The instructor stepped forward, his eyes moving across the four of us.
"All of you, on your marks."
He pointed toward the positions marked along the beginning of the track.
The four of us moved into place. For some reason, the entire training ground suddenly felt quieter than before. Too quiet. The usual chatter had disappeared. Hundreds of people were watching us now, and the silence hanging over the field made it feel as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see who would fail first.
No pressure.
I glanced toward the crowd and immediately found Jackson.
He was standing among the others on my right side. The moment our eyes met, he raised his hand and gave me a thumbs-up.
I couldn't help the small smile that appeared on my face. I had known him for barely two days, yet somehow, he had already become one of the few people here whose presence didn't irritate me. That had to count for something.
I returned the gesture before facing forward again.
There were ten targets in total. Five bullets were already loaded into the gun. The remaining five rested in my right pocket, while the blade for the final target was tucked safely into my left.
Everything was in place.
Now all I had to do was not embarrass myself in front of half the military training camp.
Easy. Probably.
The instructor raised his weapon.
"Ready!"
I tightened my grip around the gun.
My eyes focused on the first target.
Then—
BANG!
The sound of the gunshot echoed across the training ground.
We were off. All four of us burst forward at once.
I immediately raised my gun and fired.
One.
Bull's-eye.
Two.
Bull's-eye.
Three.
Another perfect shot.
The first five targets were exactly what I had expected them to be.
Easy. Almost too easy.
By the time I reached the fifth target, my first set of bullets was gone.
Now came the difficult part.
Reloading.
I could hear the others around me. Kyson and Mason had chosen a safer strategy. To run slow for their own sake. After firing a bullet, they would quickly reload another before moving too far ahead.
Shoot.
Reload.
Shoot.
Reload.
It was slow but effective.
They were making sure they didn't miss a single target.
Riley, on the other hand, had started exceptionally well. For the first few seconds, he was ahead of all of us.
Then his entire strategy collapsed. One of his bullets slipped from his fingers.
Then another.
Then another.
Seriously?
He stopped running.
The instructor's voice immediately cut through the air.
"Riley Shade, disqualified!"
Riley froze.
For a moment, he simply stared at the bullets scattered across the track, probably realizing that three tiny pieces of metal had just destroyed his chances of winning.
I almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
There were now only three of us.
Kyson.
Mason.
And me.
I kept running.
Instead of stopping to reload one bullet at a time, I shoved all five bullets into the chamber as quickly as I could while moving.
It wasn't easy.
Actually, it was extremely stupid. My fingers almost slipped twice. As I slowed my pace...because stopping meant losing. And I had absolutely no intention of losing because I couldn't multitask.
I raised my gun again.
Six.
Bull's-eye.
Seven.
Bull's-eye.
Eight.
I fired.
The bullet struck slightly off-center. Not perfect, as I couldn't turn my head to check if the bullet had landed perfectly in the spot.
I frowned but kept moving.
Nine.
Another shot.
This one landed close enough to the center.
The tenth target came into view.
I lifted the gun.
Fired.
Bull's-eye.
I didn't stop running. The finish line was only a short distance away now. And hanging directly above it was the final target. The one the general had decided to add at the last possible moment.
Of course.
Because apparently, making us run, shoot, reload, and maintain perfect aim wasn't entertaining enough for him.
I reached into my left pocket and pulled out the blade.
For a fraction of a second, I adjusted my grip. The target swung slightly in the air.
I kept running.
No stopping.
No second chances.
I threw it.
The blade cut through the air.
For one terrifying second, I thought I had missed.
Then... THUNK.
The blade struck the target.
Dead center.
I crossed the finish line.
Only then did I finally slow down.
My lungs burned, and my heart was beating fast enough to file a complaint against me.
I turned around. Kyson crossed the finish line shortly after me.
Mason followed.
The instructor raised his hand.
"The round is over!"
For a few seconds, nobody said anything. Everyone was waiting. The instructor and two officers moved toward the targets to inspect the shots.
I stood there, trying not to look impatient.
Trying.
Kyson was good.
Annoyingly good.
I already knew that.
During the competition, almost every one of his shots had landed close to the center. Mason had missed one of the targets, which immediately removed him from the competition.
That left only Kyson and me.
The instructor examined my targets first.
One by one.
I watched him far too closely. Why was he taking so long? They were targets, not ancient artifacts.
Finally, he moved toward Kyson's.
His expression changed slightly.
Kyson had hit all ten targets.
So had I.
For a moment, it seemed as though we had tied.
Great.
Just when I thought this nightmare was over.
The instructor walked toward the finish line.
Then he looked at Kyson.
"You forgot the final target."
Kyson's expression went blank.
I slowly turned toward him.
He had forgotten about the blade. The final target.
