Chapter 193: The Fundamentals of Archery (3)

The arrows on the table were even more refined than the bow.

“This one’s called a compressed arrow, and there are two versions: one compressed to half its length, and another to a third. I assume I don’t need to tell you the difference,” Volkanus explained.

“It’s the durability, of course,” Keter replied.

“Correct. Theoretically, you could compress it down to a fifth of its size, but then the durability would be so low it would practically be disposable. Sure, it’s doable with enough time and money... but that would be a ridiculous waste.”

“Then the twofold compression is the most efficient option right now.”

“The shape also means we have to make custom quivers for them, which is a bit of a downside.”

Volkanus moved straight into a demonstration, handing the arrow to the knight again. The knight gripped the fletching and pulled, stretching the shaft out until it returned to standard length.

“The fletching is made of goblin steel, which is both flexible and durable.”

“For something you’re calling a compromise, that’s a pretty high-end choice.”

“You could use feathers, sure, but I thought metal would be more practical for storage.”

Volkanus gave a signal with his eyes, and the knight nocked the arrow into an ordinary bow. Once again, he fired at targets placed at fifty, one hundred, and three hundred meters. This time, unlike with the dual bow, the arrows landed close to the center each time.

Volkanus picked up one of the fired arrows and explained, “The tip is awl-shaped to maximize penetration, but also to make it easier to store.”

“You’re really committed to the storage, huh?”

Unable to resist, Taragon threw in a comment.

“Of course I am. Sefira’s life depends on it,” Volkanus replied in a serious tone.

To Taragon’s surprise, Volkanus was not angry with him but dead serious.

In response, Taragon firmly said, “If I may speak frankly... To be honest, I don’t know what the point of all this is.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Keter.

Taragon seemed to imply that the dual bow and compressed arrows that Volkanus proudly presented were ultimately pointless, no matter how impressive they looked. Volkanus would have been justified in smashing his head with a hammer in fury, but Volkanus surprisingly looked intrigued.

“Why do you think that?”

Taragon hadn’t spoken thoughtlessly either; he voiced his opinion based on what he had seen and felt during the Sword of the South Tournament.

“I saw firsthand that you cannot beat true power with tools like these. No matter how rare the metal or advanced the technique, nothing beats a weapon forged from aura. Unless it’s on the level of an artifact, it won’t matter.”

“That’s...”

As Volkanus was about to reply, someone cut in.

“That’s like seeing a black swan once and assuming all swans are black.”

“...?”

Keter, Volkanus, and Taragon stared at the man who had suddenly appeared. His appearance was strange and memorable: carrying a bow twice his height on his shoulder, with bandages covering both eyes.

“And you are?” Keter asked.

“You’re...!”

Volkanus and Taragon recognized him immediately.

The man extended a hand and said, “Nice to meet you. You’re Keter, right? I’m Nelson.”

Keter looked at the outstretched hand and replied dryly, “Wrong way.”

Nelson, who seemed to be blind, had extended his hand toward the opposite side.

“Oops. It gets confusing in a hot forge like this.”

Whoosh!

Nelson turned, and his massive bow swung with him. Taragon yelped and ducked out of the way. Now properly facing Keter, Nelson extended his hand again.

“Nelson.”

“Keter.”

They shook hands. Keter squeezed hard to test Nelson, who didn’t seem like an ordinary person.

To that, Nelson smiled calmly and said, “It hurts. Could you let go?”

“..."

Keter let go, now more serious.

He wasn’t faking.

Nelson’s hand had turned red, and a transparent liquid slid out from under his bandage.

Guess it really did hurt.

Keter had tested Nelson, assuming he was some powerful person, but now he felt a little guilty for hurting him.

“Who’s the idiot, Grandpa?” Keter asked.

Volkanus chuckled.

“He’s got his dumb moments, but don’t judge by appearances. This guy’s one of Sefira’s strongest knights—one of the Seven Stars of the North.”

“The Seven Stars? Oh, that...”

Keter vaguely remembered the name from his past life, though he had never met someone from it. The Seven Stars of the North referred to the seven strongest knights in Sefira.

But this blind man with a monstrous bow and bandages on his eyes is one of them? Wait, now that I think about it... he has no presence.

Keter finally realized what felt off. Nelson had snuck up on him without triggering a single sense. Even if Keter was distracted by the demonstration and Taragon, that shouldn’t have been possible. Not even an assassin master could do that. And yet, Nelson had evaded Keter’s senses even while holding an enormous bow.

Only when I heighten my senses to the max can I even begin to feel him. Incredible. I didn’t know there was an assassin-type archer in Sefira.

Keter was now extremely intrigued by Nelson.

Nelson laid down his bow and reintroduced himself, “If you know of the Seven Stars of the North, then I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Nelson von Mizar, or Mizar of the Seven Stars of the North.”

