“Nock. Aim. Release.”

  Once my mother and her myriad clones left the room, leaving my uncle alone, his demeanor shifted entirely. No longer the eccentric, mad scientist I’d grown up with, he became an unforgiving drill instructor. His intensity matched my mother’s, and then some. Every five seconds, he drilled into me the importance of bowmanship: posture, focus, and technique. When my form faltered, he didn’t simply guide me through the correction—he took control. My body became a marionette in his hands, the string pulled taut as he adjusted me, shifting my stance, forcing my arms into alignment, and manipulating my posture until it was how he desired it.

  Still, every shot was worse than the last. The arrows were scattered, uncontrolled. Some landed too far left, others veered right. The majority missed the target entirely, leaving only a single arrow lodged in the center—a two, out of forty-five attempts. A full quiver, and only one hit. My frustration boiled over.

  “Your form is correct,” my uncle muttered, his tone clipped, almost distant. “But your body resents the standard draw of the Alliance of Free Cities. If you were back in the day, though, it would be different…”

  His voice trailed off, but I bit down on the hook, curiosity piqued. “Why would it be easier then?”

  He seemed to consider for a moment before responding. “There’s an old saying. If you want a proficient archer, start with the grandfather.” He grunted, clearly irritated. “To slay Others—the hostile visitors from the Otherrealms—we use crossbows, instead of bows. Easier to train. Easier to produce. Easier to fire. Archery, though, is a tradition. It makes anyone who uses a bow… more capable.” He paused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “The Technocrats to the west have something even more advanced than rifles—something involving compressed mana into an optical pulse. It’s beyond me. But to them, archery? They’d be more pathetic at it than you are now.”

  The sting of his words hit me like a physical blow. To be called pathetic, especially in the one skill that resonated with me the most, left a bitter taste in my mouth. My confidence plummeted. But before I could voice my frustration, the card knight—still at my side—moved without my prompting. It collected the scattered arrows and returned them to me, offering a bow in exchange.

  “You realize how strange it is that you have that much control over a machina you’ve only just bonded with, right?” my uncle asked, eyeing the knight with a touch of disbelief.

  “I didn’t tell it to do that. It just did.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you broke four arrows. Leaving you with forty-one. Drop one and you’ll have an even forty. But this time, I’m going to show you a second form of the draw.”

  A shiver ran down my spine, anticipation mixing with dread. I could already feel the strain in my muscles, a warning of the effort to come. My uncle’s methods were unorthodox, and I knew the pain would follow shortly. Without saying another word, he approached, his expression unreadable. He held something in his hand: a ring.

  Sliding it onto my right thumb, I felt its weight settle comfortably, as if it belonged there. I glanced at my uncle, his face set with determination, and braced myself for whatever came next.

  Having my bodily autonomy seized once again, I could feel my right hand moving against my will. My thumb and forefinger locked together in a perfect circle. The sensation was surreal, as though my body was acting on its own accord, the movement both foreign and familiar. My uncle’s grip on my actions was absolute, forcing me to release the circle, to let my hand fall into a more natural position. Slowly, methodically, I drew an arrow from my quiver, the process deliberate and precise.

  With a fluid motion, I lifted the bow, allowing the string to stretch taut, before sliding my thumb back into place. The bow’s curve felt different now, the weight of the arrow more present. I drew it back further than I had before, my thumb guiding the string back with a satisfying tension. The moment the string released, a loud twang echoed in the air.

  “Did you feel that?” My uncle’s voice broke through the haze of my concentration. “That was you releasing with the thumb draw, while channeling mana directly into the ring. You lack the necessary back muscles for the standard draw, so we’re using a miasma accumulator in the thumb ring to force the release.”

  Feel it? The results spoke for themselves. The arrow flew true, landing squarely on the target. A clean, perfect shot. Seven points.

  I stared at the bullseye, the arrow wedged firmly in place, still vibrating from the force of the release. It felt like a small victory—something so simple, but the result was undeniable. One arrow, one shot, and already I was hitting a seven. The impact of the technique was immediate and, to my surprise, effective. The frustration that had simmered within me, slowly being ground down by my uncle's relentless drills, was now replaced by a flicker of satisfaction.

  “Not bad,” I muttered to myself, though my voice still felt strange, distant. This wasn’t my normal skill, not yet. The thumb ring, the forced method, was new, but it had made all the difference. My body may not have been ready for the traditional way, but I’d found a new path forward.

  Uncle Rodrick, despite his gruff exterior, gave a barely perceptible nod of approval, though it was quickly masked by his next words. “Don’t get cocky. One shot doesn’t mean you’re a master.” His gaze flickered back to the bow in my hand, assessing me. “But it’s a start. Keep going. Nock. Aim. Release.”

  ***

  It wasn’t until nightfall that the drill instructor finally allowed me to rest. My thumb ached from the repeated draws, my lungs burned with every breath, and my back felt as if it were going to seize up completely. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, but my uncle showed no mercy, pushing me harder with each passing minute. The only reason he finally relented was because I ran out of mana to empower the miasma accumulator. I had nothing left to give.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The Machina, now dormant, lay flat in my hand, its form embedded back into the playing card. I absentmindedly touched the card, feeling the familiar surge of power that resonated deep within me. As my fingers brushed against it, an unfamiliar sensation washed over me, as if the essence of the card, and the entity it contained, was pouring into me.

  I gazed at the card, watching as the faint outline of the Machina shimmered beneath the surface. The text on the card changed before my eyes, revealing new details.

