While Russell grunted and sweated through his katana forms, Gareth was immersed in his own world of focus a dozen yards away. For him, archery wasn't just about pulling a string and letting go; it was a meticulous sequence of steps, each one a foundation for the next.
The training field smelled of dust, sweat, and faint metal from Russell's endless slashes. The sun hovered just above the treeline, casting long beams across the ground. Each breath Gareth took felt like drawing in the air of purpose itself.
Russell shouted somewhere behind him, stumbling through a footwork misstep. "Damn it! Again!"
Gareth didn't look back. He only whispered, Stay in your world, I'll stay in mine.
---
1. Stance (The Foundation)
He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, body perpendicular to the target—a solid, square-ish stance. He distributed his weight evenly, keeping his knees slightly soft and unlocked. His shoulders were relaxed but ready, his hips stable. A wobbly foundation meant a wobbly shot. He checked his stance before every single draw.
But today, he took even longer.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing as he felt the subtle tremors in his ankles.
"Too much weight on the right," he muttered.
He shifted. Grounded. Rooted.
A faint breeze brushed his cheek, carrying with it the distant clang of Russell's blade. Gareth closed his eyes for half a second.
Everything starts here.
---
2. Nocking and Grip
His movements became ritualistic. He selected an arrow, feeling the fletching. With practiced ease, he nocked it onto the string, using the Mediterranean three-finger draw—index finger above the nock, middle and ring fingers below. His grip on the bow itself was light, almost delicate. He let it rest in the web between his thumb and index finger, his other fingers relaxed to avoid any twisting torque that could send the arrow wild.
Behind him, Russell groaned dramatically, collapsing onto one knee.
"Gareth! Tell me why the sword hates me!"
"The sword doesn't hate you," Gareth replied without looking up. "Your footwork does."
"Traitor…"
Gareth smirked but remained focused. He brushed his thumb along the shaft, feeling its straightness. Every arrow was a conversation. Every shot, a negotiation.
---
3. Raising & Pre-Draw (The Set)
He raised the bow to chest level in one smooth, controlled motion. There was no jerk, no rush. His drawing hand took the string, and he focused on keeping his elbow high, creating a clean line from the arrow to his shoulder. This was the calm before the storm.
A droplet of sweat ran down his jaw. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat matched a steady internal rhythm—Set… hold… feel…
A faint hum of tension vibrated through the bowstring, like a living creature responding to his touch.
Russell called out again, panting as he resumed stance training. "You're too calm. It pisses me off how calm you are."
"Try it sometime," Gareth murmured.
---
4. Draw (Power Generation)
This was where the real work began. He didn't just pull with his arm. He drove the draw with the large muscles of his back, imagining he was squeezing his shoulder blades together. He pulled the string back past his cheek to his ear, finding his anchor point—the corner of his mouth. This ensured a repeatable, full draw length every time. He kept his drawing elbow slightly behind the line of the arrow, maintaining a strong, back-driven pull.
His body trembled slightly with exertion. The draw weight wasn't light, not by any means. These bows were designed for Hunters, built to punch through mutated bone and hide. Every draw felt like pulling against the world itself.
He remembered Mauro's words: "Your arms are merely the bridge. Your back is the engine."
So he squeezed harder.
The engine roared quietly under his skin.
---
5. Anchor & Aim
With the string anchored firmly at the corner of his mouth, his head position locked in, he aimed. For now, he used instinctive aiming, the method of Hunters who needed to shoot fast in the chaos of battle. He didn't overthink it; he simply focused on a specific spot on the target and let his body and intuition align the shot.
The second ring. Slightly low-left of the bullseye.
He sharpened his gaze until the rest of the world blurred.
A glimmer of intrusive thought drifted in—
What if I never get sharp enough? What if I stay "second ring" forever?
He exhaled slowly, dissolving the doubt.
Mauro's voice echoed again: "Consistency first. Sharpness comes later."
Russell shouted mid-strike, "I think I just improved!"
A loud thud followed as he fell.
"…Never mind."
Gareth's lips twitched.
Then stillness returned.
---
6. Release & Follow-Through
This was the moment of truth. He didn't just let go. He relaxed his fingers, allowing them to roll forward and release the string cleanly. Crucially, he maintained the squeeze in his back and kept his draw elbow high. He held his entire form perfectly still for a moment after the arrow had flown—the follow-through. He didn't drop the bow or flinch to see where the arrow hit. A clean release and solid follow-through were everything.
Thwip. Thud.
The arrow struck the target, not in the bullseye yet, but firmly in the second ring. Consistency. That was the goal. Not a lucky shot, but a repeatable one.
Russell shouted like a proud roommate, "Second ring again! Don't lie—you're aiming for it on purpose!"
"Sure," Gareth replied dryly. "My lifelong dream."
But even as he joked, something stirred inside him—a soft flicker of satisfaction. He wasn't chasing perfection. Not yet. He was chasing reliability. Predictability.
Survival.
---
Meditation in Motion
Shot after shot, Gareth went through this exact mental and physical checklist. Stance. Nock. Raise. Draw. Anchor. Release. Follow-through. It was a meditation. A science. And like Russell with his blade, he was building the muscle memory that would one day, he hoped, save his life.
The air around him grew hot with repetition. His arms burned. His back ached. But he didn't stop. Every shot carved a deeper groove into his instincts.
Russell eventually dragged himself over, hands on his hips, sweat pouring down his face.
"You've been at it for an hour straight. You good?"
"Define good."
"You look like you're trying to transcend humanity."
"Maybe I am."
Russell chuckled, but his expression softened. "We're really doing this… aren't we?"
"What?"
"Preparing for a life where every mistake can kill us."
Gareth didn't answer immediately.
He nocked another arrow.
Pulled. Anchored. Aimed.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "We are."
He released.
Thwip—
Thud.
Second ring.
Again.
---
The Shared Silence of Warriors-to-Be
The training grounds held two very different kinds of concentration, both essential to the hunt.
Russell's wild grunts, slashes, and frustrated yells filled one half of the field.
Gareth's silent, rhythmic precision filled the other.
The sun dipped lower, casting long golden streaks across the ground. Dust floated in the air like slow-moving sparks. Their breaths, their efforts, their failures—they blended into one atmosphere.
Russell eventually flopped into the dirt beside him.
"My arms… they're dead."
"Your fault for swinging like a madman."
"Your fault for making everything look easy."
"It's not easy. I've just made peace with the pain."
"…Damn. That was actually deep."
Gareth looked at him, amused. "Go drink water."
"Yes, mom."
He laughed, shaking his head.
Gareth turned back to the target.
To the second ring.
He whispered to himself, barely audible—
"One day… I'll hit the center without thinking."
He raised his bow again.
And kept going.
Because this was the grind.
Not glamorous.
Not heroic.
Just necessary.
And both of them—Russell with his blade, Gareth with his bow—were slowly, painfully, stubbornly shaping themselves into Hunters worthy of survival.