Tiberius stepped off of the assault ram and held his powersword at the ready, gazing about in a swift, almost mechanical fashion. The very muscles of his body honed to a perfect harmony of combat readiness that could not be matched by any mortal man. It seemed the corridor was empty however. He stood at the ready for any enemies that would approach, though from what it seemed, they would go to the enemy. 

He would enjoy that. 

It would dull the pain of knowing one of the Imperium's cruisers had been so tarnished and corrupted with such degradation. The Black Templars were not known for their care of the common man, but any servant to the Emperor deserved more than to meet their doom by chaos torture. Once Brother Obryn announced the direction of which Tiberius would direct his wrath, the Templar placed his guantleted thumb upon the power button along the hilt of his power sword, and crept as quietly as he could alongside the servitors, telling his men to follow close behind. 

Blood would be spilled this day, in the name of the Emperor.