Among the Adeptus Astartes, only those who could control their own bodies with absolute willpower could truly be called masters of themselves. Those who failed would inevitably suffer as their own genetically enhanced flesh worked against them. Without perfect self-regulation, an Astartes would need to return to the care of Medicae-servitors or be submerged in the chemical balance of a sustainer tank just to keep their bodies from collapsing under their own power.
The ability to command one's own biology was not just an advantage—it was a requirement for an elite warrior. Kayvaan's voice cut through the heavy silence. "Don't look so impressed. It seems simple, but the reality is far more difficult. You are all a long way from mastering this, and many of you never will." He allowed the words to settle. "In the meantime, I will teach you something simpler, something practical—skills that, if mastered, will grant you terrifying power in their own right." His gaze swept across the yard. "Rhianna. Step forward."
A woman detached herself from the shadows and walked to stand beside him. "Mentor." She bowed her head in respect. It was only then that the gathered apprentices truly looked at her for the first time.
"This is Rhianna," Kayvaan said. "She is also my student. Unlike you, she has no great reputation. No grand victories to her name. Yet she has studied under me, and she has learned something that makes her far more dangerous than she appears." He let the moment linger before speaking again. "The first skill I will teach you is careful observation." He turned to the group. "Take note—I am not asking you to 'observe carefully.' Careful observation is the name of the technique itself."
Some of the warriors exchanged skeptical glances. Kayvaan smirked. "You may doubt its importance. But Rhianna will demonstrate its power soon enough." He gestured to her. "Rhianna, retrieve the crossbow." She did as commanded, lifting a compact yet formidable military crossbow and placing it in his hands. Kayvaan turned it so that all could see. "This is a Versegain military crossbow," he announced. "Though the Holy See officially prohibits the manufacture and possession of crossbows, they conveniently maintain a few production workshops of their own." His gaze shifted. "Lancelot. Step forward."
The White Knight straightened immediately, striking his chest in salute before stepping forward with measured strides. Kayvaan handed him the weapon. "Inspect it." Lancelot took the crossbow with both hands and examined it carefully, running his fingers along the stock, checking the string tension, and inspecting the firing mechanism. After a moment, he reached for the quiver and analyzed the quality of the bolts. Satisfied, he returned the crossbow with a sharp nod. "Fine craftsmanship. Quality bolts. A well-made weapon."
Kayvaan tilted his head slightly. "You know how to use it?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then fire ten bolts at the target—ten paces away." Rhianna moved swiftly, setting up a standard target before stepping back. Kayvaan nodded. "Begin." At such a short distance, hitting the target was effortless. Even a novice could land consistent shots. For a trained warrior like Lancelot, it was trivial.He loaded. He aimed. He fired. One after another, his shots struck the center of the target. Within moments, the red bullseye was riddled with bolts.
Kayvaan remained expressionless. "Not bad." Then, his tone shifted. "Now, we make it interesting." He gestured, and two warriors stepped forward to remove the target. Rhianna took its place. Standing exactly ten paces away from Lancelot. A quiet tension settled over the courtyard.
Kayvaan turned back to Lancelot. "Your target is now her." He spoke plainly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "There are ten more bolts. If you hit, you will be rewarded. If you miss, there is no penalty." His eyes narrowed. "No need for hesitation. Fire when ready."
Lancelot froze. His hands clenched around the crossbow. For a moment, countless thoughts flashed through his mind. Was this a test? Was the instructor trying to gauge whether he could fire upon an unarmed woman without hesitation? Was this a trap? What exactly was the purpose of this? He didn't know. But discipline dictated his actions. His body moved before his mind had fully caught up. He fired. The bolt shot forward in an instant. A blur. A flash of black shadow. The distinct thunk of steel embedding in stone. Lancelot's eyes widened. Rhianna stood exactly where she had before. Unharmed.
The bolt was lodged deep in the stone wall behind her. His hands tightened around the weapon 'That wasn't possible.' The bolt had been aimed at her heart. She should be dead. Yet she wasn't. If it had been from a long distance, he might have suspected some trick. But at this range? Ten paces? Impossible. Had he missed? No—that was not possible. He knew where his shot had gone. He had fired directly at her. Yet the bolt had slipped harmlessly past, as if she had stepped out of reality for a fraction of a second. It wasn't divine intervention. It wasn't luck. She had dodged it.
Luck might help a man find a coin in the dirt, but it would never allow someone to evade a crossbow bolt fired from ten paces away. At the precise moment the bolt was loosed, Rhianna had shifted—just slightly, just enough—allowing the projectile that should have punched through her heart to slip harmlessly past her armpit. T What kind of skill, what level of confidence and control, did it take to move so exactly at the perfect moment? 'Was this the so-called "careful observation" that Kayvaan had spoken of?' Lancelot's lips curled slightly in fascination. Without hesitation, he reset the crossbow, replaced the string, nocked a new bolt, and fired without aiming—a sudden, instinctive shot meant to force an immediate reaction. His eyes locked onto Rhianna. 'Now… let me see it. Show me how you dodge.'
Once again, her movement was impossibly subtle. She seemed to flow, her body shifting like drifting smoke, and the bolt passed harmlessly by, embedding itself into the stone wall behind her. Lancelot's mind sharpened. He had expected that result. He had wanted to see it. There was no hesitation. He reloaded instantly. Fired again. Then again.
Three arrows in rapid succession—still, Rhianna was untouched. Lancelot pressed forward, adjusting his aim mid-shot, attempting to fake his next trajectory—only to watch her evade it all the same. He was reading her, trying to predict her movements. But at the same time… she was reading him. And by the time the last bolt left the crossbow, Rhianna stood precisely where she had begun—unscathed.