A 15 years old boy, Ken. His hands bore the marks of struggle—rough and hardened from his endless practice. His bow, made from scavenged wood, creaked with every pull. Yet, even with its imperfections, it was his lifeline, his companion. Archery was not just a sport to him; it was his purpose. He didn't dream of being rich or having fame. All he wanted was to master the art, to feel the perfect harmony of an arrow released and find himself in its flight. It was like archery was all he had, all he wanted, It was his life.
His family was able to live on just enough money to get by with difficulty. His father worked long hours as a laborer; his mother took on sewing jobs, her fingers worn down by the needle. Despite their struggles, they smiled for him, never letting him see their pain. But he knew. He knew and vowed never to ask for more.
One day, as he trained in a quiet park with his crude bow, a figure watched him from afar—a bent old man, leaning heavily on a cane. The boy ignored him, focused on the target he had drawn in the dirt. The old man eventually approached, his face weathered but his eyes sharp.
"You're wasting your efforts," the man said bluntly.
The boy looked up, startled and slightly annoyed. "What?"
"You'll never hit your mark like that," the man continued, his tone dismissive.
The boy bristled. "And what would you know about it?"
The old man smirked, pulling a cloth from his pocket. He tied it around his eyes, took the boy's bow without asking, and knocked an arrow. With a smooth, fluid motion, he pulled the string back and released it. The arrow sailed through the air, embedding itself in a tree far away. He fired two more arrows, each splitting the one before it.
The boy stood frozen, his mouth dry. "Teach me," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please. I'll do anything."
The old man looked at him for a long moment. "You can't afford my lessons."
"I'll find a way," the boy pleaded. "I'll work day and night. Just tell me your price!"
The man's expression softened. "My price is your time, Boy. But you're not ready for that yet. Win the competition you've been training for, and then come back to me."
The boy nodded, determination blazing in his eyes.
For weeks, he practiced harder than ever. He skipped meals, stayed up late, and pushed his body to its limits. But when the day of the competition came, he faltered. His shots were shaky, his confidence crumbled under the pressure, and he placed dead last.
He returned to the park, tears stinging his eyes. The old man was there, waiting as if he had known this would happen.
"I lost," the boy choked out. "I wasn't good enough."
The old man nodded. "The doors to my academy are open to you. But first, you must understand—archery is not about beating others. It's about mastering yourself."
That night, the boy went home, his mind in deep confusion. The memory of the other competitors—calm, precise, almost untouchable—played on a loop. He didn't eat; he barely slept.
When he woke the next morning, everything had changed.
He opened his eyes to a strange, glowing sky. It was neither day nor night, but an endless twilight. The air shimmered, and the landscape seemed alive—a forest of trees with glowing leaves and roots that pulsed like veins.
"Wh-Where am I?" he murmured, his voice echoing.
A deep voice answered, but no figure appeared. "You are where you need to be."
The boy turned in circles, trying to find the source. "Who…Who are you? And What does that mean?"
There was no reply. Instead, the forest shifted. The trees bent and twisted, revealing a clearing with floating targets. His bow appeared in his hand, but it was different—sleek, elegant, and perfectly balanced.
Without thinking anything else, He tried to shoot, but the string resisted, refusing to draw. Frustrated, he pulled harder, but the bow wouldn't budge.
"Why won't it work?" he yelled.
A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked and faceless. "Because you are fighting it," it said. "Archery is not a force. It is a flow."
The boy spent what felt like weeks in the strange realm. Each day brought a new trial. He climbed mountains that whispered his deepest fears. He crossed rivers that mirrored his inner turmoil. He faced illusions that showed him alternate versions of his life—a version where he had given up archery and settled for a mundane job, a version where he had pursued wealth but lost his family's love. Each vision left him shaken, questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.
He encountered other archers in this world, each a reflection of something he lacked. There was the Archer of Focus, who never missed but was cold and detached. The Archer of Passion, whose shots were wild but powerful. Each taught him something—about balance, about discipline, about himself.
One day, he met a girl, her bow glowing like the moon. She was faster, stronger, and better in every way. She defeated him again and again, her laughter light but never mocking. "You're not ready," she said each time.
But he kept trying. He learned to study her movements, to predict her strikes. And one day, he won.
The girl smiled. "You've learned all you can here. It's time to go back."
He woke in his bed, the morning light streaming through the window. His body felt different—stronger, steadier. When he picked up his bow, it no longer felt like a bow but a part of himself.
At the next competition, he stood among the same archers who had once humiliated him. But this time, he wasn't focused on them. He wasn't even focused on winning. He was focused on the shot, on the moment. Each arrow he released was a conversation with himself, a step closer to harmony.
When the scores were announced, he had won. But the victory felt secondary. What mattered was the journey, the growth.
Years later, as a man, he stood in the same park, The same old man was teaching a group of children. He watched as they struggled, their arrows flying wild. But he didn't scold them. Instead, he smiled, knowing their journey was just beginning.
And though he would never tell anyone, he often thought of that strange realm. Has it been real? Or just a dream? Perhaps it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had faced himself—and found the strength to move forward.
And maybe, just maybe, we all have a realm like that inside us, waiting to be discovered.