A sharp whisper cut the silence. It sliced through the air and struck the floating target dead centre with a solid, echoing thock.
For a heartbeat, the arena stayed utterly still.
Then came a hesitant clap. A few others followed, the sound spreading thinly through the stands. Yet beneath the courtesy lingered a ripple of disappointment, as though more than a few had hoped the ‘new’ heir might provide some entertainment — and a fresh round of gossip behind the Lord’s back.
High on the dais, Gregore’s shoulders eased by a fraction. He let out a breath so soft it barely stirred the air before him.
Elira blinked — then laughed under her breath, half disbelief, half amusement. “So much fuss for someone who swears he hates attention.”
Down below, Hope lowered the bow, exhaled, and muttered, “Huh. Guess that worked… still felt a bit off.”
Passive Skill Unlocked:
- Bow Handling
??Bow Handling (Level 5 + 1)
You've learned how the string hums: draw, breathe, release — make distance obey your aim.
? 30% reduction in stamina drain when using bows.
? +6% to Physis while the bow is your designated weapon.
Huh? All the way to level 5 on the first try!?
What the…
He stared at the prompt, dumbfounded, before shaking it off. He didn’t even think that shot was particularly good.
Rotating the arrow before release had been a bad idea — it should’ve spun after leaving the string, not before. The channeling felt unbalanced too — too much pull through the lower hand, not enough anchor at the wrist. The airflow around the fletching had broken early, scattering lift instead of guiding it.
He drew a slow breath, feeling the pulse in his fingers — the faint tremor where nerves met intent.
Inhale. Hold.
The noise of the crowd dimmed until only the rhythm of his heart remained. The bowstring pressed against his fingertips. A whisper of Air Magika gathered at his wrist, trailing along the shaft like a living thread.
He adjusted the tension by feel, letting wind and will balance perfectly across his hands.
Release.
The string sang — a sharp note slicing through the silence.
The arrow vanished into motion, a silver streak riding the shimmer of Air Magika that bent the wind around it.
For an instant, it seemed to curve — the current folding gently to guide its flight. The shaft spun true this time, a perfect spiral carrying it cleanly across the gap.
The distant target gave a dull, satisfying thock as the arrow struck dead centre, splitting the inner ring straight through.
Bow Handling (Level 5?7+1)
That was much better. However… not quite there yet.
He felt his arrow, while decent, didn’t quite pierce the air the way his spear did. The flight had been clean, sure, but not alive — no real bite. The impact lacked weight and speed, more push than pierce. Despite the large gap in stats and his much better control over Air Magika, the shot had landed only a shade better than Tolan’s.
That meant… he wasn’t sending the force right.
His eyes narrowed. The balance still felt off — the pull and push weren’t flowing as one. The power didn’t move cleanly through his arms; it stuttered halfway, as if his hands were working against each other instead of together. The string had sung, but not quite there — too sharp, too rushed.
He turned the bow in his hand, feeling the faint tremor still humming through the wood, replaying every movement in his mind. Around him, the murmurs grew — impatience from some, confusion from others, and the quiet amusement of those hoping he’d just fail soon.
Hope ignored them. His thumb brushed the curve of the grip.
There was something missing — not strength, but flow. The kind of rhythm his spear always found when his body and intent aligned.
He drew another breath, slow and steady.
And once again… released.
The arrow flew truer this time, faster than the last, cutting clean through the air before striking the distant target with a crisp, solid thock.
Bow Handling (Level 7?8+1)
Hope exhaled through his nose, feeling the faint tremor in his arms fade. That one had felt right. The draw, the release, the breath — all in tune. Just the smallest tweaks — keeping every piece in tone — had made the difference. The power hadn’t fought itself this time; it had flowed.
He was getting there.
He reached for another arrow, eyes fixed on the fourth target now. This one, he’d push.
He drew deeper, pulling the string until it creaked, breath steady, muscles coiled. The world narrowed again — only the mark, the pull, and the hum of Air Magika along the shaft.
Now.
The arrow streaked faster than any before, the whistle of flight slicing through the still air. It struck home with a sharp, echoing thock that carried even to the high dais.
He let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing. It had hit harder — faster — but not better. That wasn’t refinement; that was just added brute strength. The System had stayed quiet, and that silence said everything.
He could call it there. It was decent. Good enough.
…
He stopped himself at the thought.
Good enough?
Why the hell was he even thinking that?
Because life was easy now? Because every door opened if he waited long enough? Because they called him Young Master? Because he had time?
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He smirked faintly. Pathetic.
Fuck ‘enough’.
He didn’t give a damn about these games or their titles — but his path, his craft, his growth — that was everything. That was the only thing that could ever buy him true freedom.
He wasn’t here because someone pitied him. He was here because he’d clawed his way up high enough for someone strong to notice. And that someone — his Captain, Syra — had the kind of power that could bend rules in places like this. That was all there was to it.
And if he ever wanted to sail beyond the limits of what his eyes could see, to reach the stars through his own effort… to keep the promise to the only friend he had left — and the dream of the one who’d died —
Then there would never be such a thing as enough.
His gaze lifted with renewed resolve, grip tightening on the bow as he reached for the next arrow.
He no longer cared where he was, or what kind of spectacle this was supposed to be. All that noise — the nobles, the cheers, the pretense — meant nothing.
Only the mark above mattered — the one Tolan had failed to reach, a single dot high against the blue sky.
He stood still. No rush.
He replayed every movement in his head — what had worked, what hadn’t, what had felt weak. Yet there was nothing left to polish really.
No small correction would do. What he needed wasn’t an adjustment — it was a breakthrough.
Something faster. Much faster.
Something that could pierce the air itself.
