Akira didn't even remember falling.
One moment he was staring at the bullseye — the next, everything went black.
Then—
A violent chill surged through his veins.
His eyes shot open with a gasp. He coughed, choking on the metallic taste of magic as a thick, glowing liquid was splashed over his chest and hands. The potion burned its way through torn muscle and split skin, forcing flesh to knit itself back together.
He wasn't lying in a bed.
He wasn't even moved.
He was still on the training field — dirt under his cheek, bow beside his limp fingers.
Sebastian stood over him, empty vial in hand.
"That will keep you conscious," he said, tone unnervingly casual. "For now."
Akira tried to push himself up — his arms trembled violently beneath him.
Sebastian stepped back.
Raizen didn't speak. Didn't ask if Akira could stand. He simply waited.
Akira forced his knees under him. His breath shook, but he managed to get up.
He grabbed his bow again because not grabbing it wasn't an option — then followed Sebastian back into the harsh sunlight.
Raizen's cold eyes locked onto Akira.
"Hit the target," he said.
He pointed to a single wooden disc set at a medium distance. No long speech. No lecture. Just that one order.
Akira exhaled shakily.
Just one?That was… ridiculously easier.
He forced his stance steady, ignoring the pulsing agony in his fingers. He drew the bowstring back — every nerve screaming.
I just need one shot. One bullseye.
He released.
Thwip—
The target slid three inches left.
The arrow stabbed harmlessly into the dirt.
Akira blinked.
Had that—?
Raizen said nothing.
No explanation.
No reaction.
Akira gritted his teeth and aimed again.
Maybe I was imagining it.
He shot.
Thwip—
This time, the target jerked right — just enough for the arrow to miss by a hair.
A cold chill crawled up Akira's spine.
It was moving.But only when he shot.
Like it was alive. Like it was mocking him.
Akira's breath tightened.
"So that's why you said one…"
Still no response from Raizen.
Akira kept shooting — each arrow prompting a perfect dodge. Left. Right. Tiny movements. Always just enough.
Not a single hit.
His frustration boiled — but he couldn't waste breath complaining. He already knew what would happen if he paused.
He drew again. Pain flared in his wounded fingers, but he ignored it.
Focus.Predict.
However even when he tried to anticipate the movement, predicting where the target would shift next. Each calculation failed. The more he tried to force the outcome, the farther off his aim became.
Hours dragged. Morning bled into afternoon. Sweat burned his eyes, his shoulders screamed, and the wood of the bow chafed his raw fingers. Arrow after arrow thudded against the dirt or grazed the edges of the disc.
By sunset, Akira's muscles quivered uncontrollably. He leaned on the bow, heart hammering in his chest. The sky darkened, shadows stretching across the field. His fingers were numb, yet his mind buzzed with the rhythm of the target's movement.
And then it came — an epiphany.
The target didn't move randomly. It didn't react to him personally. It moved in direct response to the release of an arrow. Timing, not prediction, mattered. It was a test of patience, focus, and calm precision. Not brute strength. Not raw instinct. Timing.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Heart still pounding, fingers aching, he nocked another arrow.
This time, he didn't anticipate. He didn't force. He waited. Breathed. Observed the slightest quiver of the target, read it like a pulse, and released.
Thwip—
The arrow hit the center. Bullseye.
Raizen's eyes didn't flicker with approval. They didn't move at all. One word, flat and cold, yet carrying weight:
"Dismissed."
Akira sank to one knee, chest heaving, bow clattering to the dirt beside him. The night air was cool, and for the first time that day, he felt the tiniest spark of triumph.