Morning arrived earlier than expected, streaks of pale gold sliding across the ceiling as I stirred awake. My body felt lighter than yesterday—less burdened, less fractured. The heaviness that had gnawed at me after that first fight had dulled, replaced by something clearer.
Resolve.
I didn't linger in bed. The world outside was waiting, and I had promises to keep—if not to anyone else, then to myself. Pulling on a plain hoodie, I slipped out of the apartment and made my way to the place I had scouted the night before.
It wasn't far, just a few blocks from my building: a forgotten construction site tucked behind a row of half-finished apartments. Rusted beams stretched upward like skeletal fingers, and abandoned cement pillars stood like silent sentries. Perfect for practice.
I stepped into the clearing and drew a deep breath, the morning air crisp and sharp against my lungs. The silence was unbroken, save for the rustle of leaves and the faint buzz of a power line.
This was my arena. My temple.
I lifted my bow.
It manifested with a brilliance that never failed to take my breath away—pure gold, gleaming like sunlight trapped in form, weightless yet eternal in my grasp. Every time it appeared, it felt less like summoning a weapon and more like calling forth a part of myself.
My gaze fixed on a concrete pillar across the lot. Not far, not close. Perfect.
"I want to bind it," I whispered.
I pulled the string back, focusing on the image in my heart—not destruction, not fire unleashed without thought. I wanted the arrow to coil like a serpent, to wrap and hold, to restrain instead of obliterate.
The arrow formed instantly, its flames alive and waiting. I released.
The fire streaked forward, and just as I had imagined, it twisted in midair, lengthening into a rope of living flame. It coiled around the pillar with a hiss, tightening until the stone cracked under the heat.
The pillar trembled but didn't fall. Bound. Controlled. Exactly as I had willed it.
I exhaled slowly, a foul breath escaping like I'd expelled the last remnants of yesterday's gloom. A faint smile tugged at my lips. First try, and it worked. Of course it did—this wasn't trial and error. This bow, this Astra, it was bound to my soul. It knew me, and I knew it.
I practiced again and again, for nearly an hour. Each release was sharper, cleaner, faster. The ropes wrapped tighter, burned brighter, moved smoother. By the end, the practice ground bore marks of scorched cement and lingering heat, but my chest felt lighter than ever.
The depression, the doubt, the fear—they had no place left in me.
I was ready.
By the time I returned home, sweat clung to my skin, but my mind was sharp and fresh. The shower washed away the grime of practice, and I stepped out renewed, toweling my hair dry.
School? Not today. Not when the real lessons of this world were waiting beyond textbooks.
I sat on the couch, thinking, weighing possibilities.
If I wanted to appear in public, I needed an identity. Something to separate me from the boy who walked school halls with Peter Parker. Something to hide behind.
A mask. A suit.
I chuckled softly at the thought. Iron Man had his armor, Captain America his shield, Spider-Man his webs. And me? I didn't need their help. My bow and Kavach were more than enough.
Still, a mask—something simple, something practical—that would be necessary. A suit could come later.
I leaned back, lost in thought. The television played in the background, showing flickers of some morning news, but I barely heard it. My focus was on the world I was stepping into, the world where heroes rose and fell, where every choice would ripple outward.
Then it happened.
A sharp crack split the air.
The sound was unmistakable—a gunshot.
The window exploded inward, glass shattering into glittering shards that caught the morning light like falling stars.
Time slowed.
The bullet whistled through the air, aimed straight at my heart.
But before it could even graze me, light erupted. The Kavach appeared—golden, radiant, divine. The bullet struck it dead-center and folded like paper, dropping harmlessly to the floor with a dull clang.
My breath caught, not in fear, but in realization.
I wasn't alone.
My head snapped toward the opposite building. A figure crouched low on a rooftop, rifle raised, black clothing blending into the concrete.
A sniper.
He had aimed for my heart. He had intended to kill me.
The bow manifested in my hand with a flash of sunlight, responding to my rage as though it too had been waiting. I rose from the couch, shards of glass crunching underfoot.
The sniper moved, scrambling to flee across the rooftop.
Not today.
I pulled the string, fire coiling along the golden arc. The arrow blazed brighter, hotter, transforming as I released it—not into a straight shot, but into a rope of flame.
It streaked across the gap between buildings and struck true, wrapping around the sniper's torso before he could vanish from sight. The rope tightened, dragging him down mid-stride. His rifle clattered uselessly to the ground as he struggled against the burning bonds.
I didn't hesitate.
Without thought, I climbed onto the window frame, glass biting faintly at my shoes. One deep breath, and I leapt.
The air rushed past, sharp and cold, as I landed on the opposite ledge, bow still in hand.
The sniper writhed, bound in fire that seared but did not consume. His masked face turned toward me, eyes wide behind the goggles. Panic had replaced confidence.
I straightened, each step deliberate as I walked toward him across the rooftop.
For the first time, it wasn't just training.
It wasn't just imagination.
This was real—
and it was mine to control.