Chapter 49: The First Arrow

Imbalance Shout was the first combat technique Lucas had mastered and the one he used most proficiently. Though a common foundational skill, this didn’t make it weak. On the contrary, its widespread adoption across the continent stemmed from its versatility, low learning curve, and numerous advantages.

Lucas had defeated countless enemies and monsters with this technique, narrowly escaping death several times. In life-or-death battles, even a moment’s distraction could mean defeat. Without hesitation, he instinctively unleashed it again.

The war cry erupted from his vibrating chest, the still-healing bone fractures sending waves of excruciating pain through his body. Blood vessels burst as a coppery taste flooded his throat, yet he persevered, directing the technique at the fully armored soldiers before him.

The deafening roar, like a lion’s fury, startled birds from their perches in the trees. Some even lost balance, tumbling onto the snow. The soldiers’ movements froze—some clutched their heads as the paralyzing sound reverberated inside their sealed metal helmets, causing tinnitus and dizziness.

Imbalance Shout had special effects against fully armored opponents. Unlike its ineffectiveness against the Viking pirate leader, this time it worked perfectly against the soldiers facing Lucas directly.

“Fall back! Everyone fall back!” Bardel’s spit flew as he shouted, having recognized the raven banner. His twisted expression sent the villagers scrambling into the forest. Though unclear about the situation, panic spread instantly when someone started running, creating a chaotic stampede across the formerly peaceful ravine.

Wade didn’t understand what Lucas and Bardel had suddenly discovered to cause such alarm, but one thing became clear—these men before them were no friends. Their mention of a necromancer and references to captured ice bears and dwarves confirmed they served a master of the dark arts. Most likely, the same necromancer who had slaughtered Bronte Village.

Wade remembered vividly—most corpses in Bronte Village bore sword wounds, not poison or plague marks. At the time, he’d assumed zombies or skeletons under the necromancer’s control had wielded the blades. But now, seeing these soldiers, he recalled the deep wounds on the old woman and her dog—wounds that perfectly matched the broadswords these armored knights carried.

These men were the necromancer’s accomplices, possibly his direct subordinates. No negotiation remained necessary. Wade drew his sword and struck forward, seizing the brief opportunity Lucas had created. His blade targeted the heavy knight’s thigh gap—while plate armor provided strong protection, joints like armpits, elbows, knees, and necks remained vulnerable, typically reinforced only with chainmail or thinner metal plates for flexibility.

Wade’s sword pierced the first knight’s thigh, drawing a muffled groan as the man dropped to one knee. But pain also cleared the knight’s mind—he swung his greatsword with enough force to create visible air pressure. Wade withdrew his bloodied blade and transitioned seamlessly into Spinning Sword Style, deflecting the attack with a shower of sparks as steel met steel. Using a spiraling motion, he redirected the knight’s momentum into the snow.

Compared to Sven’s mountain-like sword techniques, this knight’s strikes felt almost feeble to Wade—superficial and intimidating only in appearance. Perhaps his standards had been raised too high after facing monsters like Sven and that twisted sewn beast, whose powers defied normal comprehension.

“They’re Tanians! All units, form ranks!” the wounded knight bellowed. “Haast, fire the signal arrow! Don’t let these Tanians escape!”

Seven more figures emerged from the ravine—not just plate-armored knights, but also leather-clad archers and lightly armored spearmen. A well-organized ten-man squad: four heavy cavalry, four archers, and two spearmen. Wade noticed an eleventh flame lingering in the ravine—likely their captive “dwarf,” not part of their main force.

Despite being ambushed by Lucas and Wade, the soldiers formed disciplined ranks without panic. The recovered knights raised raven-emblazoned shields, creating a front line with swords ready, while spearmen guarded the flanks and archers positioned themselves at the rear. Even the knight Wade had wounded stood through sheer willpower to complete the formation—a far cry from the disorganized pirate rabble, clearly products of professional training.

One archer drew a peculiar arrow from his quiver after the knight’s command. Instead of aiming at the Tanians, he nocked it toward the sky. Wade sensed magical energy pulsing from the arrow—a signal flare that would explode colorfully like festival fireworks when launched. Reinforcements would come swarming if that arrow flew. Ten opponents were trouble enough; more soldiers would spell certain doom for the refugees who’d struggled so far.

Though their situation seemed hopeless from the moment these soldiers appeared, Wade refused to surrender while hope remained. He slung his longbow forward and drew an arrow. Lucas and Bardel dripped with nervous sweat—Lucas leaned heavily on his spear, panting from the technique’s exertion, while Bardel’s hair stood on end as he shakily aimed his own bow at the archer.

Their arrows flew simultaneously. Bardel’s shot bounced harmlessly off the knights’ shields and armor, embedding in snow. But Wade’s arrow found the only possible gap—these shields weren’t tower shields that could fully cover the body when planted. His ordinary wooden shaft slipped through a microscopic opening at a perfect, impossible angle, striking the archer square in the forehead.

Blood trickled down the archer’s face as he toppled backward, eyes wide in shock, still holding his firing stance. All soldiers turned to stare at their fallen comrade in disbelief.

How?

How could that arrow have hit?

As professional soldiers, they knew better than anyone how impenetrable their formation should be. Ten archers firing simultaneously couldn’t breach their defenses. That shot hadn’t seemed to fly—it was as if magic had made the arrow vanish briefly before materializing in their comrade’s skull.

War god above…

The lead knight turned to stare at the ragged-looking man who’d fired the impossible shot, goosebumps rising as a tingling dread crawled down his spine.