"All of them are busy in vain," Alex mused with a hint of disdain, drawing back the string of his crossbow with great effort and nocking a bolt firmly into place. Taking a deep breath, he closed one eye, squinting the other into a sharp focus on the bandit group.
In that moment, pride swelled within him; while his usual performance may not have shone brightest, now it was evident he surpassed ninety-nine percent of those in the caravan. The hardships of his younger life had left him steeled against fear when facing the bandits; while a twinge of anxiety lingered, he remained resolute, releasing his bolts with determination.
Most importantly, he could aim—he could truly aim!
This crucial fact needed reiteration: he was indeed capable of hitting his mark! Perhaps he was the only one in the entire caravan who took the time to aim before shooting.
In stark contrast to the others, whose shots were nearly blind and erratic, his chances of hitting were considerably amplified. Not to mention, from his previous volleys, five bandits now lay wounded, two of which were felled by his own hand.
What filled Alex with the greatest satisfaction was his arrow delivered a killing blow—a precise shot to a bandit's shoulder, blood staining the thief's garb in an instant. There was no need for further consideration; within moments, the bandit would succumb to his wounds.
In truth, he, Alex, had indirectly slain a genuine thief! Who among the rest of the caravan could boast such an accomplishment? In that moment, he felt triumphant over all present.
Hmph, even if the caravan dismissed him now, what of it? Other merchant groups in Myron would undoubtedly clamor for his services! And when Miss Melissa, under her father's insistence, came begging for his return to Bauhinia, he would refuse, relishing her humiliation.
Good! Just like that!
As excitement coursed through him, his gaze remained fixed upon a distant target, his teeth instinctively biting down on his lip. He steadied himself, applying pressure to the trigger.
"Whoosh!"
The bolt shot forth with astonishing speed!
"Thud!"
In a heartbeat, the bolt found its mark, piercing through the bandit's throat and shredding veins, causing the unfortunate soul to cry out in vain and collapse.
This!
Alex froze, astonished.
He stared at the bandit crumpling in the distance, blood spraying into the air and glistening momentarily before falling—a surreal sight. A tremor of disbelief coursed through him as he glanced at his own hands, surprised by the sudden surge of skill.
His aim had been directed at the bandit's torso, a larger target, yet it had magically struck true against the throat, killing him in an instant.
This was murder in its rawest form—nothing like the mere wounding he had achieved before.
"Haah!"
Alex's breath came in ragged gasps, his blood thunderous in his veins. In that moment, he felt a genius manifest within him, a brilliance rarely matched. The revelation of his prowess surged forth, long dormant, now awakened by the sheer adrenaline of the moment.
Such capability! It wasn't merely a spurious claim; even in Myron and its surrounding nations like Prue, few could rival his accuracy!
"Hmph, unless the head of the Bauhinia Guild personally apologizes to Miss Melissa, I shall leave the guild and let them taste the cost of losing talent!" As he contemplated, his fingers trembled with eagerness to reload and unleash another volley—the more bandits he felled, the more he could prove his worth.
But as he began to reload, poised to nock another bolt into his crossbow, he was left taken aback. For—
For the trigger had worn out, and despite his earlier pull, the bolt had not been released, still nestled within the slot.
Then…
He widened his eyes, turning to the direction of the bandits, spotting a still-spraying corpse on the ground, confusion washing over him: if he had not fired, who among them had delivered that fatal shot?
"Whoosh!"
In that moment of uncertainty, another bolt streaked through the rain, finding its target with unerring precision, embedding itself in a different bandit's throat.
"Thud!" The thief collapsed, splashing muddy water across the ground.
"Ah!" Alex exclaimed in surprise, for he recognized the figure behind the onslaught—Richard!
With relentless proficiency, Richard's bolts flew, toppling bandit after bandit in quick succession, one after another...
Alex's eyes gleamed with astonishment, widening further in disbelief...
Meanwhile, the other members of the caravan, only just realizing the change in tide, began to glance around, noticing the dwindling number of arrows coming from the opposing bandits.
Before long, they beheld a horrific scene—a battleground transformed into a realm of death, where the remaining bandits, akin to condemned souls awaiting the reaper's decree, cowered in fear.
With each flight of Richard's bolts, at least one bandit lost their life—each shot finding its mark with lethal accuracy.
Those who remained quivered in terror, too afraid to flee. For who dared run would surely become the next casualty—fleeing too fast would only hasten their end.
Should they remain, they would die nonetheless, met with an unpredictable fate. Perhaps it would be the ugliest among them, or the poorly clad, or perhaps one whose eyes widened in dread; no one knew where the next arrow would fly.
The ranks of bandits thinned with every passing moment, devoured by the terror of one man's unrelenting aim...
The members of the caravan stood frozen, shock etching their faces. Mular's eyes glittered as he gazed at Richard, torn between belief and disbelief. Miss Melissa looked up, her mouth agape in disbelief, nearly revealing her throat's depths. After a prolonged moment, she finally remembered to cover her mouth, letting out a sharp, choked exclamation, "What in the world?!"
Richard paid them no heed, focusing his narrowed gaze and relentless shooting.
"The fall rate of raindrops... approximately 8.3 meters per second, slowly decreasing…"
"Wind speed, averaging at two meters per second, gradually increasing…"
"Humidity at around 88%, still rising, but nearing its peak…"
"Gravitational conditions remain normal…"
"Distance is between 112.5 and 113 meters…"
"…"
"Whoosh!"
Another bolt loosed forth, claiming another bandit's life. At this point, the number of bandits had dwindled by nearly half, leaving those who remained engulfed in overwhelming dread, their nerves stretched to the point of breaking.
In the next moment, accompanied by yet another arrow's flight, it was as though the final straw had fallen—those remaining in the bandit ranks let out a shriek and scattered like frightened prey to all corners. In that instant, they shattered psychologically, heedless of all but the instinct to flee from this nightmare. Some even irrationally charged toward Richard and the First Guard, blindly rushing into the fray, desperation guiding their steps.