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	Nothing he couldn’t handle.  The great Iron Halo on the Armor of Fate flared to life.  Suddenly the air around him smelled of ozone.  Guilliman hefted the Emperor’s Sword high over his head and opened his vox-grille to maximum volume.  “FOR THE IMPERIUM OF MAN!” he bellowed, and he sprang from the wall as a hundred Marines opened fire.

	Guilliman all but flew forward, trailing orange flame like a comet’s tail.  He slammed into the midst of the startled Orks and bowled them aside.  A veritable hailstorm of laser and shot erupted all around him as the entire defending garrison on that section of wall started aiding him, just in time for the first of the tunnels to burst open.  Hundreds more Orks, these ones in bare scraps of cloth and wielding primitive weapons, surged out of the cracks in the ground.  Guilliman could see others in the tunnels still moving, moving towards the city and the walls.

	The Primarch opened a vox channel as he straightened up.  “All guns, redirect towards the ridge!  Tunnelers trying to breach walls!” he said quickly, and then he charged.

	The Orks bellowed and roared, waving their blades and firing their smokey guns, but what did it matter?  This was no mere Space Marine or Stormtrooper, this wasn’t even a Terminator.  This was Guilliman.  This was the Avenging Son, the Scion of Ultramar, the Lord of Thirteenth.  At the absolute height of the Imperium’s power, there had been perhaps eight people in the galaxy who could match him in battle.  In this dark, squalid, ugly age of stupidity and flaws?  Two.  Maybe three.  At most.

	The Orks screamed and surged, but Guilliman closed the gap faster than their beady red eyes could track him.  There was open, soot-stained dirt with a huge humie at the other end, and then there was just blue, gold, red, and the end of the world.

	Mimic wasn’t inexperienced enough to make the mistake of stopping to gawk, but in truth, the Primarch was slicing through the Orks so quickly that Mimic could barely see it through a scope.  Guilliman was a whirlwind of movement, like an Eversor Assassin but ten feet tall.  Even that wasn’t a fair descriptor, though.  Guilliman was moving forward at a pace Domack would have had to match at a fast run if the terrain were flatter.  Ork bodies weren’t collapsing to the ground, they were soaring aside in pieces.  Fire from the Emperor’s Sword arced between dying aliens, evaporating slits in greenskin bellies open faster than even an Imperial Fist could see.  Ash spewed from the cuts instead of blood as the Emperor’s hate burned them from the inside.

	The Primarch wasn’t making a sound, either.  No war cries, no battle chants, no coded messages, not even his Chapter’s name.  He was just moving, like death over the plain, like a wraith over the ice of Inwit when the blizzards subsided and the predators came out to kill.

	There, the Hand of Dominion flared orange and raked two Wartrukks with AP bolts.  There, a surge of electricity from the power fist blasted through a Meganob and flung his smoking carcass down the holes in the soil.  There, Guilliman was sprinting so fast that he actually blurred in Mimic’s electronic eyes, and there was a string of burning orks behind him.  Strange Marines in strange armor followed their Primarch on the ground with bolts, finishing off the terrified Orks he left in his fiery wake.  He was running parallel to the wall now, killing, killing, killing.  Watching the heat feed of the Orks was astonishing.  Heat signatures vanished as Guilliman crushed them, flared up as he shot them with his bolts, or spiked as he disintegrated them with a fiery sword, then they all cooled off to ambient levels as he moved on and let fungal blood drain into the dusy soil of Oglith.

	Halwart hadn’t even realized he had stopped shooting.  Guilliman was running in the rough direction of his Leviathan, and for a wild moment, he thought the Primarch was coming for him, but no.  No, Guilliman was heading for one of the Glasian transports.  Halwart quickly opened a channel to the gunnery team inside his Leviathan.  “All guns, hold fire!  Hold fire, in the name of the Primarch!”

	The guns fell silent as a chorus of awed or confused acknowledgements sounded off in his earpiece.  Halwart watched with wide eyes as Guilliman tucked his head down and broke into a dead sprint, bouncing shocked Orks off of his Halo shield like dust motes off a windscreen.  Was he going to ram his way into the transport?

	Guilliman saw the bulk of the alien ship rise before him.  It was a hideous thing, all wrong angles, and covered in sigils of Chaotic nonsense.  He gritted his teeth at the surge of sudden rage he felt at the sight of Chaos defiling yet another of the Imperium’s worlds, and forced his armor to its absolute limit.  He was running at seventy kilometers per hour at least, so fast that even Cawl’s miracle armor was straining.  At the last moment, he kicked off the ground and sprang onto a crumpled Glasian hovertank.  The thin metal gave slightly under his ton of weight, then he had leaped free and was flying through the air.  He landed atop one damaged wing of the transport among the crowd of shocked Glasians that had taken refuge there from the Orks.  He swept the Sword of the Emperor at his waist and neatly severed all of their heads, sending them flying on spurts of ash.  He was over the wing and dropping back down, then rammed his Hand of Dominion into the side of the transport and pivoted down to land among a vast force of Orks.

	Startled greenskins, rising to take advantage of the sudden lack of fire from the Leviathan, recovered to roar their throaty WAAAGH! at the big humie that had just landed in their midst.  Guilliman did not give them the chance.  He opened his vox-grille to its highest volume once more and screamed right back.  “FOR MACRAGGE!”  The Orks nearest him actually flinched back from the volume, and then he was killing them.