His backup had arrived. Or perhaps he was the vanguard for the main force. Either way, battle was joined, which meant that he could focus on more than simply attempting to not die. Bullets rattled off his shield in front of him, most turned entirely away by the aura of power surrounding it, the occasional few pockmarking the surface with scrapes and craters. Not that that mattered. He placed his sights on an individual and approached them. They would fall. He would repeat the process.

He cared not how long it would take per individual, nor if an individual's name came on his blade or on a friendly bolt shell. Instead, he focused on his work- his tapestry of red, throats, chests, faces and limbs left with deadly and indelible marks, sending them to their unholy afterlives by the grace of the almighty Emperor. These individuals did not challenge him. They replaced skill with brutality and an overwhelming offensive, but they were hardly an unstoppable force, unfortunate when facing one such as himself.

He had not taken one step back. Now he took them forward. Another heretic came at him. Instead of striking with his glaive, the Crusader stiffened his arm and pistoned it forward, the end result much like what would happen if you ran over a guardsman's head with a chimera- not pleasant, to put it lightly. Before the corpse had even crumpled to the ground, his blade found another mark.

He was barely focusing on his companions. He heard shouts, he heard taunts, the rattle of gunfire, but his mind tuned it out. A technique he had learned from the Cardinals- emptying his mind of the excess thoughts. All he concerned himself with was himself and his foes. This effortless emptiness had been honed to a finer point than the blade her carried, watching with a detached look as a sister beheaded a xenos and tossed the body inside, if only because his glaive lashed out adjacent to the fallen creature.

There was no doubt that they would win this fight.