“Dad, why can’t I come with you?”

  Tilly stood in the doorway, arms crossed, chin lifted in stubborn defiance. Her eyes shimmered — not quite tears, not quite anger — the dangerous middle ground that only children on the verge of heartbreak occupied.

  “It was allowed last time,” she continued, voice tight. “And I followed all your orders. I acted mature.”

  Teun crouched slightly so they were eye level. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

  “No, Tilly,” he said gently. “You’re trying to follow us because you want to skip schoolwork.”

  “That’s not—!”

  “The only reason you were allowed to come last time,” he interrupted softly, “was because you were on vacation.”

  Silence.

  “That vacation is over,” he added. “And your Aunt Simone is already on her way to pick you up.”

  Tilly’s lips trembled.

  “This time,” Teun said, voice firm now, “you are not going to cause trouble. You saw how distraught she was last time. Are you going to do that to her again?”

  The words landed like stones.

  Guilt was a cruel weapon — and Teun knew it.

  Tilly’s shoulders sagged.

  “No… Dad,” she whispered. “I won’t.”

  She turned and walked away, no longer stomping, no longer defiant. Just small.

  Originally, she had been granted two weeks of leave for medical observation following her resurrection. Doctors, scientists, and System researchers had descended on her like vultures circling a miracle.

  She was the youngest human known to have returned from death.

  Infants who died in the womb… did not resurrect.

  Newborns who died moments after birth… did not return.

  No one knew why.

  The silence surrounding that fact was heavier than any explanation.

  So Tilly had been studied, tested, scanned, and questioned — all under the guise of care. To her credit, she endured it with surprising patience, and afterward she was rewarded with another two weeks off due to the school closure.

  Those weeks had been bliss.

  She had been the center of attention, always surrounded by her parents, sleeping safely within reach of their voices.

  But today—

  Reality returned.

  Her parents would remain near the front for three more weeks before redeploying into active combat zones.

  And she would go back.

  Back to school.

  Back to safety.

  Back to waiting.

  The thought of months without seeing them again hollowed her chest.

  She wanted to be strong.

  She wanted to be brave.

  But she was still just a child who had already died once.

  In the hallway, Avela leaned against the wall, watching Tilly disappear into her room.

  Her hands trembled.

  Arin noticed.

  It hurts her more than she lets on, he thought quietly.

  It pained him, too, to see his mother carry burdens she could never set down. Yet another part of him believed this was necessary.

  Tilly had been spoiled — understandably so. Their family had very few women, and the few they had were cherished fiercely.

  But the world had changed.

  Love alone could no longer protect anyone.

  Arin exhaled slowly, pushing away the heaviness.

  Enough of that.

  Today was important.

  Today, he would craft a bow.

  A real one.

  “It’s been too long,” he murmured, heading toward the workshop.

  Ever since losing his original bow to the goblins, circumstances had prevented him from practicing his profession. Battles, injuries, recovery, briefings — life had been a constant storm.

  But according to the book on soul damage…

  He should be healed enough.

  I hope so, he thought, shuddering faintly.

  The last time he pushed too far, the pain had been indescribable — like his very existence was being torn apart thread by thread. Only the torrent of vitality flowing through him at the time had kept him conscious.

  Now, there would be no such buffer.

  He stepped into the workshop built within the temporary apartment complex assigned to waiting soldiers. Entire districts had sprung up around the fortress — concrete forests housing officers, specialists, and units awaiting orders.

  Rumors circulated everywhere.

  Five billion humans would participate in the next offensive.

  Five billion.

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  An army large enough to change geography itself.

  The plan was ambitious: push the goblins halfway across the main battlefield, establish a new fortress line, and then advance toward the portal to the goblin heartland.

  End the Trial.

  Arin snorted.

  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

  First, he needed a weapon that didn’t feel like a stranger in his hands.

  He glanced at the military-issued bow leaning against the wall.

  Before the Trial, he would have called it exquisite. Custom-grown wood shaped in molds, flawless craftsmanship, worth tens of thousands of euros.

  Now?

  It felt sluggish.

  Unresponsive.

  Dead.

  It didn’t sing to him.

  His gaze shifted to the material on the workbench.

  Lab Wood (Inferior)

  The System’s label hovered faintly above it like an insult.

  Once, this synthetic material had been revolutionary — stronger than natural timber, resistant to warping, perfectly uniform. Now it barely qualified as “wood” in the eyes of the System.

  Mana had changed everything.

  Natural materials resonated.

  Artificial ones… didn’t.

  “This is all I can afford,” Arin muttered.

  Their earned points had yet to be distributed. Bureaucracy, delays, or something more suspicious — no one knew. Either way, he was effectively broke.

  “They’d better hurry,” he grumbled. “Or I might start robbing important people.”

  The image of the EU President being mugged by a disgruntled archer almost made him laugh.

  Still, a craftsman’s pride stirred.

  Let’s treat this as a challenge.

  The wood had been grown into a rough bow shape already — one advantage of lab fabrication. But turning it into a worthy weapon required precision.

  He began by measuring and marking the length of the limbs.

  For a recurve bow, flexibility and strength had to be perfectly balanced. Too soft, and it would lack power. Too stiff, and it would break.

  Using a saw, he carefully cut three separate pieces: a rigid core and two more flexible outer layers. The center would form the grip — stable, unyielding. The limbs would provide the snap that launched arrows with deadly force.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked.

  Even simple movements felt… strange.

  Not painful.

  But not comfortable either.

  He intentionally left the pieces slightly oversized before refining them with blade and rasp, shaving millimeter by millimeter. In bow crafting, symmetry was everything. A tiny imbalance could cause catastrophic failure.

  Wood shavings piled like curled petals at his feet.

  Time passed unnoticed.

  Gradually, the limbs began to resemble something real — elegant curves emerging from raw material.

  “Not bad,” he murmured.

  But the true test lay ahead.

  Tillering.

  He attached the limbs loosely and began bending them incrementally, observing how each side flexed. Too much strain in one section would spell disaster.

  The bow creaked softly.

  Arin froze.

  Pain flickered in his chest.

  Not physical.

  Deeper.

  His soul reacted — not violently, but with a dull ache, like a bruise pressed too hard.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Still sensitive… but manageable.”

  Encouraged, he continued.

  Minute adjustments.

  Shave.

  Test.

  Shave again.

  The process demanded patience — something battles rarely allowed. Yet there was a strange peace in it, a reminder of a world before endless war.

  Finally, the curve was smooth, balanced, alive.

  All that remained was stringing it.

  He hesitated.

  Stringing placed the bow under full tension for the first time. If anything was wrong, this was when it would fail — snapping violently, potentially injuring him.

  Or worse.

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  Please work.

  Carefully, he bent the lower limb against the floor and slipped the string into place.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then—

  The bow settled into its shape with a quiet, resonant hum.

  Not loud.

  Not dramatic.

  But unmistakable.

  Arin’s eyes widened.

  It felt… right.

  Alive.

  Responsive.

  Like holding a conversation rather than a tool.

  A grin spread across his face.

  “Welcome back,” he whispered to no one in particular.