A weapon designed solely for killing, its specifications were nothing short of staggering. The maximum range extended to an astonishing 12,000 meters, allowing it to strike targets from well beyond conventional engagement distances. Its effective range, where precision and lethality were at their peak, reached 9,000 meters, ensuring devastating accuracy even at extreme distances. To further enhance its performance, the rifle was equipped with a multipurpose stabilization system, incorporating a deployable tripod that provided unparalleled stability, minimizing recoil and ensuring each shot landed with deadly precision. It was not simply a tool of war—it was a masterpiece of execution.
Twelve thousand meters. That was insane.In urban combat, that meant he could kill a target from one end of a city to the other. But hitting a target at such range required flawless precision. Even the smallest movement—one breath, one shift in posture—could send the bullet miles off course. At those distances, the difference between a perfect kill and a complete miss was measured in fractions of a millimeter. Kayvaan smirked as he lifted the rifle, feeling its weight in his hands. Valyra had given him a masterpiece. He was no ordinary sniper. His skills transcended conventional understanding, and the weapons at his disposal were beyond the grasp of most. T
he rounds he carried were not standard ammunition; they were custom-forged, engineered specifically for him. Among them were guided rounds with infrared tracking, operating much like miniature laser-guided missiles—once locked onto a target, they would strike true, regardless of initial trajectory. He also had armor-piercing rounds designed to penetrate the thick plating of armored vehicles, and sanctified silver rounds inscribed with the Emperor's verses, crafted to disrupt the warp-tainted abominations that lurked in the shadows. But superior weaponry meant little without a skilled marksman to wield it.
More than pulling the trigger, a true sniper understood that weapon maintenance and calibration were the foundation of precision. His rifle, an instrument of death with an effective range of 9,000 meters, required a level of care exceeding even that of the Imperium's most delicate cogitators. Kayvaan departed the Governor's Palace aboard a small atmospheric craft, swiftly reaching a secluded valley where he could conduct his tests undisturbed. His first task: rangefinding. Using his equipment, he selected a target 12,000 meters away—a thick tree standing tall amidst the sparse vegetation. The laser rangefinder locked onto it, casting a small circular marker on its bark.
From his pack, Kayvaan retrieved a pouch of standard bolt rounds, locking the fuses to disable their explosive function. Without detonation, they would behave like conventional slugs, retaining only their piercing capability—perfect for calibration without obliterating the target. His focus now was on precision, not destruction. Next, he gauged the wind. Raising a gloved hand, he let the air flow across his palm, analyzing the currents with the instincts of a seasoned marksman. Satisfied with his reading, he set up his tripod, mounted the sniper rifle, and loaded a fresh magazine. Lying prone, he peered through the scope, adjusted his aim, and fired.
A tense silence followed. The impact zone remained undisturbed. No visible sign of a hit. The forest was still. Kayvaan frowned. Adjusting his scope, he scanned for any trace of the round's impact. Nothing. 'This was... unexpected.' Alone in the valley, at least no one had witnessed his miscalculation.
Rising from his position, he returned to the airship, accessing its storage compartment. From within, he retrieved a high-speed optical tracking unit. Securing it next to the rangefinder, he returned to his rifle and took aim once more. He fired. This time, through the slow-motion relay, he observed the round's trajectory. It struck a tree—but not the intended target. It had veered off by nearly 20 meters. Worse still, nearby, he spotted the first round he had fired, embedded in the wrong location. He exhaled, returning to his rifle for adjustments. First, he slightly altered the buttstock's length, ensuring a more stable brace against his shoulder for better recoil control. Then, he made minute corrections to the scope, shifting its calibration by 0.1 degrees.
'Wind check. Adjustment. Aim. Fire.' Progress. The bullet still missed the target but had at least landed within the proper range. Another fine-tune. Another shot. Finally, a direct hit. The bullet struck the marked target, the shot true.
The initial calibration was complete, but refinement was still necessary. Precision required meticulous tuning, and he would not settle for anything less than perfection. Adjustments continued—millimeter shifts, compensating for every factor until his shots consistently struck dead center. Only then did he equip a suppressor, testing how the modification altered trajectory and impact.
Hours passed. The sun dipped below the horizon as Kayvaan finished his routine, methodically dismantling his setup and packing away his gear. He returned to his quarters, ate a quick meal, and reviewed reports from the governor's office. The bureaucracy functioned like a vast machine, its gears grinding forward without requiring his constant presence. Seeing no urgent need for his direct intervention, he left instructions for his administrators and withdrew.
Dressed in a fitted combat uniform, Kayvaan armed himself with sufficient ammunition, gear, and supplies. He made his way to the landing pad, where a high-speed shuttle awaited—the personal transport of the Lord Governor. "Captain, take me to Velmorian Aerodrome," he ordered, strapping in.
"Sir… you mean Velmorian Aerodrome in Velmorian?"
Kayvaan arched an eyebrow. "Where else?"
The pilot hesitated. "Apologies, my lord, but Velmorian Aerodrome is in the middle of occupied territory. It's been unusable for some time."
"You don't need to land. I have a drop pack."
"Sir, that zone is swarming with xenos and hostile insurgents—"
"I know exactly where I'm going." His tone was final. "Either follow my orders, or I'll find someone who can."
A pause. Then, a clipped response, "Understood, sir." The engines roared to life, and the shuttle ascended into the darkening sky.
The shuttle bearing the insignia of the Shike cut silently through the night, vanishing into the vast darkness of the sky.
Kayvaan sat alone, sunk into the plush cushioning of his seat, his mind sharp despite the quiet hum of the vessel. He pulled on his full-coverage scout mask, the advanced optics adjusting seamlessly to his vision. Activating his communicator, he selected the unit's secure channel and transmitted his message: "Ghost Lord to all recruits. Welcome to Velmorian. I'm assuming direct command of frontline operations. Darius will continue overseeing logistics from the rear. I need status reports from all teams—position and surrounding conditions, now."
A sharp voice came through almost immediately, laced with confusion. "Wait… what? Is this a breach? No way, right? There's no way the greenskins have cracked our comms. Orks can barely string together a sentence, let alone wage electronic warfare! The field manual never said anything about this. Who the hell is 'Ghost Lord'?"
Kayvaan smirked. "That you, Virgil? Still got that runny nose? Over."
Silence. Then a low murmur on the comms. And then—cheers.
"Oh, shit! It's the Captain!"
"BOSS is here!"
"Wait—why are you here?"
Kayvaan let them get it out of their system before cutting in. "Alright, settle down. I repeat—I'm assuming command of the front. I need one member from each squad to report in. Status and coordinates. Now."