In mid-air, the crossbow bolt traced a barely discernible arc before finally embedding itself halfway into a cart at the perimeter of the caravan. The shaft quivered incessantly at its tail end.
The caravan members gazed at the crossbow bolt impaled upon the cart, momentarily stunned, before someone, unknown, shouted, prompting a somewhat chaotic counterattack.
As a caravan belonging to the renowned Bauhinia Merchants' Guild, Mular possessed no shortage of weapons. Apart from ensuring that each member of the caravan received the most basic sword or dagger, bows and crossbows could also be shared among two or three people, with arrows in ample supply.
Thus, despite the initial disarray, it wasn't long before a dozen arrows were launched towards the bandit group. Amidst this, Mular's shouts echoed:
"Stay calm, stay calm, aim properly!"
"Buse, you're shooting too far off, aim better before you fire!"
"Jomar…"
"…"
The bandit group, evidently unprepared for such "disobedience" from the caravan, were momentarily taken aback by the counterattacking arrows. Upon realizing the situation next, their fury ignited, as they shouted and brandished their finest bows and crossbows, intent on suppressing the caravan with overwhelming force in retaliation.
What Richard witnessed next was akin to a children's game.
Separated by a hundred meters, the bandit group and the caravan exchanged arrows, interspersed with curses. Yet, beyond this, neither side took further action.
The caravan, naturally not foolish enough to abandon their defensive line of carts, merely hid within the circle, steadfastly shooting arrows. Meanwhile, the bandit group, intimidated by the caravan's "fierce" shooting that was no weaker than their own, dared not advance, save for shouting louder and urging their companions to aim better.
Thus, the two sides confronted each other, engaging in a "fierce battle" with crossbow bolts flying ceaselessly through the air. After a few minutes, the outcome of their "battle" was rather remarkable—despite the autumn rain and cold wind, despite the considerable distance between them, the exceptional skill of the archers on both sides repeatedly set new "records" in the prolonged exchange of fire.
By the time Richard felt a yawn coming on, the casualties stood at: five bandits wounded by the caravan, and three caravan members wounded by the bandits. Indeed, merely wounded—the most severely injured had a stray arrow lodge in their arm, temporarily incapacitating them. The least injured had an arrow strike their toe, hopping around while curses flew from their lips, urging their companions to retaliate.
"Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh…"
Arrows still flew through the air, and due to the prolonged battle, the arrow reserves of both sides began to dwindle. Yet, this posed no difficulty for the clever combatants; members from both sides almost simultaneously conceived of a method—collecting the arrows shot by the opponent for "recycling."
Thus, one saw the caravan members, with wooden boards atop their heads, laboriously pulling out arrows embedded in the carts and handing them to their companions. The bandit group had it even easier; they merely ran to where arrows landed, plucked them out, and continued on their way. The rain-soaked ground was soft, requiring no effort at all.
Richard watched, watched, and finally could no longer contain himself.
Turning to the members of the First Guard, he saw the same expressions on their faces. He shook his head and spoke, "Hand me a crossbow."
"Yes, sir."
A delicate crossbow was promptly handed to Richard.
Richard gripped the crossbow, his gaze fixed on the bandit group. After taking a deep breath, he slowly raised his arm and squinted. For an instant, the air seemed to freeze.
"Patter, patter, patter," the autumn rain continued to fall, the raindrops the size of soybeans landing incessantly upon the ground.
"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh," the wind blew, rustling the leaves and making people shiver.
In the rain, in the wind, on the muddy road, Richard's crossbow slowly moved, constantly adjusting.
"The speed of falling raindrops…approximately 8.5 meters per second…"
"Wind speed, strongest at around 5 meters per second, weakest at about 1 meter per second, average…"
"Air humidity around 85%, continuously increasing…"
"Gravitational conditions, normal…"
"Distance between 105 and 105.5 meters…"
"…"
With each calculation, Richard's crossbow aimed slightly askance. Upon completing all calculations, the crossbow was not pointed at any bandit but at a patch of air above one of them.
After all, real shooting differs vastly from computer games; whether bullets or crossbow bolts, they follow an arcuate path in flight. Thus, even the most precise aim may not guarantee a hit, and one must consider all potential influencing factors, calculate the expected deviation, to achieve an accurate strike. Otherwise, it would be like the bandit group and the caravan, mere child's play.
"Child's play…" Richard shook his head inwardly, his arm tensing as all his muscles tightened, causing the crossbow to cease its minutest tremble instantaneously.
Then, with a "click," the trigger was pulled, and the arrow transformed into a streak of darkness, tracing a noticeable downward and leftward arc through the rain, striking the throat of a bandit in the distance.
"Pfft!"
The powerful penetration force pierced straight through the bandit's throat, tearing open the carotid artery and most of his neck. As it continued its course, it deflected upon encountering the spine, ultimately protruding halfway out of the bandit's neck from the side.
Blood spurted from the wound like a fountain, and the unlucky bandit swayed before collapsing as a corpse onto the waterlogged ground.
Upon witnessing this, the other bandits couldn't help but utter exclamations of shock, with the first to exclaim becoming the next unfortunate soul.
"Click—Swoosh!"
Another crossbow bolt shot from Richard's hand, once again piercing a bandit's neck and snatching away life.
Then came the third, the fourth…
As Richard shot and continually accumulated various environmental data, he became increasingly aware of the impact the surroundings could have, and his shooting speed increased…ever faster, snatching away the lives of the bandits one by one.
Five, six, seven…
When the seventh bandit fell in the same manner as his comrades before him, panic began to take root and spread among the bandit group…
On the other hand, the caravan's reaction was considerably slower than that of the bandit group. After all, everyone was busy shooting arrows and collecting those shot by the bandits, having no time to scrutinize what was happening among the bandit group.
"Swoosh!"
Another crossbow bolt was fired, and Emi stretched his somewhat sore arm, glancing around. He found everyone engaged in various endeavors, attempting to contribute to the "defensive battle," albeit mostly in a comical manner.
For instance, the nearest person was a cart driver, who had never handled a bow or crossbow in his life. With all his might, he was struggling to draw the bowstring and send an arrow zigzagging fifty to sixty meters. This distance was clearly too short to reach any bandit, merely wasting "ammunition."
Elsewhere, a caravan guard, stronger than the rest, at least knew how to use a bow. However, his eyesight was evidently poor, struggling to place an arrow on the bowstring, failing several times before finally dropping the arrow to the ground. He awkwardly bent to pick it up, continuing his "arduous" task of placing it on the bowstring upon retrieving it.