When fighting against brigands, it is always important to make sure you're not going to die. Skill, strength, and agility all play their part, but a good deal of battles are won based on luck– or rather, the strategist's interpretation, manipulation, and use of the odds.

Five against one are never good odds.

As the thugs neared the young man, they taunted him; after all, what could one skinny kid do? He didn't even have a close range weapon! The young man, for his part, didn't flinch. He simply ignored the barbs, reaching behind his shoulder, drawing an arrow, and nocking it. Within moments, it was over: he loosed his first arrow into a man's throat, then rapidly fired off four more shots. Every arrow hit exactly where he intended it to.

He didn't smile or congratulate himself on his accuracy or speed, or even on the arrow that went clean through the third man's throat, disappearing to only the Goddess knew where. He just scanned the area for more threats and, upon finding none, retrieved whatever arrows were still usable and went to meet the rest of his group.

No, five to one are never good odds.

Not when you're a bunch of lowlifes against the Greil Mercenaries' one and only Rolf.

"Alright, listen up," Rolf barked.

Goddess, I'm starting to sound more like Shinon every day. Am I really sure this is what I'm supposed to do with my life?

He eyed the seven or eight youths in front of him. He wasn't that old himself– just barely legal age (although when did that stop him from having a good time with his companions?)– maybe a whole whopping two years older than some of his students. But they all looked at him the same way he used to look at Shinon: wide eyed, mouths slightly open, completely in awe of the sheer expertise they had the opportunity, no, the honour of seeing. All except one. The dark haired boy with impossible eyes– each one half green and half grey– was just staring at him with an implacable expression, blinking on occasion.

He looked utterly bored.

"When I say go, you're going to shoot at the target in front of you. You're going for speed here, but that doesn't mean that accuracy isn't important. After everyone is out of arrows, I'll go out and count the points. Missing the target is no points. Hitting your neighbour's target is negative points based on where you hit their target."

Everyone nodded solemnly, easing their bows into position. The half-eyed boy just stretched, his bored expression never fading.

"Get shooting."

Most of the students' hands were still reaching when the first– and second– arrows hit their target.

Before he could see which student had shot those first arrows, other bolts were flying through air and obscuring his vision. So, using common sense, he simply waited to see who was the first one finished. Unsurprisingly, it was the dark haired boy.

As the boy stood watching his peers, Rolf suddenly came to the realization that he really wasn't a boy. The student was probably only a few months younger than himself, and the only reason he was referring to him as a boy was because Rolf wanted to distance himself in age from these children– because Rolf himself was, in fact, still a child. Screw legal age or coming of age or puberty or how many people he'd killed. He was still young, still learning, and the only difference between him and many of his students was a few months and two wars.

Who the hell do I think I am, trying to teach kids my age?

"Enough! Wait there and don't move. Make note of the coloured stripe on your bow, your arrows match that colour. I'm going to count the points and then you can see for yourselves how you did."

He could hear excited whispers as he counted each colour. Ultimately, the students were all pretty average. Everyone shot their own target for once, which was nice. Something was off though; the orange arrows yielded an average score, but...

"Alright, come get your bolts. Good shooting guys, I'll see you all in a few days."

He caught the bored student's eye though, and motioned for him to come over. The student raised an eyebrow, but sauntered over anyway, bow slung over his shoulder and hands in pockets.

"Yes?"

"For someone who looks so bored, you have a pretty average score- in fact, it was exactly average." The teen's face didn't move, although there was something in those dual coloured eyes– a spark of some kind– but it was gone before Rolf could place it. "I want to see you tomorrow, early, and see if we can't get a sense of what's going wrong."

The student nodded, passed the orange-striped bow off to his teacher, and left.

Tomorrow would be interesting; perhaps he could see what this boy was truly capable of. Because those missed shots were spaced precisely and evenly around the target to get an exact score of exactly half the total amount of points. There was no way that was an accident or coincidence.

A miss that close was precision with arrogance.