Watari looked at Kana.
She was radiant.
The way she drew her bow was like the wind—light, fluid, effortless.
But when she released her arrow, it struck like lightning. Sharp. Sudden. Final.
Her grace didn't feel human.
It felt borrowed from something divine—then trapped in a mortal frame.
And Watari—he'd always stood behind that line.
Watching from the edge.
Admiring.
Wishing.
But watching was no longer enough.
He adjusted his grip.
His bowstring quivered beneath his fingers.
Someday… I'll draw like her. And never miss.
Then came a voice—buzzing in his ear like an unwelcome fly.
Takumi.
"You couldn't even hit one, Watari.
Looks like your 'sensei' is more interested in the twins these days."
Watari didn't flinch.
His reply came cool, precise—like a blade honed silently over time.
"Your eyes are mistaken.
Sensei treats all of us the same."
Takumi let out a laugh.
Thin. Sharp. Condescending.
"Why do you still call him sensei?
He's only a year older than you."
Watari's gaze drifted toward the sky, where clouds moved like slow, silent memories.
"What does it matter?"
He spoke softly, but each word landed heavy.
"When everyone else saw me as useless…
he handed me a wooden sword.
He trained with me every single day.
Not once because he had to—
Only because he believed I could become something."
Takumi's tone darkened, mockery fading into something colder.
"Getting this attached to someone just
because they were kind once...
That's dangerous, Watari."
Watari didn't answer right away.
You say dangerous…
I say it's the first time someone looked at me like I mattered.
Then i said aloud:
"You think that because he flattened you on your second day in camp."
Takumi's jaw tightened. His pride had always been a thin shell.
His hand moved to his sword hilt—but he didn't draw.
"So little talent… and so much arrogance," he muttered.
"You don't fit in here."
He turned, voice trailing behind him like a thrown knife:
"The war's begun, Watari.
Let's see if your sensei can keep you alive."
Watari didn't move.
People like him would never understand what it meant to be built—not born—for battle.
Talent isn't everything.
But someone had understood.
Renji.
(Seven Years Ago)
His fingers were torn raw.
Not scraped.
Not bruised.
Bleeding.
The bow resisted him like it had a will of its own.
It bent. Shook. Snapped.
But Watari didn't let go.
His target stood ahead—a warped wooden plank, barely standing upright.
It felt distant as the stars.
And yet to him, it was a mirror.
Still. Unforgiving.
Then came a voice behind him—casual, taunting, but oddly curious.
"That was close."
Watari turned, scowling.
Behind him stood a tall, blond man, arms folded, smirking with interest.
"Don't you have anything better to do than mock kids?" Watari barked.
"I didn't say how close," the man replied.
"I meant the tree behind the target.
You almost hit that."
Watari narrowed his eyes.
"That wasn't my target."
The man's grin didn't fade.
"Then change it.
Hit the tree instead.
Start with something you can hit."
Watari blinked, then scoffed.
"That's not advice.
That's giving up before you even aim."
The man laughed again.
"Probably.
But it's better to hit something than nothing."
Hours passed.
The bow strained.
The arrows dropped like leaves in the wind.
His hands tore open.
Blood ran down his fingers, painting the soil with red streaks.
And yet—he didn't stop.
He didn't even feel the pain anymore.
The man stayed too.
Leaning against a broken fencepost, eyes sharp.
Watching like a shadow.
Weighing him.
"You can't even draw the bow anymore," the man said finally.
"Why don't you just quit?"
Watari didn't look up.
"You've been talking since you arrived.
Why don't you shut up?"
That made the man laugh.
Warm.
Surprised.
"Alright then," he said.
"Let's make a deal.
If you hit the target…
I'll shut up."
Another hour.
His blood now marked the soil.
But his eyes—still locked.
His arms—still steady.
His heart—still burning.
"Hey! That's enough!" the man shouted suddenly.
"Your hand's… bleeding!"
Watari turned his head slightly.
His voice was hoarse.
His body trembled.
But his words were calm:
"But I haven't hit the target yet."
The man blinked.
Something shifted in his face.
Not amusement.
Not interest.
Recognition.
He stepped forward. For the first time, his voice lost its sarcasm.
"What's your name, kid?"
Watari exhaled. Gave a faint, exhausted smile.
"Watari... Hino Watari."
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