As the hands of the clock crept forward and the golden light of the sinking sun stretched across the battlefield, Arin was finally torn from that strange, wordless state—the one where he and his bow had ceased to be separate. It ended without warning, like waking from a dream he hadn't realized he was inside. One moment, there was only the draw of the string, the whisper of the wind, the distant flicker of movement. Next, there was weight. Pain. The world.
It was time to stop.
Even after relocating his platform three times and helping push his section of the line forward by nearly a kilometer, Arin hadn't noticed anything beyond his arrows. His mind had narrowed into a single, perfect rhythm—draw, breathe, release. Again. Again. Again. No doubt, no hesitation, no wasted motion.
Then it shattered.
The exhaustion didn't creep in—it struck.
His arms trembled first, then his legs buckled. His vision dimmed at the edges as a flood of ignored notifications burst into existence, stacking over one another faster than he could process. He didn't even try. His knees gave out, and the world tilted sharply as he nearly fell straight off the platform.
Strong hands caught him before he could.
"Whoa—! Not again, Arin!"
Johnny's voice cut through the haze, sharp with alarm as he steadied him. "Last time you did this, Mom and Dad nearly lost it. Don't tell me you're getting sick again?"
Arin forced his eyes open, breath uneven. "Relax… I'm fine," he muttered, though he didn't sound convincing. "Just… completely drained. My stamina's gone."
With sluggish focus, he pulled up his status window.
Status Window
Race: Human
Stage: Mortal (0.3)
Class: Archer (0.4)
Profession: Bowyer (0.2)
HP: 130 / 130
MP: 30 / 150
Stamina: 5 / 140
Attributes
Strength: 17
Agility: 14
Endurance: 14
Vitality: 13
Toughness: 13
Wisdom: 15
Intelligence: 15
Perception: 22
Willpower: 18
Free Points: 4
Techniques & Traits
Breathing Technique: Archer Breathing Technique (Inferior)
Physique: Son of the Forest
Skills
Class Skills:
• Ancient War Archery (Rare) → Focus of the Old Marksman (Epic)
• Basic One-Handed Weapons (Inferior)
• Archer's Eye (Common)
• Echo of the Grove (Rare)
Professional Skills:
• Arboreal Lore (Common)
• Stringcraft (Common)
• Limb Shaping (Common)
• Identify (Common)
"…Yeah," Arin breathed. "That's… not great."
Everything hurt. Not just the obvious places—his arms, his shoulders—but deeper, stranger aches in muscles he didn't even know existed. It was the kind of exhaustion that made breathing feel like an effort.
Johnny let out a long breath, tension easing slightly. "Alright… that's better than you collapsing from some mystery illness. Still, you look like you got run over."
"Feels about right," Arin muttered.
Johnny grinned, relief bleeding into teasing. "Good. Because I really don't want a repeat of last time. You're worrying everyone, then acting all guilty because you kept secrets from Mom?"
"Shut up," Arin groaned. "And help me stand properly."
"Yeah, yeah."
With Johnny's support, Arin managed to get off the platform. His legs protested immediately, shaky and unreliable, but they held. Barely.
As they began the slow walk back toward camp, Johnny glanced at him. "So what caused it? You usually outlast everyone."
Arin frowned, trying to piece together fragmented memories. "I think… It's that new skill. I don't remember much after I started shooting this morning. Just this feeling."
"What kind of feeling?"
"As everything clicked," Arin said quietly. "My aim, timing, breathing—it all aligned. Every shot felt… inevitable. And the longer it lasted, the better I got."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "That sounds broken. You know how to trigger it?"
Arin shook his head. "Not right now. I'm too tired to think. Haven't even checked the skill description yet."
Johnny hummed, but his gaze drifted forward, thoughtful.
He had seen it.
Arin had stood nearly two hundred meters behind the clash, calmly firing arrow after arrow. That alone wasn't impressive—they could all do that now. But Arin hadn't stopped there.
He'd aimed beyond.
Three hundred meters. Moving targets. Evolved goblins weaving through chaos.
At that distance, arrows hung in the air long enough for everything to change. Wind shifted. Targets moved unpredictably. Even archers at the level of their family struggled to land hits.
Yet Arin had.
Four out of ten.
Clean kills.
Johnny knew he couldn't do that.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Definitely not normal."
By the time they reached the supply point, Arin's strength was fading again. He dropped his platform with the others and barely spared it a glance before dragging himself toward the tents.
People greeted him as he passed, but their voices blurred together. Faces didn't register. He didn't have the energy.
All he wanted was sleep.
He stumbled into his tent, didn't even close it, and collapsed face-first onto his bed. The thin inflatable pillow—always somehow too hard or too soft—barely registered.
Then everything went black.
Morning came too soon.
Arin woke with a groan, his entire body locked in painful cramps. Every small movement sent sharp protests through his muscles, as if they were punishing him for yesterday.
"…This is torture."
He forced himself up and staggered outside, blinking in the light.
Nearby, his grandfather sat on a foldable chair, chewing a nutrient bar with a deeply dissatisfied expression.
"Grandpa…" Arin croaked. "Can I sit out today? I feel like death."
Karl glanced at him. "You look like it, too."
"…Thanks."
"I already heard from Johnny," Karl continued. "You overdid it again. Did you check your new skill?"
Arin blinked. "Right… no."
"Well?"
With a sigh, Arin opened the description.
Focus of the Old Marksman (Epic)
Forged through relentless discipline and the study of ancient warcraft, this skill embodies the pinnacle of traditional archery mastery. The wielder has transcended mere technique, achieving complete unity with their bow—where thought, breath, and motion flow as one.
Every shot is guided not only by precision, but by instinct honed across generations of forgotten battle traditions. The marksman reads the battlefield as if it were a living thing—predicting movement, exploiting weakness, and striking with unerring accuracy.
Arrows loosed under this focus seem almost fated: cutting through wind, distance, and distraction with lethal grace. In moments of stillness, time itself feels to slow, allowing the archer to act with impossible clarity.
"…That's a lot," Arin muttered.
Karl raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
"I'm not thrilled about being called 'old,'" Arin said dryly. "But… I think I get it."
He exhaled slowly. "I entered a trance. Complete unity with the bow. And to maintain it…" He gestured weakly. "…I burned through stamina and mana without noticing."
Karl nodded. "That explains why you looked half-dead when you got back."
"I didn't even respond to anyone, did I?"
"Nope. Walked straight into your tent and collapsed. Left it wide open too."
"…Great."
Despite himself, Arin let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh.
An epic skill.
Something far beyond normal.
"…Worth it," he murmured.
Karl snorted. "We'll see if you still think that next time it nearly kills you."
Arin didn't answer.
But he already knew.
He would.