The cruiser's engines cooled, and the machinery let out creaking, low whines as its machine spirit voiced its dissatisfaction. But Ahriman had no choice. Everyone capable of soothing the machine spirit was dead, and these reanimated corpses had been wrested from the jaws of the Degraded Ones.
Ahriman walked through the dim corridors with the Thousand Sons warriors who had just been restored. Degraded Ones and Orks had always been known for being tough and troublesome. Though Ahriman had already cleared out the larger enemies, there was no telling whether smaller things lurked in the corners.
The humming from the pipes sounded like Orks and Degraded Ones tearing each other apart. Ahriman was sick of purging this trash, but he had no choice. Once these things gained a foothold, control of this ship would no longer be his to claim.
Ahriman concealed the sound of the Thousand Sons' footsteps with sorcery. They gripped their ancient guns tightly. The bullets these weapons spat out were little different from sorcerous flame; as long as the wizard controlling them had sufficient psychic power, the weapons could fire without end.
Ahriman discovered a mass of Degraded Ones hiding within a thick pipeline. The sight of those things tangled together was utterly revolting, an affront to Ahriman's psychic vision.
A bolt of lightning struck first, and then the pipe wall shattered with alarming fragility. Countless Degraded Ones poured out, instinctively lunging at Ahriman, the only living being present.
The Thousand Sons opened fire on the Degraded Ones. Their puppet-like nature made them no different from dead things like stone in the eyes of the Degraded Ones. This was also the key to how Ahriman had been able to crush Degraded Ones numbering dozens of times more than himself.
As long as he protected himself, the