Watari looked at Kana.
She was radiant.
The way she drew her bow was like wind — light, fluid, effortless.
But when she released an arrow, it struck like lightning.
Sharp. Sudden. Final.
Her grace didn't feel human.
It felt borrowed from something divine, trapped in a mortal frame.
And Watari — he'd always stood behind that line.
Watching. Admiring. Wishing.
But watching was no longer enough.
He adjusted his grip. The bowstring quivered beneath his fingers.
Someday… I'll draw like her. And never miss.
Then came a voice — thin, sharp, and annoying enough to cut through his focus.
Takumi.
"You couldn't even hit one, Watari. Looks like your 'sensei' is more interested in the twins these days."
Watari didn't flinch.
His reply came cool, precise — like a blade honed in silence.
"Your eyes are mistaken. Sensei treats all of us the same. You're the one who can't accept it."
Takumi let out a brittle laugh.
"Why do you still call Hayato as sensei? He's only a year older than you."
Watari's gaze drifted to the sky, where clouds moved like slow, silent memories.
"What does it matter?"
His voice softened, but each word carried weight.
"When everyone else saw me as useless… he handed me a wooden sword."
"He trained with me every single day. Not once because he had to — only because he believed I could become something."
Takumi's tone darkened, mockery dying into something colder.
"Getting this attached to someone just because they were kind once… that's dangerous, Watari."
Watari didn't answer at first.
You say dangerous… I say it's the first time someone looked at me like I mattered.
Then he spoke aloud:
"You think that because he flattened you on your second day in camp."
Takumi's jaw tightened. His pride had always been a thin shell.
His hand moved to his sword hilt — but he didn't draw.
"So little talent… and so much arrogance," he muttered. "You don't fit in here."
He turned, voice trailing behind him like a thrown knife:
"The war's begun, Watari. Let's see if he can keep you alive when steel starts flying."
Watari didn't move.
People like him would never understand what it meant to be built — not born — for battle.
Talent isn't everything.
But someone had understood.
Renji had understood.
There was a time…
when he was just a stranger leaning on a fence.
(Seven Years Ago)
His fingers were torn raw.
Not scraped. Not bruised.
Bleeding.
The bow resisted him like it had its own will.
It bent. Shook. Snapped.
But Watari didn't let go.
His target stood ahead — a warped wooden plank, barely upright.
It felt distant as the stars.
And to him, it was a mirror.
Still. Unforgiving.
Then came a voice behind him — casual, taunting, but oddly curious.
"That was close."
Watari turned, scowling.
A tall blond man leaned against a broken fencepost, watching him with a smirk that wasn't entirely mockery.
"Don't you have anything better to do than mock kids?" Watari barked.
"I didn't say how close," the man replied. "I meant the tree behind the target. You almost hit that."
Watari narrowed his eyes.
"That wasn't my target."
The man's smirk lingered.
"Then change it. Hit the tree instead. Start with something you can hit."
Watari blinked, scoffed.
"That's not advice. That's giving up before you even aim."
The man laughed again.
"Probably. But it's better to hit something than nothing."
Hours passed.
The bow strained. Most arrows didn't even reach the target. They fell early like they'd given up before he did.
His hands tore open. Blood ran down his fingers, marking the soil with red streaks.
Still—he didn't stop.
He didn't even feel the pain anymore.
The man stayed too.
Leaning casually. Watching like a shadow. Measuring him.
"You can't even draw the bow anymore," the man said at last. "Why don't you just quit?"
Watari didn't look up.
"You've been talking since you arrived. Why don't you shut up?"
The man laughed — truly this time.
Warm. Surprised.
"Alright then," he said. "Let's make a deal. If you hit the target… I'll shut up."
Another hour passed.
His blood painted the dirt. But his eyes stayed fixed. His arms steady. His heart burning.
"Hey! That's enough!" the man shouted suddenly. "Your hand's… bleeding!"
Watari turned slightly.
His voice was hoarse. His body trembled. But his words stayed calm:
"But I haven't hit the target yet."
The man blinked. Something shifted in his face.
Not amusement. Not interest.
Recognition.
He stepped forward. For the first time, his tone lost its sarcasm.
"What's your name, kid?"
Watari exhaled, breath shaking. He gave a small, exhausted smile.
"Watari," he said. "Hino Watari."