The cultists are sucked into the muck, and crushed under the feet of the seemingly unyielding legionaries. Memories of Berserker are probably screaming to Ky now, for they are the shadow opposites of his pearl-colored destructiveness, somehow far more unwholesome than his righteous fire. The kine shield starts to crumple at the edges, and the smell of burned ceramite and charred flesh wafts over the battlefield as the fireballs and winds blast into the ranks, but they are answered by brutal, explosive magical bolts coughing from blocky boltguns of the Black Legion. They will likely be scything down the ranks of Ky's men, every shot strong enough to punch through armor and explode the man inside it. These were the warriors the Emperor of Belka used to conquer his empire.