As Olympio walked through the scene, he did so with some consternation. His mind looped back to his flourishes, the skill with which he fought in battle. It was necessary for him to be a master of the sword and his storm-bolter of course, for he could not leverage his mind to the same destructive potency that many of his Brothers could. But this was the realm of She-Who-Thirsts as the damnable xenos called the God of Chaos. Here, it as excess that reigned, and he knew that it was a mistake of many an initiate to assume this only applied to more base things from lust to gluttony. Many a man fell into the lures of Slaanesh with promises of being the greatest of swordmasters, and though he was confident in his unyielding purity Olympio was nevertheless concerned that by his very actions he had been strengthening the beast. 

So deep was he in his musings that he lagged the incantation of the Justicar by a few milliseconds when he echoed it. 

As daemonettes and mortal abominations alike descended upon the Space Marines, Olympio made sure to take the conclusions he came to in his musings into account. No longer were there the skillful, artistic sweeps, slices, and parries.e Now he made use of all the brutality that the strength of his power armour and genetic enhancements allowed him. He turned his sword over, grabbing it by the blade in the grip of a murder-stroke, the gilded crossguard of the weapon now the ends of a piercing bludgeon that was soon coated in gore. As ever more enemies pressed in, he felt his weapon ever more a burden given there was less and less space to truly swing it. He transitioned to using his fists, feet and even his very head as blunt weapons, the appendages flailing with the speed and force to crush just as a hammer or hatchet would. But even that was enough. Though individually he was stronger than many dozens of these abominations, the fact was that there were so many he could hardly move. Although likewise it meant that they too had little room to maneuver, it was still more than he and eventually they would get a lucky dagger or claw into the soft spot of a joint in his armour. 

It is said Space Marines know no fear. While true in the abstract, the self-preservation instincts of the Grey Knight nevertheless kicked in and overpowered his previous vows to conserve his psychic fortitude for greater foes. With a roar, witch-lightning coarse through the entire surface of the warrior. It arced between the aberrations covering him, turning the mortals into crisps and the daemons into puffs of smoke. Not ceasing his battle-cry, he used his shoulder still crackling with psychic electricity as a ram with which he tried to charge through the mass of evil and clear a path for his comrades.