The distance between Lu Chen’s boots and the Specter Primarch was twenty-two paces.
To an ordinary martial artist burdened by mortal mass. It crossed that distance through negative two hundred and fifty degrees of cryo-breakdown was impossible.
Every breath in would freeze the lung tubes into glass.
Every heartbeat would slow as the blood thickened into frozen sludge.
Lu Chen didn’t run.
He simply tightened his local gravity pull.
The space between his boots and the center of the specter tightly packed. It folded like an accordion in a tailor’s hands.
Thump.