  Name: Unregistered

  Type: Card Knight: Joker

  Registered User: Alexander Duarte

  Soul Realm: 1-1

  Registered Skills: [N/A]

  It was clear that I was nowhere near unlocking its full potential. The skillset, or lack thereof, was still hidden, waiting for me to reach deeper, to push further, before its true power could be revealed. I stared at the blank spaces, feeling the weight of what I hadn’t yet discovered.

  How many Walkers had their own Machina before their exam? The question escaped me before I realized it, a thought idly forming in my mind.

  To my surprise, the Machina responded.

  One in seven.

  The answer didn’t come as a voice but as a thought, a direct transmission of information. I could see it—fragments of data flashing before my eyes, visualizing the crystal network, the complex web of miasma-powered devices that spanned the continent. The communication highways, the flows of energy, all connected in a vast, intricate system. The Machina had automatically retrieved the query and presented the answer, as though it were part of me.

  I froze, my heart racing.

  Are my thoughts private?

  The question lingered, hanging in the air like an unspoken truth. A cold chill crawled down my spine. Could the Machina hear me? Could it access my inner thoughts, the questions I didn’t mean to ask aloud?

  For the first time, I felt a deep, unnerving unease. I glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to be watching me. The thought of my innermost questions, the ones I hadn’t voiced, being laid bare was unsettling. But when I focused again on the card, it gave no further answer, only a stillness that deepened my suspicion.

  First Vanitas. Now this. All I want is to face the hostilities from the Otherrealms. To help the natives there with their own monster problems, to explore new lands, to simply be myself. That’s what every Walker desires. Sure, we hear it all the time in the Free Cities—the grand tales of heroes who eventually serve on the councillate, those who protect the deepest, darkest corners of the Otherrealms from the encroaching tide of Others. I stared at the playing card in my hands. This... this is a tool. A weapon of mine. If it’s a part of me, then I’ll make it mine, fully.

  We tested it before I ran out of mana. The results? Pitiful. The strikes of the Machina were weak at best. Its cutting potential with the sword it carried was limited, and its durability? Practically nonexistent. Every person is allowed one Machina registration and one Spirit Beast bond. As I’ve learned, only one in seven Walkers have a Machina before their exam, and one in three have one at all. Spirit Beasts, on the other hand…

  I pulled up my personal crystal and searched for the information—specifically, the rarity of Spirit Beasts. The most common Spirit Beast in Marr? The Silver Basilisk. An egg for one sells for an exorbitant price: one hundred waxing gold coins, thirty-three waning gold coins, ninety-nine waxing silver coins, ninety-nine waning silver coins, and three waning coppers. A small fortune, really.

  But wait... my query was off. That price? It was for the Silver Basilisk eggs in the Soul Realm Seven and above. Removing that from the results, I found the true most common Spirit Beast: the Ocean’s Kingfisher. Classified as a pest for assaulting the artificial lake's fish supply. Wonderful.

  I sighed and pushed the thought of having my own Spirit Beast out of my mind for now. It was far from my reach, just another dream for later. Instead, I turned my attention to the bed and the room I was in. The bed? Divine. It was as though I was resting on a cloud of feathers and furs, the softness claiming every aching muscle in my body. My exhaustion melted away into its embrace.

  The room, however? Yes, this was undoubtedly my uncle’s estate. The walls were adorned with countless pictures of the same Dragon Turtle from outside, with motifs of the green stone that had fascinated me before. Each room had its own unique scene featuring the beast. In mine, the Dragon Turtle seemed to be carrying a small house across an uncharted land. I couldn’t help but wonder what my uncle was trying to say with such a scene. What did he see in this creature that kept appearing everywhere?

  I shook my head and let myself sink deeper into the bed. There would be time for questions later.

  The siren’s call dragged me under, pulling me into the depths where my dreams blurred into a harsh, undeniable reality.

  Once again, I found myself in the tea house, greeted by Vanitas. This time, however, he was dressed in an outfit so ostentatious it defied reason. Gone was the orange robe from before. In its place, he wore a black and gold fur jacket paired with a bright maroon two-piece suit underneath. His tie? Not simply gold-colored, but actual gold. The image shattered any lingering illusions I had of him as a seasoned warrior, replacing them with the absurdity of a man more suited for a royal gala than a battlefield.

  “Oh, did I forget to mention?” he said, his voice dripping with faux innocence. He let the words linger in the air, stretching them as if savoring the moment before delivering the final blow. “Every night when you sleep, you’ll be called here. To the halls. Welcome to the hells of the illegal contract.”

  There was a pause, his smile widening ever so slightly as he saw my confusion, my fear, begin to settle in. His eyes gleamed with something dark—something ancient, like a predator tasting the fear of its prey.

  He waved a careless hand toward the items beside me, each one a tool of torment. “You have your bow, your Machina, your ring, and your quiver. That’s all I can permit. The rest, well,” he chuckled softly, the sound thick with sarcasm, “is for you to figure out.” His voice had shifted now, like honey poured into a poisoned chalice—sweet, soothing, but laced with an edge that cut deeper than any blade. “Good luck,” he purred, each syllable drawn out as if to relish the sting.

  The venom was there, clear in every syllable, twisting around each word like a tightening noose. His tone was a sharp contrast to the silkiness of his words—smooth, almost inviting, yet unmistakably lethal. The sickly sweetness of his voice was like the final, poisoned kiss before a death that would come slow, agonizing, and inevitable. Inevitably: I started falling into a deep black void. His eyes being one of the last things that I saw from above. The other? His twisted smile. The viper’s kiss.