As his injuries piled up, Moon's mind ran through every remaining option, and the fastest answer was the simplest one.
Run.
If he couldn't beat it and couldn't outlast it, then he could try to open distance, break line of sight, and buy time for the racial skill's timer to run down somewhere the archer's arrows couldn't reach him.
Without hesitation, he bolted.
He turned and sprinted across the snow in the opposite direction, pouring everything into his legs, his agility carrying him fast across the frozen ground.
The archer read the plan instantly.
It gave chase, and it fired as it ran, arrows screaming after him in a relentless stream. Moon juked and cut and dodged, throwing himself sideways to slip the shots, Air Step letting him change direction faster than the arrows could correct. He avoided the first few, then a few more, weaving a desperate path across the wasteland.
But it wasn't working.
