"How good is your accuracy? Can you hit the temple of each 5-meter target in six seconds?" Atticus asked.

Without waiting for a response, he drew his bow and fired. In just three seconds, every arrow found its mark; each one striking precisely between the brows of its target.

Atticus barely had time to lower his bow before the sharp whoosh of arrows slicing through the air filled the training field. His smirk deepened, eyes flickering with intrigue as Kallen's arrows flew with relentless precision.

One by one, they struck the same point he had aimed for... dead center between the brows of each target. But it was the last arrow that made his breath hitch, just for a fraction of a second.

Crack!

Kallen's final shot split Atticus's arrow cleanly in two before embedding itself in the target like a silent declaration.

Exactly six seconds. No more, no less.

For a brief moment, there was only silence between them, thick with an unspoken tension.

Then Atticus chuckled, low and amused. He spun his bow in his hand with a practiced ease, as if unfazed, but the glint in his crimson eyes betrayed him.

"Well, well… Look at that." He tilted his head slightly, studying Kallen with something bordering on fascination. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Kallen remained expressionless, lowering his bow without ceremony. He had simply done what was asked of him. No more, no less.

But Atticus saw something else.

This wasn't just raw talent, that was refinement. The way Kallen fired wasn't that of a child testing his skill. Although it was somehow slow and clumsy, it very dangerous.

Atticus licked his lips, his grin widening. But even though it was supposed to make him look amiss, his wide grin only seemed to boost his charisma.

"That's beautiful," Atticus praised. Though he was curious to see if Kallen could shave down his shooting time, he chose instead to raise the challenge, this time, to ten meters.

Despite what seemed like a growing loss of emotional restraint, his countenance remained eerily calm, like a still lake, no ripples, no waves. The things that would make him loose his cool, were too few.

"Alright, ten meters in fifteen seconds," he announced before drawing his bow.

He loosed his arrows with practiced precision, finishing in about eight seconds. Just like before, Kallen fired the moment Atticus was done.

He moved like water, drawing and loosing—thwick, thwick, thwick!—each arrow embedding itself in its mark with surgical precision, completing the challenge in exactly fifteen seconds.

But this time, none of his arrows split through Atticus' own.

"Interesting," he mused, twirling an arrow between his fingers. His lips curled in amusement, but his eyes told a different thing.

His eyes were gleaming with a fervent light.

_'This boy is a true prodigy. Too bad he's just unfortunate.'._

"Twenty meters. Twenty seconds. Can you?" Atticus' voice rang with genuine excitement, beneath his usual smooth control. His crimson eyes gleamed, locked onto Kallen like a predator sizing up an prey worth the chase.

Kallen simply shrugged.

"Great."

Without another word, Atticus began, his body moved in a practiced rhythm, completely steady, and movements precise. Each arrow was like a whisper of death slicing through the air.

He didn't rush it, nor did he force it. Twenty seconds passed in perfect cadence, his last arrow embedding itself with an almost lazy finality.

Unsurprisingly, Kallen followed suit the instant Atticus was done. His arrows struck the exact same spots, mirroring his opponent's precision. And just like before, he finished in exactly twenty seconds.

"You truly are a genius, little Kal."

Atticus's voice was warm, laced with sincerity and admiration, even a touch of jealousy. But more than anything, there was pity. A gentle, carefully placed dagger to the heart.

"The way you handle a bow... it's like it was made for you. If only you could awaken your core, everyone would see just how terrifying you could be. Even this big brother of yours might have to step down as the best marksman. That would be embarrassing, right?"

His words were smooth and charismatic. He even shook his head in despondence as though he really felt bad, but his eyes were lazy and watching.

For just a flicker of a moment, Kallen's pupils trembled. Barely perceptible. But Atticus caught it. His smirk deepened so slightly, so imperceptibly, it might as well have been a trick of the light.

"Anyway, let's keep going." He sighed, running a hand through his crimson hair as though reluctant. "You're very good. I almost don't want to stop teaching you."

Almost.

"But... the fifty-meter mark?" He clicked his tongue. "That's too far for you. Your unawakened body won't hold up. You're too young. If you were older, or if you had managed to awaken, then maybe... It's just too bad."

Pity dripped from his tone, tinged with genuine concern. A masterful blend.

"Let's move to the dynamic field practice instead."

Atticus moved without a care, as if oblivious to the bitterness in Kallen's unfocused gaze, or his clenched fists, the white-knuckled grip on his bow, or the way his teeth ground together in silent fury.

If anything, he moved with an air of ease.

He reached the control panel at the far end of the archery field, his fingers gliding over the buttons with practiced ease.

The target dummies whirred to life, their movements erratic, darting in randomized patterns within their five-meter radius. Some moved sluggishly, lagging only a fraction of a second, while others blurred with deceptive speed.

"What speed are you comfortable with?" Atticus asked, casting a glance over his shoulder.

No response.

Kallen's expression was vacant, lost somewhere within himself. His gaze was dark and unfocused.

Atticus' lips curled ever so slightly.

"I'll just leave it at three times speed," he said lightly, adjusting the settings before turning back with a faint, almost sympathetic smile.

Then he sighed, tired and exasperated, as if what he was about to do was an exhausting burden rather than deliberate cruelty. He walked up to Kallen, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Man up." His voice was steady, filled with unwavering confidence, even warmth. "I get it. It's devastating. But you are you. You can do anything. Don't let a little setback weigh you down."

He gave a reassuring squeeze, his touch firm and grounding, executing a perfect trauma bond.

"You still have so much you can do. If fate tries to toy with you, you take the reins. You control your destiny."

Inwardly, he sneered.

_'Sadly, there's nothing you can do without an awakened core.... Since you can't awaken, you're as good as useless. Fighting against fate? What a delusion.'_

His fingers lingered just a moment longer before he pulled away, exhaling as if he were deep in thought.

Having talent is good, but too much talent was a sin. A curse infact.

Fate always balances the scales. Those blessed with too much providence but too little power to wield it? Fate will strike them down. It lurks in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to land the killing blow.

Such a shame.