Kallen stood still, his body poised with meticulous precision. His grip on the longbow was firm but relaxed, fingers naturally curled around the riser, while his other hand reached back with fluid ease, pulling an arrow from the quiver with practiced efficiency.
The way he moved, wasn't the fumbling attempt of a novice, but the smooth, instinctive precision of someone who understood the weapon as an extension of himself. A true marksman.
Before him stood stationary target dummies, looking like grey wooden mannequins, with a slightly reflective sheen; arranged at staggered intervals.
The training field was designed with calculated intent; each range meticulously set to challenge an archer's perception, adaptability, and reaction time.
The targets were ranged in five to a hundred meters.
The five-meter zone featured five dummies arranged in a loose formation, some slightly forward, others behind, each spaced exactly one meter apart.
The ten-meter zone followed the same structure, then the twenty, the fifty, and finally, the hundred-meter range, where the dummies became mere specks against the backdrop of the training field.
This formation wasn't just about hitting stationary targets—it was built for dynamic movement, allowing the archer to weave between the dummies in live-fire exercises, developing both agility and accuracy under pressure.
Kallen drew the bowstring back in a single smooth motion, his fingers pressing against the nocking point with calculated pressure.
The bowstring gave a satisfying tautness, the limbs flexing under the strain, storing raw potential energy.
His were shoulders squared, his spine aligned. His stance was impeccable, his weight evenly distributed, and core subtly engaged to maintain stability.
"Alright," he responded simply, voice devoid of emotions.
Atticus watched him with sharp eyes, nodding in approval.
"Good. Let's start slow, shall we?" He gestured toward the five-meter targets with a lazy flick of his wrist, though his gaze remained locked on Kallen, observing every minute detail of his form. "By the way, solid posture. That's rare for someone your age."
His words carried an air of casual praise, but there was a deeper undertone beneath them, it was laced with curiosity, perhaps even the slightest hint of challenge.
Because what kind of six-year-old held a bow like that? What kind of child possessed the fluid, near-predatory stillness of someone who had seen battle before even stepping onto a battlefield?
Atticus smiled, but behind that easy grin, was an underlaying coldness, layered with genuine bewilderment.
The contrast between Kallen and Atticus was undeniable... even beyond their age gap, their training, instincts, and philosophies of combat were worlds apart.
Atticus, despite being only nine, was anything but an ordinary child.
His intelligence far surpassed that of his peers, his cognitive and behavioral development accelerating at a frightening pace from an early age.
He was born with an innate charisma, a natural at reading the emotions and weaknesses of others like an open book. His silver tongue could weave words into weapons just as deadly as any blade.
But his true gift lay in archery. Not just as a skill, but as a philosophy.
To him, the bow was more than a weapon, it was a means of control. A way to dictate the flow of battle while keeping himself safely distanced from danger.
Why stand on the frontlines and risk one's life when one could orchestrate death from afar? Why dirty one's hands when strings could be pulled from the shadows?
Yet, for all his confidence and calculated foresight, what he saw in Kallen today surprised him.
Kallen was no stranger to being labeled a prodigy, but his reputation was built on a different foundation.
Among all the young talents of the Crimson family, he was considered the most intelligent, and some even whispered that he surpassed Atticus in raw intellect.
His talent in combat was unquestionable, an instinctive master of close-quarters and mid-range weaponry. But the bow? That was an entirely different domain.
No one had ever seen Kallen wield a bow before. It simply wasn't his style. And yet, as he stood there, his posture was impeccable. His form, his grip, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed in perfect harmony with the weapon—it was all flawless.
There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, only a stillness that exuded raw control. A perfect textbook performance.
Atticus felt a ripple of astonishment deep within him. A flicker of something almost like excitement.
Excitement! Yes he was excited. How long has it been since he felt this kind of emotion?
But he was too skilled at masking his emotions. His face remained composed, his body relaxed, his smile easy and unbothered. Beneath those layers of calm, however, his mind raced with newfound curiosity.
Kallen was full of surprises. And Atticus intended to unravel every single one of them.
"How good are you with the bow?" Atticus asked, his voice carrying the perfect blend of curiosity and nonchalance. "Your stance suggests quite the level of proficiency…"
As he spoke, he eased into his own stance. But where Kallen's was sharp, disciplined, and grounded, Atticus's posture was deceptively loose, languid, and almost lazy. Yet, beneath that relaxed facade lay an undeniable mastery.
The moment he slipped into his own stance, it was as if the entire training ground itself became a mere chessboard, and he was already moving the pieces before his opponent even knew the game had begun.
The way his fingers rested on the bowstrings was like he was puppeteering. Every movement was precise, controlled, and yet, it carried the illusion of effortlessness.
It was like he wasn't just wielding the bow; he was also manipulating it.
"I don't know," Kallen answered simply. "I don't have much practice with it."
That was an understatement. While Kallen had never formally trained with the bow, his expertise with firearms, blades, and almost every other kind of guns, had honed his hand-eye coordination to a razor's edge.
His previous life demanded nothing less. Every twitch of a finger, every minuscule shift in weight, those were the differences between life and death in his former line of work...
Well... work did not happen to be an accurate term for it, considering it was his entire life.
He only began exploring other types of weapons; cold weapons included, after he started playing Divine Odyssey.
The bow was simply another tool. A new medium. And if there was one thing he excelled at, it was adapting.
Atticus nodded, his smirk deepening. "Let's start with the basics, then. Although..." he added smoothly,
"...it's never wise to waste time on things that don't suit you. But since I have the time, I might just show you some incredible ropes."