That tiny detail the general had added at the last possible moment.
Well. That was unfortunate. For him.
The instructor turned toward me.
A small smile appeared on his face.
"Rosen Nightingale."
I straightened.
"You have hit all ten targets, including the final target. Your shots were also the most precise among the finalists."
He raised his voice.
"The winner of the championship is Rosen Nightingale!"
For a second, everything went silent in my head.
Then the training ground erupted.
Applause.
Cheers.
Voices calling my name.
Jackson was somewhere in the crowd shouting loud enough for me to hear him over everyone else.
I smiled. Because apparently, that was what winners were supposed to do.
Inside, however, I was experiencing a completely different emotion.
Regret.
Deep, painful regret.
Because winning meant only one thing.
I slowly turned my head.
My eyes immediately found him.
Logan Hawk.
The general.
The man I had spent the last few days trying my absolute best to avoid.
The man I had punched. The man I had lied to. The man who knew far more about me than he should.
And unfortunately—the man I now had to face.
I had won the championship.
Which meant that my reward for winning was getting challenged by the one person who had remained undefeated for the past three years.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
The instructor walked toward me and offered his hand.
"Congratulations."
I shook it.
"Thank you."
He raised my hand before the crowd.
"The winner of this year's championship, Rosen Nightingale!"
The applause grew louder.
I smiled again. This time, with significantly more suffering.
Jackson was practically jumping where he stood.
He raised both hands and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
I returned the gesture.
Mine probably looked less enthusiastic.
More like a silent request for someone to save me.
I had won.
Out of everyone who had participated, I had survived all four rounds and somehow ended up standing here as the winner.
The shooting round had been easy.
Archery had barely caused me any trouble.
Even the moving targets hadn't been particularly difficult.
But now?
Now I had to face Logan Hawk.
I slowly lowered my hand.
Why did winning suddenly feel like the worst decision of my life? My eyes wandered toward the general again. And unfortunately, he was already looking at me.
Of course he was. Why wouldn't he be?
For a brief second, neither of us looked away.
Then his words from yesterday crawled back into my mind.
You and I are going to have a match tomorrow, so be prepared for it both physically and mentally.
I had thought he was simply being arrogant.
Apparently... He had actually known I would win.
I looked away first.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I refused to let those stupid red eyes make me uncomfortable.
Still, one thought continued circling through my head.
I had won the championship.
And now...
I had to face the one person everyone believed was impossible to defeat.
"The general is waiting for you at the other training ground."
The instructor's words had barely left his mouth before the smile on my face disappeared.
So much for enjoying my victory.
Jackson appeared beside me.
"That was cool."
"Yeah, it was." My voice came out slightly breathless. I was still trying to recover from the running, the shooting, the reloading, and the general torture disguised as a championship.
Now, apparently, I had another challenge waiting for me.
With the general.
Wonderful.
Just how much more exciting could this tournament possibly get?
I followed the others toward the second training ground, trying my best not to look as though I was walking toward my execution.
The moment we arrived, I understood why everyone had been so interested in this final challenge. The entire ground had been transformed into a shooting range. Targets covered almost every corner. Some stood perfectly still at different distances, while most of them moved along rails, appearing and disappearing at unpredictable moments.
Of course.
Nothing simple. Nothing normal.
And standing at the very center of it all was Logan Hawk.
He was already waiting for me.
For a moment, I slowed down. He was looking directly at me.
I knew it.
I could feel it.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes.
Not today.
Not after everything that had happened.
Because if I dared to look at him, I might lose before the match even started.
Or worse.
I might start thinking about things I absolutely did not want to think about.
So I kept my eyes forward and walked toward my position.
I had already made up my mind. This was going to be a race. A shooting race. And realistically? I was probably going to lose.
Logan Hawk had remained undefeated for three years under multiple feats. He was the general for a reason, and I wasn't arrogant enough to believe that winning a championship against trainees automatically meant I could defeat him.
But that didn't mean I was going to make it easy for him.
Oh, no. If the general wanted a match with me, then he was going to regret asking for one.
I would lose. But I would lose after making him work for every single point.
Both of us moved toward our assigned tracks. The moment we took our positions, the crowd erupted.
And by "erupted," I meant everyone started cheering for Logan. Of course they did.
"GENERAL HAWK!"
"GENERAL!"
"SHOW HIM HOW IT'S DONE!"
Wonderful.
Very supportive. Very encouraging.
I looked around.
Not a single person was cheering for me.
Then—
"ROSEN!"
Jackson's voice cut through the crowd. I immediately turned toward him. There he was, standing among the trainees with both hands raised.
"ROSEN!"
I couldn't help smiling. Well, technically, he was cheering for my brother. But for the time being, that brother was me. So I would gladly accept the support.
I looked at Jackson and silently mouthed, Thank you.
