The moment the dust began to settle inside the ruined apartment, the air hung thick with tension, crackling like static before a storm.

The walls were barely standing, splintered and cracked, gaping holes in the foundation letting in slivers of light from the ruined city outside.

The shattered ground still echoed with the memories of destruction, and yet it was not finished. Not yet.

Vonjo, blood splattered across his pale face like war paint, stood in the middle of the rubble, his breath even, his madness still coiled behind a mask of calm.

Around him, the figures began to reform—an army reborn not of flesh, but of memory and curse.

The Sand Man had reanimated again, tall and grainy, his body flowing like a sentient dune, fragments of bone and dust swirling around him like a storm trapped in human shape.

Around him, the Reanimations rose—some twitching with puppet-like rigidity, others more fluid, conscious, eyes gleaming with flickers of former souls.

Vonjo didn't hesitate.

Without a word, he moved—lazily, almost mockingly.

His fingers twitched, and an arrow of shadow was born from his palm, stretching into full form as if stitched together from the void. He loosed it.

The arrow zipped through the air, a blur of dark intent—but the Sand Man merely tilted his head, letting the projectile pass through a soft section of his chest where it dissolved harmlessly.

A faint chuckle slithered from his throat, like sand sliding through a glass funnel.

Vonjo's second arrow came faster, sharper, curving mid-air like it had a will of its own. But the Sand Man snapped a finger, and one of the Reanimations leapt into its path, head tilting just enough for the arrow to graze by without harm. Another laugh. Vonjo narrowed his eyes.

He sent three more in rapid succession, now shifting his footing—each one aimed with pinpoint intent, yet each one missing by slivers, ducked or sidestepped or absorbed like pebbles thrown into water.

The Sand Man clapped slowly, mocking. One of the conscious Reanimations, a tall skeletal figure with a chained jaw, smirked as he dodged another arrow by merely leaning back, motion smooth, relaxed.

"Having trouble, hunter?" the Sand Man taunted, his voice rippling through the air like a desert breeze.

Vonjo said nothing. He kept firing.

Again. And again. And again. Dozens of arrows sang through the air like a chorus of wrath—but none found their mark.

Some whistled past the Sand Man's face, others cracked into walls, and some seemed designed just to test reflexes.

Yet every single one was met with laughter. The Sand Man swayed and danced with fluid mockery, like a drunk maestro orchestrating a symphony of ridicule.

"Pitiful," the Sand Man sneered. "You fight like a man desperate to prove he still matters."

But Vonjo's grin, subtle and almost boyish, crept onto his face. His posture loosened, shoulders relaxing, eyes gleaming with a wild clarity.

"I'm just warming up," he whispered.

Then the real storm began.

Vonjo's arrows started to shift.

The rhythm broke—no longer predictable.

One shot would dart like lightning, then the next would arc in a lazy spiral, then suddenly split into three midway, then vanish mid-flight and reappear from another angle.

The battlefield became a chaotic dancefloor, and Vonjo was leading the steps.

The Sand Man's smirk twitched.

One arrow slammed into a Reanimation's leg—not strong enough to destroy, but enough to stagger it.

Another grazed the Sand Man's shoulder—not harmful, but enough to sting. Then came the feints: arrows that looked powerful but dissolved like ash upon contact; others that looked weak but hit with a blast force, knocking debris into the air. Patterns broke, reformed, collapsed again.

The Reanimations could no longer move with ease. They began missing beats. Their steps grew clumsy.

The Sand Man hissed. "Don't stop! Don't stop moving!" he barked to the others.

But it was too late.

Vonjo was laughing now, eyes blazing like twin stars, his presence growing larger, heavier, more monstrous with every second.

He wasn't attacking—he was dissecting, breaking apart their defenses, testing every weakness, pushing every nerve to the brink.

"Where's your confidence now?" Vonjo shouted, stepping forward, arms loose at his side, more arrows materializing behind his back like wings of death. "Is this all your old relics can muster? Hiding behind sand and shame?"

The next barrage came faster, more chaotic—some arrows blurred so violently they bent the air behind them, creating ripples like heat mirages.

Others crawled through the air slowly, almost mockingly, then darted at the last second. One spun in the air like a drill. One whistled a high-pitched hum. It was madness—a storm of attacks, each one crafted with maddening irregularity.

The Reanimations faltered. One stepped into the path of an arrow that seemed harmless, only for it to explode in blinding light.

Another tried to intercept one that glowed dimly—only for it to pass through like a phantom, then curve back into its skull.

The Sand Man's calm was gone. He barked orders like a commander in retreat, shouting, gesturing, swearing under his breath as he watched his creations struggle.

The air around him thickened with tension, and even the swirling sands around his form began to falter, stuttering in their movement.

Vonjo didn't stop.

He spun, danced, leapt across the ruined floor, each motion producing another unpredictable shot.

He'd fake a draw, pause, then release two arrows with opposite curves.

Some arrows formed behind him and fired backward. Some hovered and delayed before shooting forward with devastating speed.

Then, without warning—one arrow, quiet, sleek, and almost plain-looking, sailed through the chaos.

There was no light, no sound, no sharp bend to its path. It didn't explode. It didn't scream. It simply flew.

And it struck.

The Reanimation—a conscious one, with jagged teeth and a skeletal face—had been watching too many other arrows. It didn't see this one. The arrow pierced through its temple cleanly, no resistance, no warning.

A breathless second passed.

Then—crack.

Its head exploded like brittle glass, shards of bone and cursed essence scattering into the air, and its body collapsed like a marionette with cut strings.

Silence fell, thick and absolute.

