The reputation of Tristan was known by every enemy who ever fought against Pendragon.

Was it because of the fierce Crimson Eagles, composed of one hundred powerful knights? No.

Or was it due to their centuries-old lineage and traditions? Not that either.

It was simply…

— “Damn it! Where did that monstrous archer come from?”

Tristan’s archers, known as marksmen, often called "Divine Archers," or at times "Snipers of Cursed Bullets," had, throughout history, built an overwhelming record on the battlefield, often surpassing even their own knights in martial feats.

The commanders of enemy nations fell unfailingly to Tristan’s arrows, which were impossible to evade.

Even protected by magic, Even accompanied by soldiers with shields, Even fleeing as far as they could…

Tristan’s arrows would mock all such efforts, piercing the heads of enemy commanders with chilling precision.

Thus, people would often say:

“Surely, the heads of Tristan must possess some sort of [mystic power]. No matter how skilled one might be in combat techniques, it’s inconceivable for such divine-like archery to exist without some mystical aid.”

But whenever they heard such remarks, the successive heads of Tristan would simply smirk.

“Mystic power? Hmm… who needs it?”

Tristan would often say that with systematic training from a young age, anyone could hone their senses to the point of hearing a leaf fall from afar. Shooting thousands, even tens of thousands of arrows every day through rigorous effort alone could make anyone a master archer…or so they claimed.

Yes, they would say that with “effort” and “a hint of talent,” anyone could attain such mystical-like skills.

Except…

— “I told them, but no one seems to succeed, so no one believes me.”

They’d shrug, lamenting the fact that, though they spoke the truth, nobody believed them.

And yet…

“How… how is something like that even possible?”

Did those who faced Tristan’s bow always feel this way?

Jenimia blinked, taken aback, as she observed the knight deflect her “bullet” through some uncanny means, and she found herself asking:

“How did you do that?” “With effort.” “…It seems impossible by effort alone.”

He had blocked Jenimia’s attack… with his teeth.

The clenching force—using merely the power of his bite, he had precisely intercepted her projectile, leaving her astonished.

“It’s not impossible because of a lack of skill. It’s only because you haven’t put in enough effort,” he replied.

“…”

…Listening to her own words coming back at her, Jenimia felt a curious mix of emotions.

 

“Wow, damn, I barely caught that…!”

His gums throbbed with pain. Though he had acted confidently in front of the Marquis, Ihan had never intended to block that projectile with his teeth.

Originally, he’d planned to dodge or parry it with his hand axe, but he’d missed the timing to evade or deflect.

— Silent Bow Shot.

An arrow with no sound, existing only in its fired trajectory.

It was by sheer luck, thanks to his keen danger sense, that he managed to block it. Had he failed, the end would have been grim indeed.

“This… this country’s nobles are all monsters, aren’t they?”

The grand duke he’d met the day before, the dukes and nobles… each one was more terrifying than the knights, and just facing them could lead to a swift demise.

Phew…!

Without a moment to calm his cold sweat, Ihan forced himself to relax.

His muscles couldn’t afford to stay tense, or else—

Paang!

Paaang!

Boom!

There it was again. The Marquis’s projectile fired at him once more.

“This time, you dodged!” “Stop using me as a test subject!”

The Marquis seemed exhilarated. Apparently fascinated by Ihan’s feat of stopping with his teeth, he fired relentlessly, each shot fast enough that even his eyes couldn’t fully keep up.

So that’s what they mean by “hands are faster than eyes,” he thought, finally understanding the saying’s origin.

The Marquis’s firing rate was nearly faster than a gun’s reloading speed.

A bow larger than most women’s average height, handled like a toy… it was clear that his tensile strength rivaled Ihan’s own.

The Marquis’s slender frame somehow producing such power was incomprehensible!

Boom!

“!!?” “Finally, a hit. But tell me, how did you train your body? Normally, bones would break… am I just growing old?”

“…No, you’re in fine shape.”

Barely, Ihan had activated his Diamond Resilience. Had he not reflexively done so, his skin would have been torn, or his bones cracked.

A terrifying opponent.

But a positive thing was…

‘I’m keeping up.’

He was reacting to archery that bordered on godlike, or magic. Slowly, he began to dodge, parry, or deflect with each successive strike.

His reaction speed was catching up.

This meant that now, counterattacking the Marquis was—

Pause.

“Incredible. Your body is battered, yet you respond to my techniques with extraordinary reflexes and uncanny skills. At this age, I thought I’d seen it all… and yet, here I stand, still a novice,” the Marquis chuckled.

“…”

…Instead of countering, Ihan chose to step back, catching his breath.

For some reason, he knew that getting closer would mean his end.

“Wise. Rejoicing over defeating mere tricks wouldn’t suit you.”

“How many of those tricks do you have left?”

“Sadly, that’s all. So, shall we take things seriously now?”

“…”

Swoosh!

The air, or rather the entire surrounding flow, seemed to converge toward the Marquis, forming the eye of a tiny storm.

Kwaak!

Ihan planted his feet firmly into the ground, bracing against the whirlpool generated by the Marquis.

