There was no light.
Only a vast, devouring darkness.
He was falling—or perhaps being dragged—toward a terrifying presence at the center of existence. A black hole, immense and absolute, swallowed everything: light, matter, even meaning itself.
The moment he crossed its boundary, the world shattered.
Time broke apart.
In a single instant, he lived and saw countless lives. He was born, he died, and he was reborn again and again. He witnessed civilizations rise and fall, stars ignite and fade, worlds collapse into dust. Past and future overlapped, twisting together in endless distortion.
Space warped violently.
It felt as though his body was being torn apart, pierced by millions of shards of invisible glass. Every fragment of his existence screamed in agony. His soul was stretched, crushed, and ground between collapsing dimensions.
Pain beyond comprehension.
He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth.
He wanted to escape, but time itself was his prison.
Then—
Warmth.
A gentle pressure touched him from behind.
A hand.
The moment it rested against him, the pain vanished.
Instantly.
The black hole dissolved.
Time still stands.
Space calmed.
Soft, trembling light flooded his awareness. Before him appeared the face of a woman—beautiful and gentle, her expression filled with relief and joy. She wore a flowing bright red dress, her smile warm enough to erase all terror.
He did not understand what was happening.
The visions of life and death faded like mist beneath sunlight. The memories slipped away before he could grasp them.
But something remained.
Awareness.
He realized—slowly, instinctively—that he was being held.
Cradled.
Protected.
He was in the arms of his mother.
Though he could not remember the shattered visions of time and space, his fragile newborn body held a clarity far beyond instinct. Not memories. Not knowledge.
Perception.
An awareness beyond common people.
The woman tightened her embrace, her heartbeat steady and comforting. Within her womb—and now within her arms—time itself had grown gentle.
Morning mist clung to the village like a thin veil.
Beyond the small wooden house, an open training ground echoed with the creaking of bows and strained breathing.
A tall man stood at its center, holding a simple wooden bow. His posture was straight and unshakable, like an ancient tree rooted deep in the earth.
This was Wilson.
Among the surrounding regions, he was known as Wilson the Great Archer.
Several youths stood before him, bows trembling in their hands.
"Straighten your hands," Wilson said calmly.
His voice carried no anger, yet none dared disobey.
"Do not grip the bow like a weapon. Let it rest naturally. Your grip guides the arrow—force only blinds it."
He stepped forward and corrected a student's posture.
"Now stretch the bow," he continued. "Use only a little spiritual energy. Control matters more than strength."
The students nodded nervously.
"An archer does not fight the arrow," Wilson said. "He becomes its path."
He lifted his bow.
The moment his fingers touched the string, the air changed.
A calm ripple of spiritual energy spread outward. The wooden bow bent smoothly, without strain.
He aimed—not at a target—but toward a distant mountain.
Inside the house, the newborn lay quietly in his mother's arms.
His clear eyes followed the movement unconsciously.
Line. Angle. Direction.
Wilson released.
The string snapped.
The arrow vanished.
A heartbeat later—
BOOOOM!
A thunderous explosion echoed from the mountain. Birds scattered into the sky as stones tumbled down the cliffside. A visible shockwave rippled through the mist.
The students stared in disbelief.
"That was… a wooden arrow…" one whispered.
Wilson lowered his bow calmly.
"Remember," he said, "technique tempers strength. Without control, power is nothing but noise."
Inside the house, the baby remained silent.
But for the briefest instant, time replayed the arrow's path within his awareness, and space aligned itself to that memory.
Not as a recollection.
But as understanding.
The mother smiled softly, holding him closer.
"Our child will grow strong," she whispered.
She did not know how true those words were.