* * *

Mizar of Sefira wasn’t well known in the Lillian Kingdom, but in the neighboring Baen Kingdom, “Mizar” was a magical word that could make even the angriest noble calm down. That was because Mizar’s sniping technique—hitting targets from absurd distances—surpassed even magic or supernatural abilities. The tally of those killed by Mizar’s arrows was chilling: Fifty-five soldiers, twenty-four knights, eight generals, and seven mages had been killed by Mizar’s arrows.

So why didn’t anyone retaliate? They couldn’t. It was impossible, as Mizar launched his arrows from within the Lillian Kingdom’s own military post. It was absurd, as the Baen Kingdom’s military post was nearly three thousand meters away. It wasn’t even a straight line; it was located at a diagonal, and there was a forest and a small hill in between. Even on flat ground, the idea of an arrow flying three thousand meters and landing accurately was unheard of.

Even if there was an archer capable of shooting that far, it would be impossible to hit the target. Wind, gravity, and obstacles would constantly distort the arrow’s trajectory, and one would also have to predict the target’s movement.

As such, no one believed it. They scoffed, saying it was as likely as lightning striking the same spot ten times. They only believed it after being struck themselves or after seeing a comrade’s forehead pierced by an arrow and scouring the area, only to find no archer in sight. Only then would they tremble in fear and shout the name engraved on the shaft.

“M-Mizar! It’s Mizar’s arrow!”

“The Grim Reaper is here!”

“Take cover, everyone!”

The only small mercy was that Mizar’s sniping came down out of the blue, aimed at a random person. But unlike random lightning, Mizar’s arrows had one distinct feature: they never missed. During his three years stationed on the Baen border, Mizar had fired ninety-four arrows, and not one had missed. Unfortunately, not everyone hit by an arrow died, and twelve of them ended up surviving.

But even that didn’t reassure the soldiers of Baen. How could they feel safe when they didn't know when or where the next arrow would come or who it would target? They couldn’t just keep a magic barrier up around the clock, nor could they fortify an entire base where tens of thousands resided, all because of one man. For three years straight, Baen’s soldiers lived in fear, praying not to be next.

Ironically, the only people who truly understood Mizar’s terror were Baen’s soldiers. In the Lillian camp, Mizar was just a blind, lazy slacker—someone who wandered the camp aimlessly every day and wasted their rations. No one had ever seen him fire a bow. So when he left the camp, no one really cared. No one tried to stop him.

Thus, after three years, Mizar returned to Sefira thanks to Hissop and heard many rumors on the way, especially about Keter, the changes he brought to the household, and his victories in the Sword of the South Tournament.

“It’s like the arrival of a hero.”

Mizar grew suspicious of Keter, the man who had seemingly dragged Sefira back from the gutters. It was natural for him to be doubtful.

“There’s no such thing as a coincidence.”

He was certain that Keter held secrets and motives, and he wanted to know what they were.

“Either way, I’m a knight of Sefira. It’s my duty to protect him.”

If Keter was building up Sefira for some sinister reason, then he was going to punish him.

Then, as fate would have it, Mizar didn’t even have to go looking for Keter. They met right at the forge. There were countless ways to judge a person, but he believed the most accurate one was through conversation. And thanks to Taragon bringing up a perfect topic, the timing for a proper conversation couldn’t have been better.

Having exchanged names with Keter, Mizar now began the real conversation—one meant to uncover Keter’s true intentions.

* * *

“Keter. Do you also believe that tools alone can’t bridge the gap in skill, no matter how excellent they are?”

It sounded like an ordinary question, but in reality, nearly everyone would answer the same way: that tools couldn’t close the gap. There was a pervasive belief that relying on tools was a sign of weakness. However, Keter didn’t care about any of that, and he knew just how important tools were to humans.

“Of course not. What makes humans superior to beasts is our ability to use tools. Mastering tools is a privilege of humanity. Bridge the gap? No—we can surpass it.”

Conveniently, Taragon jumped in to argue on Nelson’s behalf.

“Keter. I agree with what you’re saying. But look at this. No matter how great the tool, it’s useless against monsters like you.”

He suddenly grabbed an arrow and stabbed Keter in the forearm. It was a real combat-grade steel arrowhead. The ones Sefira’s own master blacksmiths made were capable of piercing thick armor and leather with ease. However...

“Ow, that stung.”

“See?! How is that human skin?!”

Everyone watching was shocked. Even Nelson, though blind, grasped what had happened through his sharp hearing and was quietly surprised.

“Incredible. Lord Taragon struck with full force. If that had been a target, it would’ve been pierced clean through. But it didn’t even break skin... Keter, what in the world is your body made of?”

Slap!

Before answering, Keter slapped Taragon on the back. It sounded like a whip cutting the air.

“Aghh! Why did you hit me?!”

