The Last Veldrath: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

The sun rose each day, casting a cold light over Eryndor's small shelter. The first thing he did upon waking was stretch his stiff muscles, feeling the bite of exhaustion from the night before, but he knew there was no time for rest. It was another day to improve. He started with a simple routine—hunt, eat, train, sleep—over and over again, each action becoming more refined, more ingrained in his muscles, his instincts.

But this day felt different. Today, he would push himself harder than ever before. For four days, he had dedicated himself to practicing the first form with relentless focus. The bow was no longer just a tool—it had become an extension of his body. He had practiced each step over and over, refining it to perfection. His muscles burned, but his mind sharpened with every repetition. It was grueling, unforgiving, but it was necessary. He had to get this right.

As he stood before the target, a small, makeshift stump with a crude cloth tied to it, he set his stance once more. His right foot forward, weight balanced. His shoulders pulled back just enough to ensure the draw wouldn't be strained. His fingers wrapped around the bone bow, feeling the smooth surface of the Fenrir bone beneath his calloused skin. His grip—tight enough to steady the bow but loose enough to allow for quick release. His thumb caressed the string just above his fingers, ready for the tension to build.

His breath was shallow at first. Focus. He had to remember to breathe, to keep his lungs steady. He exhaled slowly, releasing the tension that had built up inside him. Then, he inhaled again, drawing in the cool, damp air of the forest.

It wasn't just about shooting. It wasn't about the bow or the arrow. It was about control. Control of his body, of his mind, of his breath. He was learning to engage the right muscles in the right sequence. The triceps, the shoulders, the forearm, even the back muscles—every part of him needed to move in harmony. If even one part failed, the shot would be off.

"Draw," he muttered to himself, almost like a mantra. His fingers tightened around the bowstring as he pulled it back, feeling his muscles flex, his biceps tensing as the string came closer to his face. The bow creaked, the tension building as he drew farther, trying to find the perfect balance between strain and relaxation.

"Engage... not too much," his inner voice urged, as he focused on relaxing his shoulders, not overexerting himself. His fingers hovered over the release. "Relax the fingers… focus."

His breath came out in short bursts, timed perfectly with his draw. He held it there for a moment, chest expanding, lungs stretching, and then—release. The arrow shot forward, the string snapping against his wrist as it sailed toward the target. The shot was still off, not by much, but enough to keep him from feeling satisfied.

"Not yet," Eryndor muttered under his breath, his brow furrowed in frustration. His muscles felt the burn, but it wasn't enough to stop him. It was never enough. He grabbed another arrow, not bothering to pick up the first. The mistakes didn't matter—he had to keep going.

Each try was a new attempt to find that elusive perfection. His mind constantly replayed his movements, analyzing each muscle, each breath, each subtle shift in his stance. Where had he gone wrong? Was it his grip? His stance? His breathing? Was he pushing too hard, too early, or not engaging enough of his back muscles?

He would try again. Each attempt brought new insights, new small tweaks to his form. His body started to remember, and his mind followed suit, like muscle memory ingraining a path.

"Focus... breathe," he reminded himself, trying to keep the thought simple. With every shot, his aim grew sharper, but not enough. He needed more. He tried a thousand different angles, gripping the bow just a little differently, adjusting his stance to feel the tension shift through his legs and torso. His face twisted with concentration, brow furrowing as he tested each little detail. It was maddening, but Eryndor had learned to embrace the madness.

By the time the 10,000th attempt had passed, his arms were trembling. The veins in his hands were swollen from the constant tension. His body screamed for rest, but his mind burned with the need to push forward. Each failure chipped away at his resolve, but it was in those moments of failure that he found his focus.

Almost there... he thought, lowering his bow and setting another arrow.

The next shot felt different. It was smoother, more controlled. The bowstring hummed as it released, the arrow whistling through the air before it struck the target. It was only a slight hit, but it was enough to send a surge of excitement through his veins. A single breath, a moment of calm. It's working.

