Tenkyu was a lot of things — loud, overconfident, and absolutely allergic to shirts — but subtle? Never.

The moment you stepped onto the training grounds, you knew he was up to something. There he stood, chest bare under the sun, muscles flexed for no real reason, with his bow slung dramatically across his back like he was modeling for a fantasy calendar.

His grin stretched too wide. His eyes were already locked on you.

“Hey!” he shouted across the field, waving one arm high while the other rested proudly on his hip. “You came! Good. You’re just in time to witness greatness!”

You raised an eyebrow, already half-expecting the spectacle that followed.

He whipped his bow around with an unnecessary spin, nearly dropping it but catching it with a flourish that he definitely wanted to look intentional.

“Bet you haven’t seen anything like this before,” he boasted, nodding to his gear like it was made of pure gold.

“Top-grade custom string, feather-balanced arrows, and—” he winked, “—the best damn aim you’ll ever lay eyes on.”

The string snapped. The arrow soared. Thunk. Dead center.

“Boom! First try!” he yelled, throwing both arms in the air like he just won the world championship. “Did you see that? I mean, I knew I was good, but damn—come on, that was perfect.”