The battle had entered its most brutal phase: close-quarters fighting through the station's corridors. Its tangled passageways had become bloody slaughterhouses.
Like a deadly dancer, Lucius remained at the very forefront of the squad.
The Power Sword in his hand had become a storm of death wreathed in purple lightning. Every stroke was precise and efficient, severing, shattering, or outright vaporizing any grotesque xenos puppet that dared approach into clouds of green blood.
Sixteen Space Marines, drawn from both the Emperor's Children and the Word Bearers, followed close behind him, forming an unbreakable moving bulwark on either side.
With Bolters and assorted melee weapons, they established interlocking fields of fire, precisely picking off any enemy attempting to ambush them from the flanks or above.
Las-beams occasionally struck their Power Armour, sending ripples of energy across it, but could not penetrate the ceramite shell.
"Still no contact with the warship?!" Lucius's voice came through his speakers, sounding almost relaxed.
As he spoke, a slight flick of his wrist reduced a "maintenance worker" leaping from a ventilation duct to a cloud of green mist before it could hit the ground.
He followed through with an ornate yet practical flourish, shaking the viscous xenos fluid from his blade with all the elegance of a courtly duel.
"No contact! Every channel is overwhelmed by intense static!" Techmarine Torres replied, his voice accompanied by the steady, measured shots of his Bolt Pistol.
His massive figure stood out in the middle of the squad, the Servo-arms on his back moving as nimbly as living tentacles.
When several enemies disguised as crew members tried to creep up a branching corridor and ambush him with Cutting Torches, a thick mechanical arm shot out. It seized the leader's head with perfect accuracy and crushed it as easily as a