I was an archery player—arguably quite professional—and often regarded as the golden child of the family. Growing up, I was accustomed to exploring and mastering new skills. I’ve never been particularly sociable; instead, I was a perfectionist, and frankly, I didn’t care what anyone thought of that.

My mother used to live with us, but she left the city for some foolish reason, and I never bothered to ask why.

After all those years of relentless training, I sometimes ask myself: was all the hard work truly worth it?

The answer is obvious. Becoming the greatest archer didn’t just make me the best—I became nearly flawless. Who else would have achieved this, had I never existed? Should I be proud? Absolutely.

It's my responsibility to elevate myself above the rest. I don't concern myself with others' opinions. In the end, they were just envious.

I spotted a guy holding a bow, gripping it tightly as he focused on the target. I approached, arms crossed, and let out a deliberate sigh, raising an eyebrow.

"How unfortunate," I said, eyeing the distant target. "Can’t even hit the red spot? Were you nervous?"

I placed two fingers beneath my chin and narrowed my gaze.

"Too slow. You couldn’t even re-center your focus on the target, could you?"

"Amateur." I smirked.