He was about to cheer again when his voice suddenly disappeared.
Just like that. His hands slowly dropped.
His expression changed.
Why?
I frowned.
What happened?
Did he suddenly realize that supporting me wasn't worth it?
I turned my head.
And immediately got my answer.
Logan was staring at Jackson.
Not normally. Not casually. He was staring at him with those eyes of his.
Jackson looked as though he had suddenly remembered an important appointment somewhere else.
I slowly lowered my head.
Of course.
Even my one supporter had been eliminated before the match began.
Fantastic.
The instructor stepped between our tracks.
"Listen carefully," he said.
Then, for some strange reason, he looked directly at me.
Only me.
"Once the match begins, both participants will continue moving forward. You are not allowed to interfere with one another. No physical contact. No crossing into the other person's track."
Still looking at me.
Seriously?
Did he think I was going to tackle Logan halfway through the competition?
Okay.
Maybe I had punched him yesterday. But that was different.
Probably.
"The targets will appear at different intervals. Accuracy, speed, and the number of targets successfully hit will determine the winner."
Still me.
I raised an eyebrow. Why was I getting the entire lecture?
Then I remembered.
Of course.
Logan already knew the rules. He was probably the one who had created them.
The instructor finally turned toward both of us.
"Five guns. Fully loaded. No reloading required."
An officer approached and handed us our weapons.
I looked down. Five guns. Two were placed in holsters within easy reach. One rested against my right thigh, secured in a holster around my leg. The remaining two were attached to my belt.
Five guns. Fully loaded.
At least I wouldn't have to worry about reloading this time.
That alone made this challenge significantly less horrible.
The instructor stepped back.
"Take your positions."
Logan and I moved toward our starting marks.
For the first time since arriving, I finally looked at him.
Just briefly.
He was already looking at me.
Of course.
Our eyes met.
My stomach did something strange.
I immediately looked away.
Focus, Rose.
This was a competition.
The instructor raised his hand. The entire ground became silent. I tightened my grip around my first gun.
Logan stood a few feet away in his own track.
Calm.
Composed.
Annoyingly confident.
I inhaled slowly.
Fine.
Let's see if three years of being undefeated had made him lazy.
The signal sounded.
BANG!
We moved.
Both of us shot forward at almost the same speed.
The first targets appeared.
I raised my gun.
BANG!
Bull's-eye.
Logan hit his at almost the exact same moment.
Of course he did.
The second target appeared.
BANG!
Another perfect shot.
Then another.
And another.
For the first few moments, neither of us gained an advantage.
Every time I hit a target, Logan did the same.
Every time a moving target appeared, we both adjusted our aim and fired almost simultaneously.
This was becoming irritating.
How was I supposed to give him a hard time if he kept copying my performance?
I reached for the second gun. A target suddenly moved across my track.
I fired. Bull's-eye.
Logan hit his.
Again.
I gritted my teeth.
Okay.
So this was how it was going to be.
Fine.
I increased my speed.
The next targets began appearing more frequently.
Left.
BANG!
Right.
BANG!
Straight ahead.
BANG!
I didn't even bother checking Logan anymore.
I could hear his gunshots beside me.
Every single one of them landing almost perfectly.
The finish line slowly came into view.
One final sequence of targets appeared.
I raised my weapon.
First.
Perfect.
Second.
Perfect.
Third... I fired.
The bullet struck the edge of the target.
Not a complete miss.
But not a perfect shot either.
I slowed down for half a second.
There it was.
My mistake.
I could have adjusted my aim.
I could have taken another fraction of a second.
I could have made that shot land directly in the center.
But I didn't. Because the finish line was right there.
And Logan was only a few steps away.
I crossed the finish line.
A second later ... BANG!
Logan hit his final target.
Then crossed the line.
The crowd exploded. Cheers erupted from every direction. Mostly for him, obviously. I lowered my gun and finally allowed myself to breathe properly.
My chest rose and fell rapidly. My legs hurt. My arms hurt. And my heart was beating far too fast.
But I smiled as I took a small dab of inhaler as I crouched down for a moment... I had lost. Exactly as expected.
But not easily.
I turned slightly toward Logan. He was already looking at me. His expression wasn't victorious. It wasn't smug either. If anything, he looked... Suspicious.
Great. Why?
I had deliberately given him his victory. I had protected his precious three-year undefeated record.
The least he could do was look happy about it.
Instead, he stared at me as though he knew something was wrong.
I looked away. Nope. Not dealing with that.
I had given him a difficult match. I had made him work for it. And in the end, I had given him his victory by the smallest possible margin.
So, technically... I had done him a favor.
He should be thanking me.
Although, judging by the way he was staring at me...
I had a feeling the general wasn't nearly as grateful as he should have been.