not think he could last long in an environment like this—just look at his companions. Every face was marked with blackened soot, their palms were burned, and exhaustion showed in their expressions. This Warp voyage had gone wrong from the very beginning. The gun positions had suffered multiple explosions, and rumors had already begun spreading through the lower decks.
He kept going. The twisting corridors and gloomy surroundings did not affect him. He had been born on this ship, had grown up on this ship, and he believed he would die on this ship as well. To him, this place was home.
The strategium.
He had come here again. The dark metal door was