War Movie

The sun was relentless, beating down on Kieran and the other ranged fighters as they stood in a dusty field a bit farther away from the main camp buildings.

Beads of sweat rolled down Kieran's forehead, and his shirt clung uncomfortably to his back.

He glared at their instructor, who stood under the shade of a tree with a smug expression.

The man looked like he belonged in an old action movie.

His sleeveless denim shirt showed off his tanned arms, and his military-style pants were tucked neatly into combat boots. To top it off, he wore a slightly tilted hat that screamed, "I take myself way too seriously."

Kieran muttered to the cadet next to him, "Is he trying to audition for a war movie or what?"

The cadet snorted but quickly covered their mouth when the instructor glanced their way.

They'd been standing there for an hour, doing absolutely nothing except sweating under the brutal sun.

Kieran wiped his brow with the back of his hand, squinting up at the man who seemed in no rush to tell them their task.

"This is torture," Kieran whispered dramatically. "We're gonna drop dead before we even touch a weapon."

Another cadet whispered back, "Maybe that's the training. Survival of the fittest."

Before Kieran could respond, the instructor cleared his throat loudly, drawing all eyes to him.

He stepped out of the shade, his boots crunching against the gravel.

"Alright, maggots!" he bellowed, his voice a booming mix of authority and over-the-top theatrics. "Today, you're going to learn the most crucial skill of any ranged fighter. The skill that separates the pros from the amateurs. The skill that might just save your sorry hides one day."

Kieran raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued.

The instructor pointed a dramatic finger at them. "Aim!"

There was a collective silence, followed by a few muttered, "Isn't that obvious?"

Kieran couldn't help himself. "Aim? That's the groundbreaking lesson? What's next? Breathing?"

The cadets around him stifled laughter as the instructor narrowed his eyes at Kieran. "Got something to say, hotshot?"

Kieran shrugged, his grin unapologetic. "Just wondering if this is a weapons class or a life coaching seminar."

The instructor stomped over, his boots leaving small clouds of dust in their wake. "Oh, you think you're funny, huh? Well, funny guy, let's see if your aim is as sharp as your tongue"

Kieran stood at the edge of the training ground.

"Do you see that near bull's-eye target?" the instructor asked, pointing at the speck of color on the opposite cliff.

"Near, you say?" Kieran repeated, incredulous.

The bull's-eye target barely visible in the distance.

Kieran squinted at it, then glanced at the instructor, who stood with his arms crossed, looking far too smug for Kieran's liking.

"Near my ass. Is this guy blind? That thing's practically in another country." Kieran muttered under his breath, squinting into the distance.

The instructor, ignoring Kieran's sarcasm, began to spout some philosophical nonsense about focus, precision, and the nature of destruction.

Kieran zoned out after the first two sentences.

The instructor ignored the muttering and continued, "Now, I know what you're thinking: 'This is impossible.' But I assure you, this exercise is not about your strength but your precision, your control. It is a metaphor for life! You must aim with intention. See beyond what your eyes can see."

The instructor ignored the murmurs and continued with a dramatic pause. "Today's lesson isn't just about power; it's about precision, control, and perseverance. Life is like this target. It's far, it's challenging, and sometimes, it feels impossible to reach. But with the right focus, discipline, and—"

"Philosophical bullshit alert," Kieran interrupted, earning a few chuckles.

The instructor shot him a glare but pressed on. "Now, your task is simple: destroy the bull's-eye. Pick any ranged weapon you like. Good luck!"

"Simple, he says," Kieran muttered as he scanned the selection of weapons.

He confidently strode to the weapon rack, scanning the selection.

After a moment, he picked up a sleek, balanced spear.

He hefted it in his hand, testing its weight.

He settled on a spear, spinning it in his hand with a cocky grin. "Easy. Watch and learn, folks."

"Yeah, yeah," one of the cadets called out. "Show us how it's done, Mr. Confidence."

"Alright, let's get this over with," he said, rolling his shoulders.

Kieran stretched dramatically, rotating his arm as if preparing for the Olympics.

The other cadets watched with mixed expressions—half impressed, half amused.

With a burst of energy, Kieran hurled the spear with all his might.

He stepped forward, taking his stance.

Stretching his arm, he flexed his muscles, earning a few whistles and murmurs from the watching cadets.

"Alright, here we go." Kieran took a deep breath, channeled all his strength, and hurled the spear with everything he had.

The spear soared through the air, cutting a graceful arc.

Everyone held their breath.

And then… it plummeted.

The spear embedding itself into the ground with a pitiful thunk.

It didn't just miss the target—it missed the entire cliff.

There was an awkward silence as the spear disappeared into the abyss, followed by a faint clink far below.

Kieran stared at the spear, speechless. "What... but... my arm strength..." He looked down at his bicep, flexing as if to reassure himself it was still there. "This doesn't make sense. I could crush a watermelon with these bad boys!"

Kieran's jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding me."

He turned to the instructor. "This isn't normal. The target's cursed, right? Or rigged?"

The instructor chuckled, scratching his chin. "No curse, no rigging. Just distance. That target is about 400 meters away, uphill. Not to mention, there's wind resistance and gravity to account for."

"400 meters?" Kieran repeated, his voice cracking slightly. "Who throws a spear 400 meters?"

"I've seen some do it," the instructor said casually, but his expression betrayed his amusement. "Though for your age, your arm strength is remarkable. That throw alone was impressive."

Kieran huffed, crossing his arms. "Well, it didn't feel impressive."

One of the cadets couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Better luck next time, Hercules."

Then the instructor said louder: "The issue isn't your strength. It's your aim. That's why it's a ranged weapon exercise, not a powerlifting competition."

Kieran glared at him. "Oh, thanks for the wisdom, Gandalf. That totally helps me retrieve the spear I just yeeted into oblivion."

A cadet behind him snickered. "Maybe next time try a slingshot."

"Why don't you try, then, Einstein?" Kieran snapped, crossing his arms.

Another cadet stepped forward with a bow, confident as they nocked an arrow and took aim.

The arrow shot off and… sailed wide, barely missing the cliff altogether.

Kieran smirked, leaning casually against the weapon rack. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Welcome to the loser's club."