‘Hell! Is he even human?!’

Realizing the absurdity of his thoughts, Ihan couldn’t help but let out a faint groan.

Gravity.

The Marquis was manipulating gravity with his small frame.

It was not a feat a mere human should possess, and the fact that it wasn’t magic or mysticism made it even more terrifying.

Then he realized—

‘This man is a step away from being a superhuman!’

A superhuman, an [Aura User], a disaster in human form.

The Marquis was but one step away, unable to cross due to some unfulfilled condition, yet still standing on the threshold.

Ihan let out a hollow laugh.

With his body torn and stamina nearly drained, facing such an opponent was hopeless.

It felt like suicide just to stand against him—

Bang!

“…”

“Hm. When I use this technique, there are usually two reactions: either they beg for mercy or flee.”

“Wise choices. I want to run away right now myself.”

“Haha! And yet you stand before me?”

“…I’m regretting it already.”

Ihan stomped his foot, shaking off the despair settling into his bones and readying himself to charge.

The Marquis’s eyes glinted, recognizing the determination in Ihan’s gaze.

“You may concede. There’s no shame in yielding to a strong opponent. Survival is paramount.”

“I know. My life’s philosophy is to live happily ever after.”

“Then why?”

“…Because I’m done making excuses.”

“…”

Whether it was because of his poor condition or the fifty-year-old veteran before him, Ihan felt compelled to express something honest.

“I lived a life full of excuses. Couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that. This is reality, so I just gave up. I always lived making excuses.”

Whooong!

“But then, I was given a second chance. I promised myself I’d live without regrets.”

Yes, he could retire from the knighthood and lead a peaceful life, maybe raise a cute dog and a cat.

He had no deep attachment to power or fame, and being a knight held little significance to him.

But even so!

‘Living cowardly, with excuses… once is enough.’

He wanted a happy life, not a cowardly one.

If he was to repeat his past, what meaning would reincarnation have?

“I didn’t gain strength to bow to others or passively watch my loved ones suffer!”

Ihan shouted with all his might, reaffirming his resolve.

He would live happily.

But he wouldn’t live cowardly.

And so, he fought.

Against magicians, Against a thousand-year-old troll, And now, against the Marquis.

And…

“I’ll live a damn good life, without a single regret!”

Whoosh!

Blossoms—plum blossoms bloomed.

Not from the hand axe he held, but from his aura, blooming petals of blood and resolve.

Blood Plum Blossoms.

Ihan’s petals filled the skies above the Marquis’s domain.

“…Impressive. Truly impressive! It’s been so long since I’ve met someone as strong as you!”

For the first time in his life, Jenimia praised someone with such sincerity.

It wasn’t for the beautiful blossoms.

It was his resolve—worthy of praise.

To live each day to the fullest, without regret… no one had ever shown such dedication.

Not even the late king.

“One shot. If you withstand this, I’ll concede.”

“…”

“As an archer, I shall…”

Always decide with a single shot.

Kwaaa!!

With a deafening roar, the Marquis let his arrow fly.

Crack!

“Guh!”

Ihan clenched his jaw, enduring the overwhelming pressure that seemed to rip his body apart.

The blossoms were barely holding back the onslaught, but they wouldn’t last.

He felt as if he was a mere bug crushed under a giant’s foot.

Just a touch would kill him.

With his energy drained, his vision blurred, and consciousness slipping—

‘Am I… dying?’

Ihan thought of death.

Was this it? The moment of his limit?

—Not yet.

‘Not yet!’

He had made a promise.

To return in time.

If so, he had to survive.

His steadfast maid would surely wait forever.

So…

‘I must return!’

With a surge, his body responded instinctively.

He raised a fist, left foot forward, slightly bending his waist.

A single punch with the gentleness of a Buddha’s grace.

‘Arhat Divine Fist…’

Yes, that seemed a fitting name.

 

The maid, still leaning against the tree, dozed off.

Though she could’ve gone inside, she remained, surrounded by squirrels and sparrows, deer and wolves alike—all strangely at peace.

Like a scene from a fairy tale.

Yet, unlike a fairy tale, the one she awaited was not a prince to adorn her with fine clothes or a crown.

Who she awaited was none other than—

“Oh, you’re late.”

“…Hehe, you’re here.”

—A rough but warm-hearted man who knew how to keep his promises.

With a pure smile, Reira Winter welcomed him.

Disheveled and wrapped haphazardly in bandages, the man, having given his all that day, received her hug.

“Thank you for your efforts.”

“…”

As always, she embraced him warmly.

“…I’m filthy.”

“A quick wash will do.”

“…You’re something else.”

He chuckled bitterly as Reira smiled, as if delighted that he’d kept his promise.

 

Whirling.

As dawn broke, Jenimia looked up at the fading sky.

“…He could have stayed for a proper treatment.”

He regretted it.

He’d hoped for tea and conversation, but the man had left unceremoniously.

Sighing, he rubbed his stomach.

Unharmed, yet feeling the weight of the man’s “resolve” that lingered within him.

“A most refreshing defeat indeed.”