Vonjo crouched behind a shattered pillar on the third floor of the crumbling apartment complex, sweat trickling down his jawline, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

His bow—an obsidian longbow laced with silver etchings and blood-red runes—hummed with raw energy, alive in his grip.

Wind howled through broken windows, lifting dust and sand into miniature storms. Shadows danced across the broken tiles and fragmented walls as the battle raged on in the confined, decaying building.

"HEY, OLD DUSTBAG!" Vonjo shouted with manic glee, standing just long enough for a silhouette to appear in the corner of a window before disappearing again with a rapid twang of his bowstring. "What's the matter? Can't take a few shots from the Era's best archer?! You dodging on reflex or fear?! Maybe both, huh?!"

The arrow tore through the air, sharp and searing, exploding against the far wall with a radiant flash that sent a wave of shock through the hallway.

The Sand Man—tall, robed in what looked like ancient desert wraps turned spectral—dissolved into a flow of sand just before the projectile could hit him, skimming sideways across the ceiling before reforming atop a broken beam.

"You shout like a boy, yet shoot like a veteran," the Sand Man said with a dry, echoing voice. "Such arrogance. Such noise. You remind me of the war generals of the Shifting Dune Wars—brash, bold, and dead before winter."

"Wow! Thanks for the compliment, antique!" Vonjo ducked behind a cracked wall again, only to emerge from a completely different hole above, firing two arrows at once—one aimed at the feet, the other arcing to the left where he guessed the Sand Man's evasion might end. "But unlike your generals, I don't lose wars. I START them!"

He let out a wild laugh, gleeful, defiant, full of chaotic rhythm that bounced against the concrete.

His boots thudded softly as he shifted position again, using one of the many arrow-made crawl holes he'd riddled into the building's shell.

Up, down, left, right—he never stayed still, never emerged from the same spot twice.

"Tch," the Sand Man exhaled, narrowly missing a piercing shot aimed directly for his chest. "Your arrogance, I don't know if it's earned or is not earned, boy. But you act as though time is your ally, but I see it clearly—you haven't tasted the weight of centuries. You haven't yet forgotten your loved ones' names through the sands of time. You've not watched cities you built crumble beneath empires that didn't exist when you were born."

"Sounds boring!" Vonjo's voice echoed from behind another wall, followed by the sound of an arrow ricocheting against a pipe and then splitting into three fragments mid-air.

Each fragment bore glowing red inscriptions, forcing the Sand Man to shift forms yet again. "Also, are you always this preachy?! No wonder nobody wrote legends about you. You sound like a bedtime story no one asked for!"

The Sand Man landed softly on a balcony rail, unmoved by the barrage. "I am not here to entertain. I am a guardian of the seals. Your tongue lashes like a whip, but words do not make warriors, child."

Vonjo's eyes gleamed as he crouched behind a collapsed ceiling beam, now above the Sand Man without him knowing.

He steadied his breath, letting his fingers draw back the bowstring to its full extent. This time, the arrow glowed green, laced with a spell of silent speed.

"You keep calling me child," Vonjo muttered with a grin. "But you keep running from my shots like you're afraid of playground bullies."

He released. The arrow vanished into thin air, soundless.

The Sand Man jerked his head, catching the flicker too late. A strand of golden sand broke from his body as the arrow grazed him—a cut not deep, but deliberate. He looked down, surprised.

Then… he chuckled.

It wasn't mockery. It was... admiration.

"You have achieved something rare," the Sand Man said, pausing for the first time mid-fight. "Your arrows don't just fly with intent… they deceive. You hide killing blows beneath patterns of distraction. You use lesser shots to lead, not to land. Each movement, each sound, each misfire—was not a mistake, but a message. You do not shoot arrows. You compose symphonies."

Vonjo blinked. "Huh. That's the fanciest thing anyone's ever said about me trying to murder them."

The Sand Man stepped down from the balcony slowly, reforming fully as a man of shifting dust and ancient wisdom. "I have fought bowmen who trained in the lost temples of Olikhar. I've battled the sharpshooters of the Amber Vales, whose arrows bend with thought. But you… you have something neither of them had. A terrifying, chaotic elegance."

Vonjo leaned against a wall, out of sight again, his body half-suspended through one of his crawl holes. "Alright, gramps. You're creeping me out. You're either gonna fight or propose."

"But you are young," the Sand Man continued, voice solemn now. "Too young. The full mastery of archery—the true path—takes lifetimes. To trick the senses, manipulate trajectory, measure every angle and wind current while in battle? That takes centuries. And yet, here you are."

A beat of silence.

Vonjo's voice called out lazily from another broken window, his tone playful but curious. "So… what gave me away? The arrows, or the godlike style?"

"The lesser arrows," the Sand Man said, closing his eyes. "They were never meant to kill. They were chaff, smoke, noise—yet precisely placed. You fired with rhythm, spacing, patterns only a master would understand. You sacrificed power for utility. And in every movement, you baited me. Even a single mistake, and I'd have died minutes ago. Were I not from another life… I would have."

Vonjo let out a low whistle. "Sheesh. You really were watching. I thought all that sand in your brain meant you were just winging it."

"In my last life, I led a division against the Skyborn Assassins. They used techniques similar to yours. But not as refined. Not with this level of instinct. You... you shoot like a man who's died shooting before."

Vonjo slowly emerged from his hiding spot, finally revealing himself atop a tilted staircase beam. He stood tall, bow slung across his chest, arms folded, eyes glinting.

"Really now, old man?"

He knew the history. Vonjo had read enough about these relics—ancient warriors from lost timelines, reawakened in this one. Some were gods. Some were horrors. Some were scholars. All of them were nightmares to deal with. And all of them respected one thing above all: mastery.

He wouldn't tell the Sand Man the truth, not yet. But even among the old records, true mastery in a trainable skill was so rare that it could reshape cities, influence bloodlines, and grant titles to kings.

So Vonjo just smiled and let the moment stretch.

The Sand Man inclined his head slightly, his sandy form shifting respectfully. "Then… warrior of this Era of Prophecy, I ask respectfully. At what age… did you master the bow?"

A hush fell across the building.

Vonjo stepped forward, wind brushing his cloak, his smirk widening as the shadows danced over his face.

"Well," he said with a devil-may-care grin, eyes shining, "I'm only twenty-seven years old."