Arin flexed his fingers one by one, watching with quiet satisfaction as each joint responded without the dull ache that had plagued him for days. The stiffness was gone. Strength flowed back into his limbs like water returning to a long-dried riverbed.

  “Okay… limbs work. That’s a start,” he muttered to himself.

  Carefully, he lifted the paired bow limbs from the rough workbench. They were the result of sleepless nights, aching muscles, and more than a few muttered curses at uncooperative materials. Now they only needed to be mounted onto the riser — the base of a recurve bow, the backbone to which everything else would cling.

  First things first.

  Arin secured one limb upside down and reached for the drill. The tool whined as it bit into the underside, carving a clean hole where the mounting bolt would pass through. Wood shavings spiraled down like pale snow.

  “One wrong angle and this whole thing’s useless,” he said under his breath.

  He repeated the process with the second limb, slower this time, double-checking alignment. When he finally set the drill aside, he let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “Right. Now the riser.”

  His eyes drifted to the block of wood he had no choice but to use. It was… terrible. Light, porous, unpleasant to the touch — the kind of material no serious bowyer would willingly pick.

  “Ugh. I really need better materials after this campaign,” he grumbled. “This stuff feels like it’ll snap if I glare at it too hard.”

  And yet, this single piece would determine everything. The grip. The balance. The stability. The bow’s soul, in a sense.

  Arin picked up a carving knife and got to work.

  Thin curls of wood peeled away as he shaped the block into a proper form. His movements were steady, practiced — muscle memory born from years of training long before this strange new world had swallowed humanity whole. The scent of fresh wood filled the room, grounding him.

  He sculpted the grip last, sanding it smooth until it fit naturally against his palm. Not perfect — not even close — but usable. He marked a simple arrow rest. No fancy attachments. No unnecessary additions.

  “And no sight,” he said firmly.

  He had never liked them. They got in the way, cluttered the bow, made the weapon feel less like an extension of the body and more like a machine.

  His thoughts drifted to the Olympic archery competitions he used to watch back on Earth. The precision had been incredible — arrows splitting arrows, bullseyes struck again and again with mechanical consistency.

  But it had always felt… artificial.

  “They rely on too many gadgets,” he murmured. “Stabilizers, sights, counterweights… Sure, they’re accurate. But practical? Not when things are trying to kill you.”

  Still, he had to admit — those archers would make terrifying sharpshooters here.

  Arin blinked, realizing his hands had stopped moving.

  “I did it again,” he sighed.

  The riser lay finished on the table. Plain. Functional. Nothing to brag about. Certainly not one of his proudest works.

  “Right. Sand it down so I don’t impale my hand with splinters.”

  He smoothed every edge, then brushed on a thin coat of lacquer. The glossy finish deepened the wood’s dull brown into something almost respectable.

  “Now for the string.”

  This part, at least, didn’t fill him with dread.

  He reached into his backpack and carefully pulled out a coiled length of deep crimson fiber. It had traveled with him from the Heartland — one of several spares he’d made after losing his first bow to goblins. Back then, he’d harvested plant fibers from his grandfather’s garden, spinning and weaving them late into the night.

  “Good thing I prepared,” he said softly.

  Lab-grown materials were common here, but they always felt wrong to him. Mana hadn’t had time to settle into them, to seep into their structure. They were stiff. Brittle. Lifeless.

  This string, though… this one felt alive.

  “With this, maybe the bow won’t fall apart after three shots.”

  Piece by piece, he assembled the weapon. Limbs secured. Riser aligned. Bolts tightened.

  Then came the moment of truth.

  Arin hooked the string onto one limb tip, braced the bow against his leg, and bent it carefully to loop the other end into place.

  Click.

  The sound was soft, but it echoed through him like a struck bell.

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  Mana surged.

  It flowed through his arms, across his chest, spiraling inward until it gathered around his heart — not painfully, not violently, but with a strange, intimate warmth. For an instant, he felt as though something deep within him exhaled in relief.

  Not a physical sensation. More like a whisper at the edge of thought.

  Then it was gone.

  Arin stared at the completed bow resting across his palms.

  It looked ordinary — glossy brown wood, elegantly curved limbs, and that striking crimson string that seemed almost too vivid for the muted materials. If anything, the string was easily the most valuable part.

  “If I sold just this… I could probably get a hundred points,” he mused. “Maybe more. People would trample each other to buy it.”

  Considering the shop’s outrageous prices, it wasn’t even an exaggeration.

  But selling it was never an option.

  He focused inward and summoned the Identifier.

  Commend Recurve Bow (Commend)

  A decent bow made of inferior materials uplifted by an exceptional string and the bowyer Arin’s skill. The craftsmanship has elevated it beyond the natural limits of its components.

  Arin read the description twice, then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face.

  “So the system hates the wood… but acknowledges my skill,” he said, unable to hide the pride in his voice.

  For once, it felt like validation.

  He set the bow aside and sat cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes.

  Meditation came easily now. Mana flowed through him more smoothly than before, slipping deeper into muscle and bone as if his body had quietly expanded to accommodate it. Time blurred. The world dimmed to the rhythm of his breathing.

  Sunrise. Sunset. Night. Day.

  They passed like pages turning too quickly to read.

  And then—

  His eyes snapped open.

  “It’s time.”

  The day of the goblin assault had arrived.

  Arin climbed down from his bunk and dressed methodically. Brown cargo pants. A green hemp shirt. Leather armor strapped across his chest. Short sword and dagger secured at his hips. A forest-colored cloak draped over his shoulders to break up his silhouette.

  Finally, he fastened the quiver around his waist — positioned carefully so it wouldn’t hinder movement.

  He paused before the mirror.

  The person staring back looked familiar… and not.

  Stronger, certainly. Sharper. His features had grown more defined, his posture unconsciously straighter. His eyes, once a soft green, now gleamed with a deeper, almost luminous shade. Strands of green threaded through his dark hair like living vines.

  “When did that happen?” he murmured.

  Not that he minded.

  He turned and headed downstairs.

  “You look good today, Arin,” Johnny said from the table, offering a small grin as his younger brother descended in full gear.

  Johnny watched him quietly. It always unsettled him how easily people had adapted to this new reality — marching to war as if it were just another job. For their family, at least, it made sense. Generations of training, discipline, and preparedness. They had treated combat as both tradition and practical skill.

  But the rest of humanity?

  Back on Earth, war had been fading into irrelevance. Resources were abundant. Conflicts were rare. Even dictators hesitated, knowing public backlash would topple them in days. Armies existed more as deterrents — or to prepare for the coming space age, when nuclear-powered ships might fight over distant planets.

  People had grown tired of bloodshed.

  So why were they eager now?

  Johnny couldn’t understand it.

  If an ordinary person could hear his thoughts, they might laugh. Of course, he didn’t get it — he was safe, privileged, sheltered. For everyone else, this “trial” was opportunity incarnate. A chance to rise beyond the limits that had trapped them on Earth, where social mobility had stagnated for decades.

  When currencies collapsed and old systems died, desperation turned into determination.

  No wonder recruitment lines stretched for blocks.

  War, for many, was no longer horror.

  It was hope.

  Arin adjusted his cloak and picked up his bow, testing its weight. It felt right in his hands — imperfect, yes, but reliable. Alive.

  “Ready?” Johnny asked.

  Arin nodded, eyes steady.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s break out of this trap.”