The instant Saladin stepped onto the battlefield, time seemed to have been forcibly paused.
It was not time truly standing still, but the absolute dominance of a Primarch's presence and will.
He had not deliberately unleashed any psychic pressure, yet the exalted presence of a Primarch, rooted in the very essence of life, struck like an invisible boulder plunging into a murky pool. Its ripples swept through the entire blood-soaked corridor in an instant.
The hundreds of Rangdan Elite warriors furiously besieging the boarding party froze as one.
Their compound eyes, glittering with cold cruelty, were now fixed on the figure who had just torn through the bulkhead and walked calmly inside.
Saladin's attire was remarkably plain. He wore only a dark olive robe, light, practical armour, and a Scimitar at his waist. Beside the ornate or fearsome Power Armour and the enemies' heavy xenos armour, he looked almost "shabby."
Yet the presence beneath that "shabbiness," as deep and weighty as the desert itself, made these battle-hardened xenos killing machines feel an unprecedented, instinctive threat to their lives.
The armour covering their bodies trembled faintly. They tightened their grips on weapons wreathed in purple-green Force Fields, their joints creaking softly under the strain.
The air stood still. Only the hum of energy weapons and the crackle of lingering flames remained.
The next second, fear overpowered instinct.
Almost simultaneously, every Rangdan Elite abandoned its immediate target, regardless of which Space Marine it had been fighting or how far away it stood. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, they all turned toward Saladin!
Low, indistinct roars filled with collective murderous intent rose from their mouths. Like a dark crimson tide bursting through a dam, they hurled themselves at Saladin with everything they had, pouring from both ends of the corridor, the