“You seriously need to ask? Just because my body’s sturdy doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“There’s not even blood...”

Slap!

“Ow!! Okay, okay! I’m sorry! Next time, I’ll ask before I stab you. Anyway, I proved my point. No matter how great the tool, it’s useless against monsters. In the end, talent rules the world.”

Taragon had grown from the Sword of the South Tournament, but that growth had also opened his eyes to things he hadn’t seen before: the true strength of monstrous beings. Rajis, Henya, Pashian—none of them could defeat Keter, but even they were among the strongest of their age. And to beings beyond them, such as Norman and the Undead, arrows didn’t even work; even aura didn’t affect them.

The helplessness Taragon felt then was unimaginable. His belief in a world where determination could overcome anything crumbled.

Taragon despaired, realizing that some opponents were immune even to aura. He no longer wished to grow stronger. After all, even great strength was still just aura. And what was the point of unleashing aura against an opponent it had no effect on? To have an effect, it had to be a special kind of aura, like a technique. And such techniques couldn’t be learned by just anyone. Only the chosen few could acquire them.

Thus, Taragon formed a new belief that no tool could ever surpass this limit.

Just as Nelson was about to argue, Volkanus spoke up instead.

“Whoa, this is incredible.”

Volkanus marveled as he fiddled with Keter’s forearm.

“If I close my eyes, I would swear this was amantir. What kind of training did you go through to get a body like this?”

“Die hundreds of times and come back. Simple, right?”

“Ha...”

“Please stop touching me. And don’t even think about testing your hammer on me.”

“Ahem, that’s not it. Taragon, you’re right! Keter’s skin can’t be pierced by a steel arrowhead. However...”

This was the forge. Volkanus brought out another arrow.

“If we use an amantir arrowhead, it can pierce him. What this means is that if you use a truly excellent tool, even the weak can kill the strong.”

Swish!

Volkanus aimed the arrow at Keter’s abdomen, but Keter calmly blocked it with his palm.

Thud!

“Huh?”

Slap!

“Ow!”

Just like Taragon, Volkanus got smacked on the back and stumbled forward.

“Y-you! How could you hit me too?”

“I don’t discriminate.”

Keter pulled out the amantir arrow that had lightly pierced his palm and tossed it aside. A drop of blood clung to the tip.

Taragon, even firmer in his belief, said, “You said that an amantir arrow would do it, didn’t you?”

“Ahem! Keter, you used aura, didn’t you? That’s how you blocked it, right?!”

“If I used aura, you would’ve noticed. My hand just reflexively tensed when you aimed at my chest.”

“You mean you didn’t even flex your muscles against the steel arrow?!”

Keter just shrugged in reply.

The soldiers, knights, and Nelson all felt like they were witnessing a magic stunt. Most magic stunts had a trick, but the problem was that Keter’s stunt had no trick.

“Hold on.”

Volkanus didn’t back down and brought out another arrow. A blacksmith’s pride was at stake. This time, it was tipped with a rosy pink metal. Anyone would be able to tell that it was made of orichalcum, which was known as the strongest metal in the world.

Keter let out an incredulous gasp and said, “You’re not really going to stab me with that, are you?”

“Just a little poke. Just one time.”

“That will pierce me. I’m telling you, just put it down, Grandpa.”

“How can I believe you without seeing it? Look at Taragon’s eyes.”

Taragon’s eyes were burning. He was so firm in his belief that without concrete proof, he wouldn’t abandon it.

“Your eyes look the same, Grandpa.”

“Stop whining. You’re, um... Sefira’s something, aren’t you?”

“Give up. I can’t do that, even if you’re the one asking, Grandpa.”

Keter crossed his arms and refused. Then, Volkanus pointed off to the side.

“What? Besil? What are you doing here?!”

Several heads turned toward where he pointed. Who would suspect Volkanus, the great blacksmith, of lying? No one... except Keter.

Keter stared at Volkanus with a look of pity. Volkanus, out of options, charged forward.

“Screw it!”

Volkanus lunged. Keter could have dodged easily, but didn’t. Instead, he extended his palm. He had only refused to annoy them, not because he couldn’t take a hit.

Squelch!

This time, the orichalcum arrowhead pierced Keter’s skin and embedded into his muscle, but it didn’t go through.

“Hah!”

Volkanus was left dangling, gripping the arrow stuck in Keter’s flesh. Keter gently lifted him by the armpits, set him down, and pulled the arrow from his hand.

Clank

.

“As you can see, orichalcum can pierce my skin. You see now? Tools can’t be underestimated,” Keter explained calmly.

Everyone who witnessed it had the same thought.

If it takes orichalcum just to pierce him... what is this guy made of?

Even Nelson, who was trying to test Keter, had forgotten his intentions and found himself clapping like a seal, stunned by Keter’s absurd durability.