He paused for a long moment, allowing himself to breathe. The exhaustion was overwhelming, but the satisfaction of progress was enough to fuel him. He had made it—18986 tries, but the first form had finally clicked.

"I got it," Eryndor said quietly to himself, his voice hoarse from hours of self-talk, from the frustration, the anger, and the drive that had led him here. He smiled to himself, albeit a tired, exhausted one. The smile quickly faded, replaced by the grim determination that had gotten him this far.

The first form was just the beginning.

As Eryndor reflected on his efforts, he realized the first form wasn't just a set of movements—it was a series of coordinated actions designed to maximize both power and precision. It began with the right stance, ensuring his body was aligned for the draw. The bow had to be steady, not too tense, but not too loose either. Each breath, each muscle, every movement was linked. He had learned to engage his back and shoulders first, ensuring his draw was strong yet controlled. The release was key—too tight, and the shot would go wild; too loose, and it would lack power.

It was more than just shooting—it was about controlling his entire body as a single unit, understanding the flow between tension and release, control and surrender. Every part of him had to work in sync, breathing and muscles moving in harmony, until the shot left the bow with the perfect trajectory.

Eryndor stood silently, his chest rising and falling as the weight of the bow settled comfortably in his hands. His fingers, still trembling slightly from the effort, gently lowered the string, his mind racing through the process that had taken him thousands of tries to perfect. The First Form.

I finally did it.

He could still feel the tension in his muscles—the aching soreness in his back, shoulders, and arms from the countless attempts. But this time, it felt different. The shot he had just taken hadn't been perfect. It had been more than that. It had been... right.

It's not just the stance or the breath. It's everything.

Eryndor recalled every step. The stance, the foundation. His right foot forward, weight balanced, legs firm but relaxed. Every muscle in his body had worked together, the foundation of his stance keeping him grounded, steady. He'd learned that without the right posture, his shot would fall apart.

The right stance is like the roots of a tree... hold it steady, and everything else will grow.

His grip had been firmer this time, but still, not too tight. He could feel the difference now, the bow resting comfortably in his hand. It's about control, not force. He had learned not to choke the bow, to allow the string to release with fluidity. The grip had to be firm enough to guide the arrow, but not constrict it.

Too tight, and I'll miss. Too loose, and I'll lose control. The balance is key.

When he'd drawn the string back, his entire body had engaged in perfect harmony. His back muscles, his shoulders, his forearms... they all worked in sync to pull the bowstring. His entire body had been one unified force, from his feet up through his legs, all the way to his fingertips.

It's not just my arms... my back is the key to the power. I had to feel the tension in my core, not just my hands.

He thought back to the breath—the breath that had almost betrayed him in the beginning. Inhale... hold... exhale. Control the flow. He'd learned that timing the breath with the draw was essential. The inhale had prepared his muscles, and the exhale, the release—his mind had to be clear, his focus sharp, steady.

The air fills my lungs, and I fill it with my focus. The moment of exhale... that's when the shot needs to be released.

Then came the stillness—the pause that had terrified him. Too much tension, and my release would be forced. Too little, and I'd let the arrow slip away from me.

But this time, when the bowstring had fully drawn, everything had clicked. It wasn't about gripping harder or forcing the arrow to fly. It was about relaxing. Releasing the tension just at the right moment, at the perfect time when the muscles were aligned. His fingers had let go—gently, precisely—and the arrow had flown, cutting through the air with the cleanest shot he'd ever made.

It wasn't the strength of my fingers that made the shot. It was the relaxation, the release. No force, just... perfect control.

He exhaled again, the adrenaline from the moment still buzzing in his veins. The First Form... It wasn't just about the stance or the muscles. It was about controlling the flow of energy, of tension and release.

I've learned the basics... the foundation. This is where everything starts. Everything else builds from here.

He stood for a moment longer, his body still humming from the practice, his mind running over the movements one last time. His fingers, now steady, gripped the bow again, and his thoughts settled. There would be more to learn, more to perfect. But for now, the First Form was his.

It's not just the shot. It's the mastery of control. And now... I can build on that.