Saladin walked at the head of the column, his stride as steady as ever as he crossed decks slick with xenos blood and heaps of twisted metal.
Behind him came the guard led by Takidin, followed by the regrouped warriors of the Second Legion, their morale soaring.
Company Captain Muras had received basic battlefield treatment. Though he limped, he stayed close behind the Primarch's flank, his gaze burning.
The passage to the Bridge was less a corridor than a road paved with death.
The bulkheads on either side were covered in scorch marks from energy weapons and deep gouges from melee blows. Shattered carapaces, severed limbs, and the wreckage of the Rangdan Elites' bizarre weapons littered the floor.
The air was thick with a nauseating stench of burning, the sickly sweetness of xenos blood, and the distinctive ozone smell of overheated power weapons.
These formidable Rangdan Elite warriors, who had exacted a terrible toll on the Space Marines during the recent boarding action, were now as fragile before Saladin as sandcastles in a Tornado.
Not a single enemy could halt him for more than a second. Whether they ambushed him from the shadows or charged in formation in a desperate last stand, the result was always the same.
A pale golden blade flashed as fast as Lightning, followed by broken bodies hitting the deck and foul blood splashing across it.
Saladin's movements were precise, efficient, and utterly devoid of waste. Every swing took one or several xenos lives, while he remained immaculate and calm as still water, as though he were merely clearing clutter from his path.
There were no shouts, no roars, only the faint sound of a blade slicing through flesh and carapace, and the dull thuds of enemies falling.
Their silent advance brought an even more suffocating