Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

Kayvaan's sharp eyes caught it—she didn't truly disappear. Instead, she moved with such incredible speed that it gave the illusion of teleportation. One moment, she stood still. The next, she was behind an Eldar ranger. The sheer velocity of her movements blurred the line between stillness and motion.

In a heartbeat, she raised a delicate hand and lightly tapped the ranger's back with her fingertip. That single touch was devastating. Her nail pierced through the ranger's psychic armor, tore through his flesh, and revealed the organs beneath. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering across the ground. The witch's red hair seemed to come alive, each strand turning razor-sharp. With a single sweep, her hair slashed through the rangers like blades, carving their bodies apart. Limbs flew, blood arced through the air, and their formation crumbled in an instant.

The witch's movements were a dance of death. She ripped an arm off one ranger, kicked the leg off another, and left a trail of destruction wherever she moved. Her expression, however, was unnervingly serene—almost holy. 

As time passed, the rangers fell one by one, their efforts futile against the red-haired witch's power. Syladria made several desperate attempts to strike her down with her twin mirror swords, but every move was intercepted by Rosina's executioner blade. The battlefield descended into chaos, and Syladria's precision faltered. Her double-bladed technique fell apart, leaving her attacks clumsy and uncoordinated.

Kayvaan watched from the sidelines, his sharp eyes observing every detail. It was painfully clear—Syladria was doomed. She had lost her composure, descending into a frenzied state where even her confidence was shattered. Her strikes lacked any real threat, and with her collapse, so too did their chances of victory. Yet, their sacrifice bought Kayvaan little time. 

He sighed heavily and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a syringe. The vial contained a combat stimulant—a dangerous tool of war. Injecting it would grant him temporary bursts of strength and speed, dulling pain and sharpening focus. But the cost was steep. Stimulants wreaked havoc on the body, carried the risk of addiction, and were a common reason why many veterans, desperate to endure, ended up dishonorably discharged or even executed for stealing supplies.

Kayvaan despised the stuff. Yet, here and now, it was his only option. Meanwhile, the witch's almost done, and soon the rangers lay scattered like broken dolls. All except Syladria, who gripping her swords weakly.

The result were like a painting. It depicted a serene balcony scene bathed in the crimson hues of a setting sun. The seated figure seemed tranquil, savoring black tea as the light dyed the world in blood red. Yet, something was missing. The figure's head was absent, leaving a hollow, haunting centerpiece to the witch's masterpiece. The red-haired witch regarded Syladria for a moment but then turned her gaze to Kayvaan, her crimson lips curling into a smile. "This one's handsome," she purred. "The kind that turns heads at first sight. I'd hate to kill you, but my painting needs a finishing touch. Your head would be perfect."

Kayvaan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You've got to be joking."

The witch's smile deepened. "Oh, don't be so hasty to refuse. Think about it. You're just a soldier—a pawn sent to the battlefield to die for a crumbling empire and its decrepit emperor. What's the point of such a sacrifice? Empires rot, regimes collapse, and even your so-called God-Emperor decays in his throne. Your death here would be meaningless, forgotten in time." Her voice softened, honeyed and persuasive. "But art? Art is eternal. If your head completes my masterpiece, you'll be immortalized. People will marvel at the beauty of it for millennia. Your name will echo through eternity, tied to something far greater than yourself. Isn't that a far better legacy?"

Her words were like a venomous lullaby, sweet and seductive. Syladria, standing nearby, seemed to falter. She took two shaky steps forward, her eyes glassy. "Art…" Syladria murmured, her voice distant. "What could be more meaningful than that? To die for art…" 

Raising her mirror blades, she moved as if in a trance, preparing to sever her own head. At the last second, Rosina struck. Her executioner blade swung with precision, knocking Syladria's swords from her hands. "Snap out of it!" Rosina's voice cut through the haze like a whip. "Don't let her words poison your mind. Remember who you are. Let your path guide your emotions—control yourself!"

Syladria stood frozen, blinking in confusion as the fog lifted. She glanced at her fallen swords and then back at Rosina, her expression utterly bewildered. The red-haired witch tilted her head, amused. "Oh, how noble of you, Rosina. Always so loyal, always so stubborn."

Kayvaan noticed something strange about Syladria's dazed state. It had to be the witch's words—her voice carried an unnatural charm, a power that seemed capable of bending minds. But why wasn't he affected?

Kayvaan found the witch's voice pleasant enough, sure, but beyond that? Nothing. Her reasoning sounded like nonsense—so absurd it was almost laughable. As long as someone wasn't a complete fool, they wouldn't buy into it, right? Yet Syladria and the others fell under her spell, ready to end their lives at her suggestion. 

Meanwhile, Kayvaan, who was the witch's first target, felt absolutely nothing. 'Why?' he wondered. Did he unknowingly carry some artifact or charm that protected him from mental attacks? He quickly dismissed the idea—it sounded like something out of a game. Still, the mystery nagged at him.

To the red-haired witch, however, Kayvaan's unflinching demeanor meant something else entirely. She assumed he was locked in a deep internal struggle. She had encountered such situations before. Strong-willed individuals often resisted at first, but their hesitation was just a sign that they were ripe for the taking. The challenge only made the process sweeter. A man who crumbled instantly was boring, unworthy of her attention. But one who resisted? Ah, that made the game so much more exciting.

The witch leaned in. She carefully channeled her psychic energy, letting it swirl around her words like an intoxicating mist. Her expression softened, her voice dipped into a soothing, almost maternal tone. "Don't fight it so much," she coaxed, her crimson eyes gleaming. "I know you're confused—torn between eternal art and the life you can't let go of. But why cling so tightly? Let go. Once you surrender, all your doubts will disappear. You'll feel peace, joy, and become a part of something eternal. No regrets, only perfection."

Kayvaan stared at her blankly, saying nothing. In truth, he was enjoying her wasted effort. The longer she talked, the more time he had to recover.

"What's wrong?" the witch asked, her tone growing sweeter. "Haven't made up your mind yet? Why torment yourself like this? Liberation is right in front of you. The true gods will forgive your sins. End this struggle, and you'll finally be free." She licked her lips, her tone dripping with temptation. "Say what's on your mind. Speak your truth—I'm here to listen."

Kayvaan watched her with growing amusement. She was clearly getting impatient, and that was good news. daemons might be strong, but their patience often ran thin. 'No time left,' Kayvaan thought. He slipped a stimulant syringe from his pocket, his fingers curling around it as he weighed his options.