The handsome Caucasian man stood with his arms crossed before his chest, indifferent and composed.
His features were chiseled as if carved from marble, exuding a three-dimensional presence.
Even amidst the dusk, a dazzling radiance seemed to emanate from his being.
He smiled faintly, "Indeed, he is the man known as God Slayer."
"Even the squad under his command possesses such astounding combat prowess."
"Miskin, you're in for some trouble."
Miskin chuckled and slowly checked his sniper rifle's parts, scrutinizing each function.
His fingers caressed his beloved Heavy Sniper, and there was an indescribable emotion in his eyes.
Some are obsessed with books, some with zithers, some with chess.
But Miskin was obsessed with guns.
To him, a gun was like a lover, inseparable, ever at his side.
It was also his most trustworthy comrade and brother, with whom he would share life and death.
In Miskin's hands, the cold gun seemed to come alive with a spirited essence.
