Stukov was not consciously aware of how the others were progressing, blitzing through the corridors and reaching a foyer guarded by quite a few mutated Cultists and daemonettes. Skidding to a halt, he snapped his rifle up as the world continued to move in slow motion, almost painfully slow as he placed the sights of his autogun on the first cultist's head, willing the weapon to cycle faster in hopes that it would. Whether it did work or not, it seemed to catch up with him, cycling at his pace as the rounds flew through the air, crackling with sapphire, eldritch energy from being accelerated beyond their natural speed. The daemonettes were moving at normal speed but the cultists were scythed down in short order, and an empty clip hit the deckplates as the first daemonette reached him, and he ducked its whipped appendage, slamming the bayonet into its stomach and tearing upwards, roaring in defiance of what was in his mind a lost battle, since he had not registered it wasn't just adrenaline kicking in, coupled with a flat denial of becoming something he could not fathom. The roar scattered the remaining few daemonettes, a raw psychic scream injuring the Armsman's vocal cords and leaving him barely able to whisper, unaware of the twin lines of blood running down his face from his eyes as the blue flames finally extinguished.

Stukov was hurting, overextended and injured from both previous experiences and what transpired in the basement, but there was work to be done. A singular purpose, a clarity of mind, in that regard, the cultist leader was to be slain, and this den of evil sealed and cleared. And he would see it done, regardless of whether the rest of the retinue and the Inquisitor would catch up or not. He was certain heretical sorcery bound his throat, limiting his speech, but he did not need to speak to do his job. Moving up to the door, he coughed hard, wheezing at the end of the coughing fit, wiping the blood off on his coat before putting a boot to the door and throwing a concussion grenade in, waiting for the detonation and shockwave before moving in, coat billowing as he brought the rifle up, sweeping the room and aiming it towards the cultist leader. He paused, waiting for that one last trick that Chaos ever so loved to pull out of their sleeves, scanning his surroundings to ensure that he wasn't missing something he could readily detect. He said nothing, or he couldn't be heard, but he would fire within a few moments if nothing prevented that from occurring.