Wait…
He’d seen it before. Felt it even. The Hollowfang Regent — the winged Lord whose strike had torn the sky apart.
He remembered it as clearly as if it were happening now — that unbearable, searing moment when its attack had cut through the wind, through his guard, through his own flesh before sound had even reached him.
The air hadn’t simply moved; it had collapsed inward, drawn tight like a lung before a scream, then released in a single, blinding thrust.
A thrust so fast it couldn’t be dodged once released — one that had torn past sound itself and punched a hole through the very sky.
That… that was what he was looking for. What he needed.
However… how?
Seconds slipped by in silence once again.
Up above, Elira’s brow furrowed. Why was he taking so long? It was archery, not a lecture on the nature of wind and thought.
Odd… she knew her brother — in part, at least — and he was never one to linger under watchful eyes. He preferred to fade quietly into the background. Yet now… this was the very opposite.
She allowed her gaze to drift across the gallery. The whispers had returned, soft but sharp — nobles exchanging veiled remarks behind fluttering fans and polite smiles.
“Such… careful consideration,” one noble murmured, his smile composed. “A most thorough approach, to be sure.”
“Quite so,” another added lightly. “It takes rare courage to keep the court waiting — though perhaps he aims to make the moment memorable.”
Elira’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Snakes, she thought. All honey and venom, every one of them.
They’d never dare speak ill of a Barion outright — not while wearing the House’s crest — but their tongues still found the cracks where courtesy couldn’t reach.
She exhaled softly, eyes returning to her brother. He had done well enough already; matching Tolan’s mark was no small feat. Even failure now would not be disgraceful.
Still… she hoped, if only to silence their whispering, that he wouldn’t fail now.
More than a minute passed. Even Gregore had to steel his expression, his fingers tightening on the armrest as if to mask the flicker of impatience.
Then — Hope finally moved.
He raised the bow, slow and steady, and set the arrow to the string.
His eyes closed. In his mind, he saw it — the great winged beast from his vision, its wings carving through the sky in perfect rhythm, the world bending to its pulse. He let that same rhythm echo through his chest, each heartbeat syncing to the imagined beat of its flight.
The Air Magika stirred in answer. It gathered, coiling around him from toes to crown, until the air itself seemed to hum with life. Dust lifted and danced about his feet, trembling in time with the pulse that flowed from within — Air Gear.
Still with eyes closed, Hope hooked the nock between his index and middle fingers, thumb steady beneath the shaft.
He drew the string back slowly — until it trembled like a held breath.
Then, softly, he tapped it.
The Air Gear stirred. Not to move his body faster this time, but to reach — to pull from further, to draw every wandering current of wind into his grasp. The air around him began to move as if it remembered something — a forgotten rhythm, an old call.
It gathered, coiling and folding inward, wrapping itself around the arrow until it began to hum. The sound was faint, almost too soft to hear, more felt than heard — a vibration in the bones, a tension in the chest.
But Hope didn’t stop. He pushed harder, willing the flow to tighten, to hold closer, to listen.
The wind obeyed. What began as a whisper grew denser, thicker, spiralling tighter until even those watching from the stands could see the faint shimmer along the shaft — the air bending to his will, drawn into its path.
And then… he began to compress it.
Not to explode outward, not to scatter, but to converge.
Every strand of gathered wind folded in upon itself, layer after layer collapsing until all that movement sank into a single, trembling line. The arrow no longer hummed. It quivered, as if the world itself was holding its breath with him.
It wasn’t Spacetime he was shaping now, but Air — not to destroy, but to pierce. To make the wind part before it, to let the arrow slip through the world without resistance, sharp enough to tear the very silence apart.
He pushed it all, until there was nothing left — until his skull throbbed and his breath grew tight, the pressure inside his mind screaming enough.
Yet he ignored it. He went further.
The air around him began to thin, drawn inward as if the world itself was being pulled toward the arrow. The dust at his feet lifted, then swirled upward into a narrow spiral.
The bow creaked under the strain, wood singing in protest. The string cut into his fingers, blood welling where the calluses broke — but he didn’t feel it.
Everything had gone silent.
Only the pulse — one steady rhythm that wasn’t sound, but force, pressing outward from him and into the arrow.
Then —
His eyes opened.
The world snapped back in colour, light blooming in his vision. The Air Magika flared, folding into the shaft like dawn breaking through stormclouds.
He released.
No sound came. No snap of string. No whisper of flight.
The arrow vanished — gone in a blink, silent as light itself — leaving only a thin silver ray that burned upward through the air.
And that was it.
Hope lowered the bow and released the breath he’d been holding, the tension easing from his body like mist lifting after rain.
A faint, honest smile touched his lips — the first since stepping onto the stage.
Guess that wasn’t half bad.
Bow Handling (Level 8?10+2)
Feat Achieved:
- Bow Initiate
Active Skill Unlocked:
- Wind Piercer
??Bow Initiate (G)
You have reached Level 10 in Bow Handling.
? +1 Bow Handling.
Not only had he reached Level 10 — he’d unlocked a new active skill for Air Magika.
Wind Piercer, huh… rings alright.
He let the moment linger, eyes drifting skyward toward the distant mark. Then, with the composure expected of his station, he turned, bowed to his ‘parents,’ and left the arena in silence.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
No applause. No murmur. Only the faint rattle of flags in the wind.
Some nobles exchanged puzzled looks. Others leaned forward, squinting toward the sky.
Where was the arrow? Did he miss?
A few smirked, eager to believe so — until they noticed the expressions of the Tier 2 existences among them.
Not one of them was smiling.
When the target was finally lowered from the sky, a hush swept across the stands.
At its very centre was a clean hole, driven straight through.
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