Raynor was too lazy to pay him any further attention. After grasping the basic situation, he had lost his appetite. He stood up, the mask sliding back over his face, and his six compound eyes flickered to life.
"Now, take me to see what remains of 'his' assets."
...
The first stop was the captain's cabin. The safe containing the five hundred million Throne Coins remained intact. In the chaotic slaughter that had just transpired, the Drukhari had wanted survivors and suffering, the Chaos Cult had wanted souls and corruption, the Genestealers had wanted control, and the Tyranids had wanted biomass. None of them had any interest in mere metal currency.
Raynor opened the safe, looking at the mountain of gold Throne Coins inside, and nodded with satisfaction. This was a considerable sum; within the Imperium, hard currency still held sway in many sectors. He only wondered if Brevis still utilized the standard Throne Coin.
Next came the inventory of the military forces, and the results were as grim as expected. The Astra Militarum company had been almost entirely wiped out during the Eldar defection and the ensuing madness. Kerry's private guard was well-equipped, but their fighting spirit and experience paled in comparison to the professional soldiers. They had suffered heavy casualties defending the bridge and the upper decks. A rough estimate suggested fewer than twenty survivors remained, and most of them were wounded.
As for the crew of over eight hundred, their situation was equally dire. Many had been killed, captured, or vanished into the void during the chaos. Most of the rest had scattered in a panic, hiding in the dark corners of the ship. Despite the relentless hunt by the Sarah Swarm, they ultimately managed to gather fewer than two hundred people. This was only because Raynor had deliberately commanded the swarm to stop consuming the crew. Most of the survivors were suffering from severe mental breakdowns or varying degrees of physical trauma.
What Raynor regretted most were the three thousand servants housed within the cargo holds. These should have been vital "human resources." But when Raynor arrived at the main cargo hold, he was met with a scene of absolute horror. Severed limbs littered the floor, and the walls were painted in gore. At least half of the servants had been butchered or kidnapped by the "Pointy-Ears."
Raynor didn't need to guess the fate of those who had fallen into Drukhari hands. It would be a long, unimaginable ordeal, lasting until their capacity for suffering finally reached its limit.
"Those xenos hybrids should have been wiped out by Slaanesh long ago..." Raynor cursed under his breath. Although he was no saint, he felt a physiological aversion to the Dark Eldar, who treated agony as a form of high art.
The remaining servants were not all unscathed. Warp pollution was pervasive. During the Chaos ritual, when the daemon had manifested during the unholy hymn, leaked subspace energy had radiated through the lower and middle decks. Many of the servants had been exposed, contaminated in both body and soul.
Raynor instructed Sarah to conduct a psychic survey of the remaining thousand-plus servants. The results were far from ideal. Approximately three hundred people showed obvious signs of physical mutation—tiny scales or whiskers growing on their skin, twisted and deformed joints, and faces contorted into masks of ferocity or unholy ecstasy. They were beyond saving; their souls had been defiled by the Warp. Before long, they would turn into Poxwalkers or something far worse.
Another five hundred people showed no outward change, but their souls had been warped and tainted by the colors of Chaos. These people might remain "useful" for a short while, but they were unstable and could "burst" into madness at any moment. Fewer than seven hundred truly "clean" and safe servants remained.
Raynor looked at the victims whose faces were gradually contorting in pain and remained silent for a few seconds. Shortly after, Sarah II received an additional batch of usable biomass.
Kerry, who had been following Raynor the entire time, was trembling. He finally couldn't hold back any longer, mustering his courage to ask in a shaking voice, "Lord Tytus, they're still alive! There might still be hope! How can we just leave them like this..."
He stopped mid-sentence. He saw Raynor turn his head. Raynor, who wasn't wearing his mask at that moment, stared at him. There was no murderous intent or anger in his purple eyes—only a cold indifference mixed with a hint of grim pragmatism. Raynor didn't answer immediately; he slowly walked up to Kerry. The shadow cast by his tall, armored frame completely enveloped the smaller man.
"Kerry," Raynor's voice was eerily calm. "Sometimes, so-called 'kindness' is the cruelest form of torture."
He pointed to a male servant lying on the ground, half of whose face was covered in fine blue scales. The man's lips were twitching unnaturally, as if he were trapped in a nightmare from which he could never wake.
"Look at him," Raynor said. "His body is undergoing an irreversible alienation, and his soul is being dragged into the abyss of the Warp. If you wake him, he won't thank you. He would only scream, go mad, and attack anything living in his line of sight. Or, he will kneel and pray to you, asking you to bestow more 'blessings' upon him. Then he would turn you into someone like him—a monster who has completely lost his mind."
"Let him live? His nightmares will only grow more terrifying, and his pain will only deepen until his soul is completely shattered, becoming a plaything for daemons."
Raynor's compound eyes shifted slightly as he looked at Kerry. "Tell me, which choice is truly 'merciful'?"
Kerry opened his mouth, but found he couldn't make a sound. He looked at the servants struggling silently in their agony, and a feeling he couldn't describe welled up inside him.
"For them," Raynor said finally, "the most merciful thing to do is to grant them a swift and decisive end."
This was the last vestige of respect for their remaining humanity, and the only way to halt the spread of corruption. Having finished, he stopped looking at Kerry and turned to leave the hold. Raynor's words were like a sharp blade, slicing through Kerry's naive, cowardly fantasies. This universe was far darker and crueler than he had imagined.
...
The inventory continued. Finally, they arrived at the lower cargo hold where the Ogryns were being held. The situation here was better than Raynor expected. Of the fifty-odd Ogryns, only five had died. Judging from the wounds, they had been torn apart by the Warp-flames of the Chaos Cultists during the fighting.
The remaining forty-eight Ogryns, though all injured, were in good spirits. When Raynor arrived, they were sitting together, sharing the mountain of synthetic food Raynor had sent earlier. They ate with great relish, making loud chewing noises and satisfied grunts.
What surprised Raynor even more was that no trace of Warp pollution could be detected on these Ogryns. But as he thought about it, he felt a sense of relief.
Tzeentch, the Master of Lies and God of Change, corrupts through the temptation of forbidden knowledge, the manipulation of fate, and the vulnerabilities of the intellect. Ogryns, on the other hand, possessed a simple and direct mental structure. Their thinking was as pure as a blank sheet of paper, completely devoid of complex or ambitious thoughts.
Trying to seduce an Ogryn with profound, forbidden knowledge was like showing a silent film to a blind man and expecting him to be moved by the cinematography. Corrupting an Ogryn through Tzeentchian guile was likely more difficult than teaching a fly to understand calculus.