Cian's POV:
I rolled aside, trying to dodge arrows that came straight at my legs, chest, and face.
"Woosh."
"Woosh."
The sounds hissed past me, sharp and relentless. I could hear them firing at a pace that strained my muscles and drained my stamina.
It was taxing on both my body and mind, but I wanted this. I chose this. I needed to train for situations where doom felt inevitable, where death itself seemed certain.
I blocked the incoming arrows from the right with my spear, dashed forward, and twisted sharply to intercept those whistling toward my back.
Arrows poured from every direction. Their numbers swelled until the sheer volume overwhelmed me, and two slipped past my guard, slamming into my right leg.
"Arghh," I grimaced, teeth clenched.
The arrows were blunt, but the pain they delivered was real, sharp enough that it felt as though I'd been pierced for true.
I glanced up at the screen.
8 hits.
2 minutes left.
I knew I wasn't strong enough yet to finish with zero hits. That much was obvious. But staring at the numbers only flared my irritation.
My thoughts flickered back, unbidden, to my supposed master—Thalen.
He was a strange existence to me. We weren't close. Not really. Yet I couldn't deny that I cared about him a little. Maybe it was the seal's work, or maybe it was truly me. Either way,
I swore I wouldn't let myself grow close to anyone.
I steadied my stance, spear in hand. Closing my eyes for a heartbeat, I muttered.
"Mind Lock."
The low-level skill narrowed my thoughts, filtering out the minor distractions. It didn't amplify my focus much, but it dulled the noise enough to be useful for someone like me—a low-ranker still clawing his way up.
My cold blue eyes snapped open, and I braced against the storm of arrows with newfound clarity. Four dummies stood in the four directions, their bows spitting shafts faster than my eyes could track, even with the skill active.
I dashed forward, spear ready. As if anticipating me, all four dummies adjusted their aim toward my path.
I had only two more hits left before failure and two minutes on the clock. Which would come first, I didn't know. But with Mind Lock active, I spared no thought for time or the tally of hits.
The spear whistled as it cut through the air, striking arrow after arrow. Some were cleaved cleanly, others only nicked. My body moved in drilled motions, muscles reacting before my mind could give the command.
One arrow slammed into my hand, nearly knocking the spear free. Pain flared white-hot, but the skill dulled the distraction just enough for me to keep my grip and steady my breathing.
Twenty seconds remained.
As the end drew near, the dummies loosed faster, with greater complexity. Pain gnawed at me, demanding attention, demanding surrender.
Without warning, I shot upward, my body propelled by a sudden burst of energy. Moments earlier, I had activated my elemental affinity—Water, condensing it beneath my feet. The concentration needed to shape it had cost me; that slip had let the arrow hit my hand. But when I released the pressure, it launched me high and fast enough to escape the barrage.
From above, another wave of arrows surged toward me, but my spear traced fluid arcs, deflecting them with practiced ease.
I landed hard, pain lancing through my mind as the toll of Mind Lock hit in full. My head pounded, unbearable, but the drive to complete the task burned hotter than the ache. My arms moved on instinct, spear weaving through the rain of arrows until the screen flashed new words in green:
Pass : (✓)
Grade: D-
I stared at the result without expression, though frustration twisted inside me. I knew I could have scored better. Seeing Thalen in that crazed state had distracted me, and that mistake had cost me.
I prided myself on my focus, but I wasn't arrogant enough to think I could maintain it forever or in every situation. That was why I had chosen Mind Lock as my first integrated skill. It had already proven itself useful. Not perfect, but useful.
And I wasn't one to wallow in mistakes. To me, dwelling on what was done was a waste of time. Better to ask: how it happened, why it happened, and how to avoid repeating it.
I tried to run through those thoughts now, but gave up as the pain from Mind Lock gnawed deeper. Gritting my teeth, I endured. Two minutes of use, and the backlash had left me reeling.
"I should use this skill moderately," I muttered as the ache finally began to fade.
Placing my spear back in the weapons rack, I dropped into my chair, the one I had personally commissioned from the Skyward Makers, a top artifact manufacturer with a franchise in Thalen's mall.
Crafted from a monster-class creature of the Dark Veil, the chair was inscribed with runes that healed and soothed. As they shimmered faintly, cool relief spread through my battered body.
My eyelids grew heavy. For once, I didn't resist. I let the darkness take me.
***
A seven-year-old boy with brown hair and bright blue eyes sat happily in his chair, wearing an old blue t-shirt and grey shorts. In his hands, he clutched a cone of chocolate ice cream that dripped messily onto his fingers. He didn't care; he licked the melting sweetness with a giggle.
" Hehe…" he chuckled, savoring each bite. His father had finally given in after months of begging and bought him the treat. Today was even more special, his father had brought him to tour the city. It was the boy's first time leaving the house, and everything he saw only fueled his curiosity about the world outside.
He had always wanted to go out, but his father had kept him inside, insisting he stay home to care for his two-year-old little brother. The boy didn't mind. His love for his brother was greater than his thirst to quench his curiosity. He trusted that one day his father would take him out, and today was that day.
Now, sitting in a quiet room, he ate his ice cream obediently while waiting for his father to finish some work. His father had left just moments ago.
"Little brother, you should grow faster and taste this, hehe…" he whispered, glancing at the basket beside him. His baby brother slept peacefully, chest rising and falling with each tiny breath.
The boy wanted nothing more than to cuddle him, to protect him. But he kept his distance, not wanting to smear chocolate on him.
The door creaked open.
His father stepped back inside. Brown hair, brown eyes, a yellow shirt, and blue jeans—ordinary, familiar. Yet his face was weary, as if one more step might send him collapsing into sleep.
Beside him entered a bald man in his mid-forties, his lips curled into a gracious smile. But to the boy, he felt that underneath it, there was something else.
The boy's stomach knotted. He didn't like the way the man looked at him.
Without a word, his father bent down, lifted the two-year-old from the basket, and turned toward the door.
The boy froze, ice cream still in hand. When his father walked out, he hurried to follow. But just as he reached the doorway, a firm grip seized his shoulder. The bald man's hand.
"You're staying here," the man said, his smile unchanging.
Confused, the boy looked to his father. For a brief moment, their eyes met. His father paused at the door, holding the younger child closer to his chest.
And then, in a cold, distant voice, he spoke:
"From now on, you are no longer a Brown."
The boy blinked, stunned.
"I'm not your father anymore," the man continued, cradling the baby tenderly while glaring at his eldest with a hardened gaze.
"You are just Cain. Not Cain Brown."