Practice

North took a deep breath as he stepped outside, slingshot in hand. The sun was high, casting shadows across the dirt ground around his small cottage. He needed a target—something sturdy yet simple.

Looking around, his eyes settled on an old, broken barrel leaning against a tree. He dragged it closer and propped it up, marking the center with a piece of red cloth. Around the base, he stacked small stones to keep it stable.

"This will do," he muttered to himself, stepping back to survey his makeshift setup. It wasn't much, but it didn't need to be.

Reaching down, he gathered smooth stones from the ground, selecting those that felt just right in his palm—not too heavy, not too light. With his slingshot ready, he drew his first stone and practiced his stance.

Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, his body relaxed but focused. His left arm extended forward, holding the slingshot steady, while his right hand pulled back the straps, aiming with a practiced squint.

The tension in the leather straps felt familiar now, like an extension of his own muscles.

He released the stone, watching as it sailed through the air and missed the mark by a wide margin. North frowned, adjusting his grip. "Not like that," he murmured, drawing another stone and trying again.

This time, it hit the edge of the barrel with a satisfying thud. Encouraged, he kept going. Shot after shot, he refined his technique, making slight adjustments to his aim and grip. His movements became smoother, and his accuracy improved with every passing hour.

But it wasn't just aim he wanted to practice—speed was crucial too. He devised a method, placing a pile of stones on a wooden board nearby and timing himself as he grabbed, loaded, and shot.

His initial attempts were clumsy, the stones slipping from his grasp or the straps tangling in his fingers. Frustration assaulted him, but he pressed on, determined to master the rhythm.

He understood that whether you're doing training or doing any other kind of work, the important thing is to persevere, only if you persevere can you have a chance at winning or have the hope of succeeding, if you give up halfway, you'll never succeed.

And true to that when the sun was high overhead, signaling midday, North wiped the sweat from his brow and stretched, he had mastered his rhythm. "Time for the next step," he decided. He headed into town, slingshot tucked into his belt, to visit Rafter Brown, the blacksmith.

***

The forge was alive with heat and sound as North stepped inside. Old man Rafter Brown stood behind the anvil, hammering away at a glowing piece of iron. His face lit up when he saw North.

"North! What brings you here, lad?" Rafter called out, his voice hearty.

North grinned. "I need your help, old man."

Rafter chuckled, setting his hammer down. "Help, eh? What kind of trouble have you gotten into now?"

North explained his request, describing the small, round metal pellets he needed. Rafter raised a bushy eyebrow. "And what exactly are these for, boy?"

"Just a little project I'm working on," North said with a sly smile. "Trust me, it'll be worth it."

Rafter scratched his chin. "You're a strange one, North, but I'll humor you. Let's see what we can do."

Together, they worked to create the pellets. North described the size and weight he needed, and Rafter, with his steady hands and years of experience, forged them to perfection.

Each pellet was smoothed and polished until it felt just right in North's hand. When the job was done, North thanked Rafter and pocketed the pellets. There were about fifty of those pellets

"Take care, lad," Rafter said with a grin. "And don't go breaking any windows with those things."

Back at his cottage, North wasted no time. He set up his target again and began practicing with the metal pellets.

They were heavier than the stones, throwing off his aim at first. His shots were erratic, and frustration gnawed at him. But he didn't give up. Shot after shot, he adjusted his stance and grip, learning how to handle the new weight. Slowly, his aim steadied, and the familiar thud of pellets hitting the target became more frequent.

As his accuracy improved, he moved on to a greater challenge—hitting moving targets. He rigged up a simple contraption: a wooden frame with a rope tied to a hanging board. By pulling the rope, he could make the board swing back and forth.

It wasn't perfect, but it mimicked movement well enough. His first attempts were disastrous, with most shots missing entirely. But he gritted his teeth and kept at it. Morning, noon, and night, he practiced until his arms ached and his hands were raw.

Days passed, and his efforts bore fruit. His shots became quicker, his aim sharper. The moving target no longer seemed impossible. One day, with a satisfying thunk, he hit the swinging board dead center. North smiled, pride swelling in his chest. "Finally," he whispered.

***

It was time for the ultimate test. The skies of Ascalon were home to a small bird called a Scarletwing Sparrow. A bird known for its vibrant plumage and darting flight, a frequent visitor to Fervonia's skies. They were notoriously difficult to catch.

North spotted one perched on a branch near his cottage and readied his slingshot. He waited, watching its movements, and when it took off, he fired.

The stone missed by a wide margin. The bird darted away, unharmed, and North clenched his fists. "Too fast," he muttered, his confidence wavering. But he refused to give in.

He adjusted his form, practiced leading his shots, and tried again. Each failure stung, but it only fueled his determination.

Finally, after countless attempts, one stone hit its mark. The Scarletwing Sparrow faltered and landed on the ground. North approached it carefully, a mix of relief and accomplishment washing over him.

His hands were calloused and bandaged from the hours of practice, but he didn't care. He had done it.

He looked up at the sky, the slingshot in his hand. "This… this is just the beginning," he said, his voice steady.

He went inside his home and slumped on his bed. Initially before, when he was lying on that rock contemplating his life choices, he had thought about using a bow and arrow.

It seemed like the perfect solution, but the thought left a bitter taste as it faded. And this time he was thinking about it too.

"A bow," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely louder than the creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. "It's powerful, yes, but not for me." He leaned back, staring at the beams of the ceiling, his mind unraveling the reasons like strings.

Bows required strength—strength to pull the string, strength to keep the draw steady, strength to fire consistently. North clenched his fists, feeling the weakness in his arms, the lack of muscle that came from years of a quiet, simple life. "This bloodydamn body of mine… it's not built for that yet," he said, his tone carrying both frustration and acceptance.

More than that, a bow was a noble weapon, often wielded by hunters in the town. It carried a weight of expectation, a demand for grace and skill that he wasn't ready to bear.

He could picture himself fumbling with the string, the arrow missing its mark, and the humiliation that would follow. The thought made him shake his head.

"No," he said softly. "Why take a path that doesn't suit me?" His eyes narrowed, and his mind shifted back to the slingshot. It was simple, humble, and familiar—a tool that fit his hands perfectly.

 He remembered the times he'd used it back on Earth, the way it felt natural to him. A slingshot didn't need raw strength or the refinement of a bow. It required precision, patience, and a sharp eye. Those were qualities he could build on, even with his current limitations.

"A man should walk the road he knows before stepping onto unfamiliar ground," North murmured, recalling a saying he'd read once.

The slingshot wasn't just a weapon; it was a sort of reflection of him—a way to take the first step without losing himself in grand ambitions. Afterall he was just an ordinary mundane guy.

With a deep breath, he set the piece of wood aside and looked at his hands again. They were not strong, but they were steady. "I'll start with what I have," he said firmly, determination lighting up his eyes. "I'll focus on the slingshot first. When the time comes, I'll think about the bow. But for now… this is my path."

The moonlight seemed to nod in agreement as it illuminated his small room. North clenched his fists, the resolve in his heart growing. Finally, he saw a small sliver of hope for himself.

Hope, that word, it is not born from logic or evidence but from a stubborn belief that even the harshest winter must yield to spring. Without hope, even the strongest will falters, but with it, even the weakest can rise.