"Saladin!"
Angron's voice rolled like muffled thunder through the shattered hall, drowning out the Bolter fire and clashing metal around him.
He smashed through the last wall adorned with ornate reliefs and stepped into a relatively spacious connecting passage.
His gold-and-red armour was smeared with enemy blood and oil. Both axes hung low, thick liquid dripping from their edges.
"Get out here and face me!"
His roar echoed through the passage.
No reply was needed. A dark figure shot from the shadows like a desert scorpion that had long been poised to strike.
Cold steel flashed—not in a direct downward chop, but in a vicious, cunning arc that swept upward toward the junction of Angron's skull and neck.
Fast, precise, and timed for the instant Angron burst through the wall, when his vision was briefly obscured.
Angron's pupils contracted slightly. Driven by combat instinct, he raised his axes and crossed them before him just in time.
Clang!!!
A deafening clash of metal erupted. Sparks burst through the dim passage, illuminating a face encased in close-fitting black armour, with only a pair of cold eyes exposed.
The curved blade of the scimitar bit firmly into the crossed axe hafts. Immense force surged through the weapons, driving Angron back several steps, his adamantium boots ploughing distinct gouges into the metal floor.
Saladin.
He stood there as though he had been waiting all along.
Close-fitting black armour outlined his lean, powerful physique. The scimitar in his hand gleamed darkly, its perfect curve resembling a crescent moon in the desert night.
There were no unnecessary words, only those cold, assessing eyes beneath his faceplate.
"Sa! La! Din!"
Angron growled, his fury at being driven back erupting alongside his pent-up killing intent.
He steadied himself and pushed off, cracking the passage floor beneath his feet.