"Who will go first?" asked Ashborn, tilting his head with the ease of someone used to standing in the center of attention. His black-and-ashen hair shifted gently with the wind, his amber eyes flashing under the sun.
Kazel, still lounging with a shoulder slouched and fingers loosely curled by his side, smiled lazily."I don't mind either way."
Ashborn's smirk widened. "Then, it's my pleasure."
He stepped forward with the poise of royalty—measured, unhurried, as if each footfall already knew the outcome. The murmuring crowd quieted to a hush. Even the birds overhead seemed to still.
Ashborn picked up the plain bow from the white-clothed table. Though it was identical to the others—unmarked, humble wood—he held it like a treasured heirloom. His fingers slid along its grain for a brief moment before he plucked an arrow and nocked it.
Then everything changed.
His casual demeanor faded, replaced by something far more focused. His body straightened, and his breathing slowed.His eyes—normally a soft ember hue—shifted, glowing deep crimson, like smoldering coals stirred by wind.
The bow creaked softly as he drew it back. The string stretched taut, quivering with raw tension.The world seemed to hold its breath.
Ashborn's gaze locked onto the distant target—barely a speck on the horizon, ten times farther than the first round.The wind swept across the open field, bending grass and tugging at cloaks. But he didn't flinch.
His fingers opened.
The arrow soared.
It rose with a screeching whisper, climbing higher and higher, its shaft catching the sunlight like a silver streak cast by a god. It danced with the wind, adjusted ever so slightly—guided not just by Ashborn's aim, but by his sheer will.
Then—it dropped.
Like a hawk descending upon its prey, the arrow plunged toward the distant target with terrifying speed.
Thunk.
A perfect, clean hit—dead center. Not just in the bullseye… but right through the exact middle of it.
Gasps erupted like fireworks. The crowd broke into thunderous cheers. Some stood. Others clutched their heads in disbelief.
Even the judging elder sat frozen, lips parted. One hand had hovered over the scoring sheet but hadn't moved for several heartbeats.
Back at the pavilion, Juni leaned forward, her brows furrowed in focused interest.
Yasha's petal slipped from her lips and drifted into her lap unnoticed.
Liora gave a low whistle. "Well... he doesn't just have pretty hair, after all."
Ashborn released his breath only after the cheers began. Then he turned, smiling — effortlessly charismatic, like it was just another afternoon. His gaze met Kazel's, measuring him.
"Bullseye," he said softly, with the air of a man offering an invitation rather than a boast.
As the echo of the arrow's impact faded, the crowd exploded into applause. Ashborn stepped back with the grace of someone used to thunderous praise. He offered a brief, courteous nod to the audience before casually tossing the bow into the air and catching it—like it weighed nothing, like the shot was never in doubt.
Rion, the youngest of the final three, stared wide-eyed. His breath caught in his throat.
(He's unreal…)
Ashborn's precision had been surgical. His posture, flawless. His release—clean, confident, effortless. Rion had trained for this day for years, practiced through bleeding fingers and sunburned backs, yet watching Ashborn... made him feel like a child holding a toy.
His own shot had barely etched the outer ring. The arrow still dangled awkwardly, swaying in the wind like a reminder of how far he had yet to climb.
Ashborn turned and offered Rion a nod and a kind smile. "You were excellent. To even reach this round is no small feat."
Rion bowed slightly, hiding his face. "Thank you... Ashborn."
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kazel approaching the line.
Kazel hadn't spoken much since the last round. In fact, he'd barely looked serious this whole time. He walked like someone who'd wandered into the competition by accident. His robe was still loose, his hair slightly messy, as if he'd just gotten out of bed.
(No way he could match that…)
Kazel stepped forward.
He picked up the bow.
No ceremony. No ritual. Just a glance — one brief look at the weapon in his hand — and then he fired.
All in a single breath.
No stance correction. No breath control. No tension. It wasn't practiced elegance, it wasn't divine form.
