Each arrow must cross a hundred horse-lengths to strike the stacked wooden cylinders of the suren — no scope, no wind gauge, only the archer's breath and the steppe wind.
Archers draw composite horn bows in silk deel robes and lambswool boots with curled toes — the garment is covenant with tradition, not costume for the crowd.
Stacked cylinders register hits by sound alone — no electronics, no replay, just the sharp crack of struck wood echoing across the grassland.
The champion raises arms beneath saffron banners as the crowd's chant carries across the July grassland — three tones rising, the steppe answering back.