Marksman Training Oblivion Novels & Stories

one says, already on his knees under an armored SUV. “Same,” another adds. “Give me two minutes.” Hour is already there. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask. His hands move like memory—efficient, practiced, familiar. Military training doesn’t fade. It waits. “These are tracked,” he says calmly, voice steady despite the blood drying at his temple. “But not well. They rely on compliance, not countermeasures.” Of course they do. Eve appears at my side, gripping Ma’s elbow gently but firmly, guiding her through the chaos like she’s done this before.

Ragnar’s gaze hardened slightly, not at Lance, but at the thought itself. “He wants a personal assistant eventually. Someone competent enough to survive him and useful enough to justify keeping alive.” Lance let out a low whistle. “Warm family tradition.” Ragnar ignored that. “The training is designed to create obedience under pressure. Loyalty through fear. Efficiency through exhaustion.” He paused. “And entertainment.” Lance’s expression changed. “What does that mean?” “It means Marcus enjoys watching people fail.” For once, Ragnar’s voice carried something colder than indifference. Lance had heard enough stories about Marcus to know he was dangerous. But hearing Ragnar say it like that ma

They helped me with my stances, reload techniques and argued the merits of hip holster, ankle holsters and shoulder holsters. To reciprocate their hospitality, I stripped off my annoying jacket, tie, shirt and undershirt. We got into a discussion of spent rounds bouncing around and maybe scaring the shooter. For the Amazons, it was training to ignore painful distractions. I stopped -- leveled by an epic brainstorm -- and fired off an order to Executive Services -- care of Daphne. "What are you doing?" one of the new lethality-engines asked, somewhat piqued. "Oh, I have to celebrate Fabiola's resurrection -- Hayden's orders -- and that is going to require supernatural aids," I replied. I was

He glanced at me, his expression one of impatient contempt. “Well?” he demanded. “I’ve decided,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of the tremor that had been there before. “The weak Omega is dead.” A slow, approving smile spread across his face. “Good. Then it’s time for your next lesson. No more speeches. No more grandstanding.” He leaned in close. “It’s time for you to learn how to truly hurt him.” The following days were a descent into a different kind of darkness. The training was no longer about rhetoric or poise. It was about sabotage. Espionage. Psychological warfare.

“If he gets two hands on your gun, you keep the gun. If he gets one hand on your wrist, you keep your wrist. If he gets both, you become a problem in the hips.” She failed four times in a row and called herself a name in her head she would never use out loud. Vince leaned close enough that she could feel his breath but not his pity. “Good,” he said, and she nearly laughed at the nerve of it. “You’re learning ugly. Ugly keeps you alive.” Block 5: Tourniquets & Time. Marco set down a bright red training arm, tubing hidden inside to pulse fake bleed when he squeezed a bulb. “You love making holes,” he said. “Fine. Now become the person who can keep someone from falling through them.”

"Which means your training just became infinitely more urgent. You have three days, maybe four, before Marcus sends assassins instead of scouts. Can you be ready by then?" I looked at my trembling hands, still faintly glowing with residual power. Three days to master abilities that should take months. Three days before Marcus would stop playing games and try to kill me for real. "I have no choice," I whispered. "No," Drake agreed. "You do not. So let us begin again. This time, we train for war." As we returned to the training clearing, neither of us noticed the shadow watching from the treetops. A fourth spy, one who had stayed hidden during the fight. One who had seen everything.

The crack echoed and the wood splintered, the impact shot up my arm but I didn’t care. I had him right there and right in front of me and I still got nothing. My jaw clenched, my breathing tightening as the image replayed in my head—the man going still, his body dropping before I could even get a word out of him. There was no hesitation or fear, he chose death. My fingers curled into a fist again. “Damn it.” The word came out low and rough. Someone definitely trained them for that. It wasn't just loyalty or fear of being caught, it was training. That kind of obedience didn't come cheap and it didn’t come from just anyone.

* **Team Orion** practiced underwater demolition, saturating aqueduct patterns with dream-silk lumens so they could navigate blind. * **Team Selene** wove psychic disruptors into battered mineshaft comm lines, ensuring Basilisk frequencies would shatter on contact. * **Team Vera & Lucien** scaled vertical walls in the Ember Hollow’s training pit, replicating the Citadel’s catwalk geometry under assault conditions. Each dusk they reconvened, sharing insights: the whisper of Magnus’s Basilisk hum, the weight of obsidian shackles in the control room, the cadence of dream-silk resonance needed to override the pulse lattices.

His jaw tightened, eyes darkening. I didn’t look away. Training began without ceremony. The same obstacles as yesterday. Climbing walls. Precision drills. Targets set at varying distances and angles. I climbed first. My hands burned as I hauled myself up the wall, muscles protesting with every movement. I didn’t rush. I calculated. Each grip is deliberate, every shift balanced. I could feel Jayden’s eyes on me the entire time. Not admiration. Not approval. Evaluation. I dropped down, moved to the targets, grabbed a weapon, steadied my breathing. The world narrowed to focus and control. One strike. Then another. Each hit clean.