It was instinct.
The arrow left his fingers before most could process what happened. It sang through the air, cutting across the wind like a kunpeng, slicing the sky open with its arc. The crowd's collective chin lifted in perfect synchronization as their eyes followed its impossible flight.
It soared — too fast, too smooth — and then a sharp snap echoed through the field.
A sound like a banner being torn.
Ripped wood.
Gasps followed.
Ashborn's arrow — the one buried deep in the bullseye — had been split in two. From over a thousand meters away.
The shaft cracked down its center, cleaved cleanly, and Kazel's arrow took its place, embedding itself in the exact same red dot.
The audience froze.
Juni's mouth was slightly open. Her eyes blinked slowly, once, twice. She had once been the prodigy of this very feat, yet now even she had nothing to say.
Liora's lips curved into an unreadable grin. Her gaze shimmered with something between awe and disbelief.
Even Yasha, ever-chewing, found her petal missing.
Arhatam clutched Durandal's sleeve. "Did—did he just…?"
Durandal didn't answer. He was staring like he'd forgotten how to speak.
Ashborn had been art.
Kazel was authority.
Ashborn's arrow was a demonstration of skill, a performance drenched in control, beauty, and poise.
Kazel's shot was a verdict.
A single, brutal statement that there were levels to this world — and he stood above them.
He didn't smile.
He didn't bow.
He simply stepped away from the line, flicking the bow back onto the table like it was a borrowed stick.
"Are we done here?" he asked, voice as casual as if he'd just finished a morning stretch.
No one answered.
Not yet.
For a heartbeat, silence held the meadow hostage.
Then the world exploded.
The crowd erupted, louder than it ever had for Ashborn — a frenzy of cheers, stomping feet, and voices hoarse from disbelief. It wasn't polite applause or cultured awe.
It was raw exaltation.
The elder from the Heavenless Bow Sect stood motionless, parchment fluttering from his trembling hand. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again. He had no words. None at all.
Rion stared, wide-eyed, like a child watching the sky split open. He looked at his own hands, then at Kazel, then at the distant target still vibrating with the arrow lodged deep in its bullseye — no, through its bullseye.
His arrow had cleaved Ashborn's in half.
(How...? Is that even... humanly possible?)The young man, who just moments ago had held pride in reaching the edge of the target, now felt like his feet weren't touching the same ground as Kazel.
Ashborn remained still. The cheers reminded him to close his parted lip. He smiled, but not in a playful way. It was now… respectful. Quiet. Eyes gleaming not with competitiveness — but interest. Deep, sincere interest.
Liora's posture had straightened. Her arms folded over her chest, her chin slightly lifted. She didn't even blink.
(So… this is the kind of man you spoke of with reverence...)Her eyes narrowed slightly.(He did the opposite of disappointing.)
Yasha said nothing. The petal returned to her mouth, but this time she didn't chew it.
Even Juni found her hands still mid-clap, paused awkwardly in the air.
Kazel, the center of all this noise, simply turned his back to the target.
Unbothered.Unshaken.Uninterested.
As if he hadn't just redrawn the standard for what an archer could be.
As if he hadn't just carved his name into the legacy of the Heavenless Bow Sect with a single, lazy shot.
Ashborn had barely turned his head before Kazel was already beside him.
The cheers still echoed in the distance, but in the space between these two, there was only calm — like a storm had passed, leaving stillness in its wake.
Ashborn smirked without looking."Looks like I offered the right deal."
Kazel's hands were behind his back as he stepped into view. His eyes met Ashborn's, steady and sharp."You did," he said. "Now we both owe each other a favor."
Ashborn gave a slow nod. "Correct."
Kazel leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise like a blade."Cherish it," he said, each word clear and measured. "It weighs more than a mountain of Spirit Stones."
Ashborn's smirk faded into something quieter — something real.
"I will," he said. His crimson eyes gleamed. "And I hope someday, I'll see what such a weight can do when it falls."