Chapter Forty-Nine: One Arrow

The Unbalancing Warcry—this was the first combat technique Lucas had ever mastered, and it remained his most skillful and frequently used move. Though a common foundational technique, its prevalence did not mark it as weak. On the contrary, its versatility, ease of learning, and manifold advantages had led to its widespread adoption across the continent.

Lucas had defeated many foes and monsters with this very move, and on more than one occasion, it had snatched him from the jaws of death. In the life-and-death struggle of battle, even a moment’s distraction could spell defeat. Thus, he did not hesitate; instinctively, he unleashed the warcry.

The roar erupted from deep within his chest, his not-yet-healed bone fractures threatening to split apart from the pain. Blood surged through his veins, the taste of iron and salt rising in his throat, yet he forced himself to stand firm, facing the armored soldiers ahead and executing his technique.

The sound, deafening as a lion’s roar, startled the birds roosting in the trees. Some were so shaken that they lost balance and tumbled into the snow below. The movements of the armored men faltered; some clutched their heads as the numbing sound reverberated within their enclosed metal helms, leaving them dizzy and ringing in the ears.

Against enemies clad in full plate, the Unbalancing Warcry had a particular effect. All those standing before Lucas were affected, unlike when he had faced the Viking raider chieftain, when the technique had failed to work.

“Fall back! Everyone, fall back!” Baldur’s shout sprayed spittle as he too recognized the Raven Banner. Upon his fierce visage, the villagers began to flee into the forest in panic. They did not yet know what had happened, but as the first bolted away, the rest were gripped by fear and stampeded after.

The once-peaceful ravine descended into chaos in an instant.

Veed had no idea what exactly Lucas and Baldur had discovered to prompt such a reaction, but one thing was clear: the men before them were certainly not friends. They had just spoken of a necromancer and of taking the captured ice bear and dwarf back with them. From that brief exchange, it was clear—they served a necromancer.

Most likely, it was the same necromancer who had slaughtered the entire village of Brontë.

Veed had not forgotten what he and Lucas had seen in Brontë: most of the corpses bore sword wounds. It was not poison or plague that killed those villagers—sword cuts had been the fatal cause. He had once thought the necromancer’s zombies or skeletons might have wielded blades to murder the villagers, but in light of what stood before him now, that could not be.

He recalled the deep wounds on the little dog and the old woman—the broad greatswords wielded by the armored knights matched those injuries exactly.

These men were the necromancer’s accomplices, perhaps even his direct subordinates. There was no need for negotiation. Veed drew his sword and struck forward.

He seized the fleeting opportunity Lucas had created and thrust at the heavy knight’s lower thigh. Though the thick plate armor offered formidable protection, the joints—armpit, elbow, knee, neck—were always vulnerable, covered only by chainmail or thin metal plates for flexibility.

Veed’s sword pierced the first knight’s thigh; the man grunted and dropped to one knee. But pain brought clarity—he swung his greatsword at Veed, the force of the blow cleaving the air. Veed twisted his sword free, shifting to a half-swording grip to parry the oncoming blade.

Steel clashed on steel, sparks flying where their swords met. Veed spiraled the knight’s power away into the snow. He parried the armored knight’s strikes with practiced ease—compared to Sweyn’s mountain-like swordplay, this opponent’s technique felt almost feeble to Veed.

He sensed that the knight’s swordplay was all bluster, intimidating in appearance only. Perhaps Veed had simply faced too many formidable foes: Sweyn, and that twisted, stitched abomination—both had wielded power beyond human comprehension.

“They’re Tanians! All men, to arms! Form the line!” shouted the wounded knight behind him. “Hast, fire the signal arrow! We can’t let these Tanians escape!”

Seven more figures emerged from the valley. Alongside the fully armored knights, there were archers in leather and infantry in light mail. It was a well-organized ten-man squad: four heavy knights, four leather-clad archers, and two lightly armored spearmen.

There was one other—Veed saw a faint flicker of fire, a solitary figure left behind in the ravine. That was likely the “dwarf” they’d mentioned, the one taken captive, not a member of their team.

Their true opponents were these ten. Even after Lucas and Veed’s preemptive strike, the squad showed no panic; they calmly formed a defensive block. The recovered heavy knight unstrapped his raven-emblazoned shield, holding sword and shield at the fore, with infantry guarding the flanks and archers clustered at the rear. Even the knight wounded by Veed managed to stand, completing the line by sheer force of will.

Unlike the motley band of pirates, these men had clearly undergone formal training.

One archer, at the knight’s command, withdrew a special arrow from his belt—not to aim at the Tanians, but to point skyward with his longbow. Veed sensed the telltale tremor of magic—it was an enchanted arrow, likely to burst in the sky like festival fireworks once released.

It was a call for reinforcements. There were more of their comrades nearby. They must not let that arrow fly—these ten were trouble enough; if more soldiers arrived, the Tanians’ hard-fought progress would be for nothing. All hope would be lost.

Yet even faced with utter hopelessness, so long as the faintest hope remained, surrender was unthinkable.

Veed took his longbow from his back and drew an arrow from the quiver. Sweat trickled down both Lucas and Baldur’s faces; Lucas, spent from his warcry, leaned on his spear, gasping for breath. Baldur’s hair stood on end as he, too, raised his bow to target the archer—though his hands trembled.

He and Veed loosed their arrows in near unison. Baldur’s shaft failed to pierce the heavy knight’s defense—their shields and plate armor fully enclosing the archers. His arrow glanced off the iron shield, falling harmlessly into the snow.

But Veed’s arrow slipped through the narrowest opening. These knights did not carry tower shields; they could not plant them and cover their whole bodies. The humble wooden arrow found its way through a tiny gap at just the right, impossibly precise angle, and struck the archer in the head.

Blood trickled down from the archer’s forehead. He remained frozen in the posture of drawing his bow, eyes wide, before collapsing backward.

All the soldiers turned and stared in disbelief at their fallen comrade.

How could this be?

How could that arrow possibly have struck its mark?

As soldiers, they knew better than anyone how flawless their defensive formation was. Even if ten archers loosed a volley at them, they were confident they could shield their comrades behind.

It didn’t feel like a mere shot—it was as if some magic had made the arrow vanish, only to reappear, embedded in the archer’s skull.

God of war…

The knight turned to look at that ragged “fallen man,” chills running down his spine and every hair on his body standing on end.