Dawn had yet to break when Khulafa adjusted his scope for the umpteenth time.
From the rooftops of the ruined marketplace, he had a panoramic view of the battlefield—the monster beginning to falter, Leofric's tanks retreating in a calculated withdrawal, and the ten specks on the southern hill that remained ominously still. The night wind whipped against his face, which was concealed by a black cloth, carrying the acrid stench of smoke and blood from the dying city. Beside him, his Gauss Rifle lay cold and heavy, its mana battery only half-filled.
Khulafa wasn't the most senior member of the Ghost Squad, nor did he have the highest kill count. Borch had sent him to Torshavn for one specific reason: his patience. In a unit that prided itself on speed and precision, Khulafa was an anomaly—a marksman who could wait for hours without moving, without a sound, and without a single complaint.
Tonight, that patience was about to pay off.
