The control chamber reeked of burnt metal and scorched oil. Sparks flew from damaged consoles, and broken Ork bodies littered the floor. Cătălin and Daniel moved with precision, their boots echoing in the cavernous room. Only a handful of Orks remained, clustered around the main console like predators guarding a kill.
"Looks like it's just them," Daniel muttered, raising his plasma rifle.
A guttural roar answered him. From the shadows, the Ork Shaman emerged, cloaked in tattered robes, bones and charms rattling with every step. His eyes glowed a sickly green, and in one hand he carried a jagged staff crackling with warp energy.
Cătălin tightened his grip on his weapon. "We take him down fast—no time to play."
The Shaman bellowed an incantation, and the air shimmered with psychic energy. Sparks leapt from the consoles, and a low vibration hummed through the floor as if the chamber itself was responding.
Daniel fired first, plasma streaking toward the nearest Ork. The shots tore through the last footsoldiers, their roars cut short. The Shaman raised his staff, deflecting the blasts with a green energy shield.
Cătălin charged, blade swinging in a wide arc. The Shaman parried with his staff, a blast of energy throwing Cătălin back into a console. Sparks rained down, and the smell of ozone filled the air.
Daniel flanked from the left, firing carefully. "Cătălin, now!"
Cătălin lunged again, feinting high and then plunging his blade under the Shaman's guard. The staff sparked and splintered under the strike. The Shaman howled, staggering but not down. His free hand gestured wildly, summoning a wave of psychic fire.
Daniel reacted, slamming the butt of his rifle into the Shaman's jaw. The Shaman reeled, and Cătălin pressed the advantage, his blade slicing through the Shaman's defenses. With a final, explosive cry, the Shaman collapsed, the energy fizzing out of his staff like steam escaping a vent.