The wind grew colder as they crossed into the Continent of Wind. Ray pressed his face against the window, his eyes shining with uncontrollable excitement as clouds rushed past like fleeing spirits. For him, this journey felt like the beginning of one of the adventures his father used to tell him about.
Horus, however, felt strange. The pressure he had sensed back on the Neutral Island was gone completely erased. He should have felt relieved, yet the emptiness pressed heavily against his chest, heavier than the presence itself. Hours passed as the landscape slowly transformed. Endless rolling plains stretched beneath a pale sky before breaking apart into jagged cliffs and deep ravines. The wind screamed endlessly, carrying the scent of dust, ice, and ancient stone shaped by centuries of relentless storms. By the time their transport began its descent, darkness had crept across the land. Heavy clouds twisted low above the cliffs, and far below, scattered lights flickered like dying stars clinging stubbornly to life.
They had arrived.
The gates of the city towered above them, built from dark stone polished smooth by uncountable years of violent wind. Massive banners snapped fiercely along the walls, their faded symbols still standing defiant against time itself. As they passed through the gates, the city's noise crashed over them. Merchants shouted to be heard over the roaring wind. Metal clanged against stone. Soldiers watched every passerby with sharp, suspicious eyes. The air felt heavier here sharper, as though it could cut careless skin. At the city's center, a massive crowd had gathered. At the heart of it all stood a raised platform displaying the prize of the annual Archery Tournament: the Golden Arrow. Ray froze the moment he saw it. His imagination ignited instantly. Gold—he could almost feel the weight of the arrow in his hands. Without hesitation, he began pestering Cato to participate, listing every possibility such a treasure could bring. Cato agreed, Horus warned him about using his element, Cato agreed with him not to use power of elements in the turnament.
This was an open tournament. Anyone could enter. Held once every year, it took place under the harshest conditions imaginable, testing archers to their absolute limits. Representatives from the four major continents arrived annually to recruit talent, though strict rules limited each continent to selecting only ten archers in order to maintain balance across the world.
They also heard some rumour about the winner of this tournament that every winner get cursed and a painful death.The next day, the tournament began.
Thre first archer stepped onto the line. The wind screamed. He drew his bow, muscles trembling, and released his first arrow. The moment it left the string, the wind crushed it. The arrow shuddered, twisted, and dropped lifelessly onto the stone, barely reaching halfway to the moving dummy. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.The archer swallowed hard and fired again. The second arrow didn't last a second longer. His third shot fell even shorter.
Silence followed.
Head lowered, the archer stepped away, defeated. Then another took his place. And another. Arrows filled the air only to be torn apart by violent gusts. Some spun wildly. Others were forced downward as if the sky itself rejected them. No matter the technique, no matter the strength, the result was always the same.
Failure.
By the time more than fifty candidates had fallen, dread had settled over the arena. Not a single archer had passed.
Then the announcer called out, "Next. Cato."
Ray's breath caught. His fingers clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Ziva's expression stiffened, her eyes locked onto the field. The wind roared louder, and even the dummy seemed to move faster. Horus remained unmoved. "This is nothing for Cato," he said calmly. "He has already mastered the element of wind." Cato stepped forward. He didn't brace himself. He didn't hesitate. He raised his bow. Three arrows flew in a single breath. The wind surged—then parted. Without looking back, Cato turned and walked toward the qualified resting area.
Then the announcer's voice shattered the silence. "Direct hits! All three arrows have struck the target—each one piercing the eyes!"
The arena exploded. Shock. Cheers. Disbelief. Cato had done what no one else could. The tournament did not slow. It grew crueler.
Nearly eighty percent of the participants were erased in the first round alone. The second test broke even more, until only fifty archers remained standing—exhausted, wounded, and shaken.
Then came the final trial. The third round. This time, there were no dummies. Only enemies.
Based on performance, the representatives would choose their candidates. One archer might receive multiple offers, but in the end, they would swear loyalty to only one continent. The rules were explained clearly by the announcer.
The wind howled across the arena, and among the remaining fighters, Cato stood silently. After countless battles, only two archers remained. The arena was silent not calm, but tense, like a breath held too long. Broken arrows were scattered across the stone floor, some snapped, others buried deep as if the ground itself had been pierced. Cato stood near the center, his bow steady despite the storm scraping against his skin. Across from him stood the final opponent—an archer from the Western Continent. Tall. Bloodied. Unshaken. "This place devours the weak," the man said. "Let's see which of us it chooses."
The horn sounded.
The wind exploded.
The western archer fired first. Seven arrows tore into the sky at once. They didn't fly straight. They twisted, curved, vanished, then reappeared, each riding a different current. Their angles were wrong, but their intent was clear. They weren't meant to kill. They were meant to cripple. Cato moved. Three arrows left his bow in rapid succession. Two shattered midair. A third slipped past and tore into his shoulder. Blood sprayed. Cato staggered but he stayed standing.
The crowd erupted in panic.
"Good," the western archer said. "You can bleed."
The wind slammed downward. Stone cracked beneath their feet. Pressure rippled through the arena, and even the spectators stumbled as the air itself grew heavy. The western archer leapt onto a broken pillar and fired again. Arrows rained down like executioner's blades.
Cato did not dodge. He did not retreat. Instead, the arrows froze. Every single one was caught locked in the air by unseen currents. Gasps spread through the arena. Even the representatives rose to their feet, disbelief written across their faces.Then Cato moved.
He launched a storm of arrows so fast they blurred into a single motion. The western archer could only see flashes of steel as his entire field of vision filled with incoming death.
But only one arrow struck his wrist. His bow fell from numb fingers and it seems like all others dodged him movements before making content with him
The match was over. The horn sounded again. Cato stood alone. The winner of the tournament. After receiving the Golden Arrow, he returned to the inn in a hurry. His jaw was clenched tight, his steps heavy. He felt anger directed not at his opponent, but at himself. He had lost control. He had used the wind against another human.Horus sensed the turbulence in Cato's emotions they also rushed towards the inn.
Seeing Horus, his anger dulled.
"Shiel my wind element," Cato said suddenly.
The words came out sharp, but there was restraint behind them.
Horus looked at him. "You're certain?"
"If I keep relying on it," Cato said, eyes lowered, "I'll never grow as an archer."
Silence followed.
Then Horus nodded. "Very well."
Invisible currents shifted as Horus began sealing Cato's wind element. The pressure around Cato faded, leaving behind an unfamiliar heaviness. It felt wrong—like part of him had been muted.
Ziva frowned. "Doesn't that make him vulnerable?" she asked. "We still have to cross the Wailing Forest."
Horus didn't look up. "If we face true danger," he replied calmly, "I can release the seal instantly."
Victory had a cost.
The arena was behind them, but the forest ahead whispered of death, and every gust of wind seemed to carry a promise: not everyone would make it out alive.