Vonjo stopped moving. His arms lowered. His face returned to that calm, eerie neutrality.

The Sand Man stared at the broken corpse of his Reanimation, the first true casualty since the assault began.

Vonjo exhaled.

And smiled.

"Now, now, now, now," he murmured, 'donr be scared,' voice like distant thunder, "it's your turn soon."

The sand man staggered backward, arms trembling, his once-smirking expression now locked into a silent grimace of disbelief.

The desert wind that had once obeyed him, dancing at his fingertips, no longer seemed eager to heed his call.

Around him, the apartment-turned-battlefield was now nothing but a shattered wasteland—walls demolished, windows shattered, furniture turned to splinters, floors reduced to cracked concrete and smoke-filled air.

Rubble crunched underfoot, glass sparkled like fallen stars, and the very air sizzled with the lingering hum of cursed energy.

Vonjo stood in the center of it all, his figure bathed in the blue glow of his cursed arrows, each one thrumming with volatile energy.

His breathing was steady now, controlled, his expression neither smug nor angry—just focused.

There was no hint of the earlier frustration, none of the awkward stiffness from his initial attacks. Only precision. Only calm.

A Reanimation—once proud, grinning with confidence—lurched forward to strike. But it never got the chance.

With a whisper of air and a flick of Vonjo's wrist, an arrow blurred through space, faster than the eye could track.

It pierced through the Reanimation's stomach, cleanly, before detonating in a shockwave of concussive cursed energy.

The explosion sent its torso flying backward, only for its upper half to collapse midair into smoke and ash before it ever hit the ground.

"That's the third one," Vonjo murmured, almost to himself.

"Stop him!" the sand man screamed, voice cracking now—no longer composed, no longer amused. His once-slouching posture had vanished; now, he pointed frantically, sweat streaking down his brow despite the dusty wind swirling around him. "He's targeting their cores! Don't let him near the cores!"

But it was too late.

Another flash of blue. Another arrow spiraled through the smoke-filled air. This one curved midflight—impossibly so—twisting like a serpent toward a Reanimation who had tried to leap sideways. The creature's smirk faded as the arrow embedded into its shoulder.

There was a delay—just a second. Then the cursed seal lit up.

The explosion this time didn't just blast flesh—it incinerated. Bones, fragments of armor, even the echoes of a soul were all swept into the ether. The sand man's eyes widened as he felt that spiritual connection sever—cut like a thread by scissors.

"No… no, no, no—!" he barked, stumbling back.

Vonjo raised another arrow. "You're next," he said coldly, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade.

"You were struggling just moments ago!" the sand man roared. "This doesn't make sense!"

"I told you," Vonjo replied, drawing the string back with a hum of cursed pressure that shook the air, "I was just warming up."

He let the arrow loose.

But this one didn't aim for a body—it struck the floor, detonating with enough force to create a shockwave that knocked the remaining Reanimations off their feet.

The sand man was forced to shield his eyes as dust and debris burst upward in a geyser of force.

Coughing and disoriented, one Reanimation scrambled to its feet—only for another arrow to strike its leg, pinning it in place.

It tried to pull itself free, clawing at the cursed energy burning through its limb, but the effort was futile.

Then came the sound again—that deep, vibrating string as Vonjo unleashed three arrows in succession.

One hit the creature's chest, the second its abdomen, and the third—just as it lifted its head to scream—punched through its skull, severing its connection instantly.

Its body folded like paper and disintegrated into dust.

"Four down," Vonjo muttered.

The sand man's hands shook. "Why now? Why are they falling so easily?! You were flailing before! Why?!"

Vonjo narrowed his eyes as another cursed arrow materialized in his grip. "Because you underestimated how much I adapt."

He fired again. And again.

The arrows no longer flew in straight lines. Some looped mid-air like erratic comets, some curved upward before raining down like divine punishment.

Some glowed like lanterns, others flickered weakly—just to bait dodges. One even split in midair into five shards, each targeting a different limb of a Reanimation.

"This… this isn't normal!" the sand man growled, staggering backward. "This isn't just cursed energy—this is technique. You're cheating! This is—"

"—strategy," Vonjo finished for him. "You've relied on being overwhelming for too long. You've never had to actually dodge."

As if to prove his point, another Reanimation leapt sideways—only to collide with a fake arrow, a projection made from cursed illusion.

The real one came from below, piercing upward through its chin and exploding out the top of its skull. It stood frozen for a second, eyes wide and blank, before collapsing.

"Five," Vonjo said under his breath.

The last two Reanimations hesitated now. The smirks were gone. No swagger, no superiority. Just confusion—and fear.

"You can't win!" the sand man shouted. "My puppets are eternal! Reanimated! They have no fear, no fatigue—"

"They had confidence," Vonjo cut him off. "And now they're afraid."

He raised another arrow, cursed energy now warping the space around him. The air crackled, thin currents of electricity slithering down the shaft. But his brow twitched.

He felt it.

The absence.

He looked down. His quiver was empty.

His grip faltered for a split second as his hand reached back, grasping only air.

The battlefield was silent now, save for the distant wind and the labored breathing of the sand man.

Vonjo slowly lowered his arm, eyes narrowing.

The sand man noticed. His lips parted. "No more arrows…?" he said, almost disbelieving.

Vonjo didn't answer. He looked at the sand man, calculating. His pulse still thundered in his ears, the leftover echoes of the cursed energy still vibrating along his spine, but his breath was steady.

He had pushed too far—too fast.

But five Reanimations were down.

And now, it was just him, the sand man, and two.

Even with no arrows, the fear was already rooted in their eyes.

The sand man's voice cracked. "You're… out?"