[Lyra POV]

Twang.

An arrow of pure green wind mana hissed through the air, cutting a perfect line through the falling leaves.

It struck the target, a small wooden fruit hung three hundred meters away, dead center.

Splat.

The fruit exploded.

"Too loud," Lyra whispered, her ears twitching in irritation.

She stood on the highest branch of the World Tree, thousands of feet above the ground.

Here, the wind didn't just blow; it screamed. The air was thin, cold, and biting. It was the only place she could think.

Twang.

Another arrow. Another hit.

"Too bright."

She frowned, looking at the lingering trail of neon green light the arrow left behind.

To any other elf, her archery was perfection. She was a 4th Order Ranger, capable of hitting a mosquito's wing from a kilometer away. But to Lyra, every shot felt… wrong.

Ever since the Slaver Fortress, the wind didn't feel the same.

When she summoned her mana, it didn't feel light and breezy like it used to. It felt heavy.

It felt cold. It was as if the anger she felt back then, the rage of seeing her squad in cages, had permanently stained her core.

"Focus," she scolded herself. "You are a Royal Ranger. You are light. You are nature."

She drew the string back again, trying to force the mana to be bright and cheerful.

"You're trying too hard."

A voice drifted from the branch above her.

Lyra spun around, drawing her mana bow instantly. An arrow formed, aimed at the intruder.

Damien was sitting on a higher branch, legs dangling over the terrifying drop, eating a glowing blue apple.

He wasn't wearing his noble clothes; he was dressed in a simple black training tunic, sweating slightly from his own training.

"Reflexes are good," Damien noted, taking a bite of the apple.

"But I heard your bowstring tighten before you even moved. If I were an assassin, you'd be dead."

Lyra lowered the bow, letting the mana dissipate.

"And if I were serious, you wouldn't have heard anything," she retorted, though her heart was pounding.

"What do you want, kid? I thought you were busy getting beaten up by the Queen."

"I finished early," Damien shrugged. He dropped down, landing silently beside her.

"And Isabelle is busy eating mana in the training yard. So I came to check on my Sniper."

He walked to the edge of the branch, looking out at the endless canopy of the Elven Forest.

"You've been up here for three days, Lyra. The Queen says you're trying to force your archery back to what it was. Why?"

"Because it's broken," Lyra snapped, frustration leaking into her voice. She held up her hand, summoning a small swirl of wind.

"My mana… it feels heavy. Ever since Gravestone, when I try to use the 'Breath of the Forest' technique, it fights me. It's not sharp anymore. It's… dull."

"It's not dull," Damien corrected, turning to face her. "It's dense."

He leaned against the trunk, crossing his arms.

"You aren't the same elf who left the forest, Lyra. You saw the ugliness of the world. You felt rage. You wanted to kill."

Lyra flinched. "That was a mistake. I almost lost control."

"Was it?" Damien smirked. "Or did you just finally see the world for what it is?"

He held out his hand.

"Shadow Magic."

Black smoke curled from his fingers, forming a small, spinning dagger. It didn't reflect light; it swallowed it.

"The Elves teach you that wind is freedom. Lightness. Breath. That's fine for a scout."

Damien tossed the shadow dagger. It didn't make a sound. It cut through the air like a phantom, disappearing into the bark of the tree trunk ten meters away without a whisper.

"But wind also carries the storm," Damien said softly. "And shadows travel faster than light because they are already there."

Lyra looked at the shadow dagger buried deep in the wood. It hadn't made a sound.

"You want me to use… darkness?"

"But as an elf, I don't have the affinity for that.

Hearing this, Damien shook his head.

"I want you to stop fighting yourself," Damien said. "You have a talent, Lyra. A talent for the kill. That 'heavy' feeling in your mana isn't a defect. It's intent."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a coaching tone.

"Don't try to shoot an arrow of light. Light gets seen. Light gets blocked."

He pointed at the target fruit in the distance.

"Shoot an arrow that becomes the air. Invisible. Silent. Deadly."

Lyra hesitated.

She closed her eyes. She felt for that cold, jagged feeling she had been suppressing, the trauma, the anger, the heaviness.

Usually, she pushed it down, trying to purify it. This time, she pulled it up.

She mixed it with the wind.

Vwoom.

The air around her changed. The glowing green light of her mana dimmed, turning a deep, dark emerald, almost invisible against the forest backdrop.

The high-pitched whine of the wind died down, suffocated by heavy pressure.

A bow formed in her hand. But it wasn't the bright, translucent construct she usually used. It was dark, hazy, like heat shimmering off pavement.

She pulled the string.

There was no hum. No vibration. Just silence.

An arrow formed. It wasn't made of light. It was made of compressed, vacuum-like wind. It distorted the view behind it.

"Target," Damien whispered.

Lyra opened her eyes. They were still blue, but they were cold. Focused.

She released.

Phwip.

There was no sound of travel. One moment, the arrow was on the string; the next, it was gone.

Three hundred meters away, the wooden fruit target didn't explode.

It simply vanished.

A clean, circular hole appeared in the tree trunk behind it, piercing through five meters of solid wood as if it weren't there. The arrow dissolved into mist on the other side.

"..."

Lyra lowered the bow, staring at her hands. Her heart was racing.

"It didn't resist," she whispered. "The wind… it moved for me."

"Phantom Arrow," Damien named it, nodding in approval.

"Although this was a technique she would discover and use in the future, it doesn't hurt teaching her now", he thought

Shamelessly claiming the credit, he continued to guide her.

"Wind for speed. Density for penetration. No shield can block what it can't detect."

He looked at her.

"You don't need to be a 'pure' elf to be strong, Lyra. Sometimes, the world needs a shadow to hunt the monsters."

Lyra clenched her fist. The dark emerald mana swirled obediently around her fingers. It didn't feel wrong anymore. It felt like a weapon.

She looked at Damien. He wasn't asking for an oath. He wasn't forcing a contract. He was just giving her the key to her own power.

"You talk like a villain, Kid," Lyra murmured, a small, complicated smile playing on her lips. "But your advice works."

"I'm just practical," Damien grinned. "We leave soon. I need my Sniper to be ready."

He turned to leave, waving over his shoulder.

"Rest up. Tomorrow, we'll go see how our tank is doing."

Lyra watched him go. She looked back at the hole in the tree trunk.

She raised her hand, summoning the dark wind again. It felt natural now.

'Phantom Arrow... I like the sound of that.'

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.