Arrows at Dawn
Muslan chose the bow made from Raiphon tendons. There were many bows with stronger draw weight, but after testing a few pulls, the one he had selected now felt the most complete.
“Shoot.”
Liscal handed him an arrow and spoke. Without hesitation, Muslan drew the bowstring. Everyone watched, recognizing that his form was far from ordinary.
The Raiphon bow was powerful enough that even the strongest man would need to exert his full strength to draw it. With Muslan’s current physical power alone, he should not have been able to handle it properly.
So he used his internal energy.
The bowstring was pulled taut, and the arrow struck the target dead center.
“You were born with strength.”
Everyone murmured in admiration. They knew exactly how difficult it was to draw a bow crafted from a monster’s tendons. Seeing Muslan handle it so effortlessly, their awe was only natural.
“If you had grown up as an adult, Maran might never have fallen.”
Liscal said. Muslan replied calmly.
“That is unlikely.”
“Hmph. You speak well. Then again, you were royalty, so I suppose that is to be expected. How many arrows will you take?”
“The more the better. How many do you have?”
“At least over a hundred. Come this way.”
Liscal led Muslan toward the arrows.
On the battlefield, archers held immense value. That was why Isaac, Obben, and Chira had been assigned to guard Muslan.
They moved toward the northern entrance of the third district.
“Our task is to hold this position. A great many will come, but we must stop them. If they break through, everything will be plundered. I hear the fourth district has already become hell.”
It was a slave rebellion.
Did they have any noble cause?
This uprising was simply the eruption of long-suppressed rage. Such rage, once unleashed, would be violent—cruel beyond what they had suffered at the empire’s hands.
“We are fortunate in one regard. The fourth district never had many residents. Still, many must have died. A great many.”
When slaves plundered, they began with murder. They hungered for food and women, and sometimes set fires.
At the northern entrance, guards stood heavily armed. Shield bearers formed the front line, spearmen stood behind them, and wooden barricades with soldiers filled the gaps. Archers were scattered among them. The men from Roccom Arena had gathered together. In total, just over three hundred fighters.
“How long must we hold?”
Isaac asked Liscal. The manager answered flatly.
“Until the suppression forces arrive.”
While waiting, Muslan continued to handle the bow. The Raiphon bow had many qualities he liked. Most bows reached 150 to 200 meters. Yet this one felt capable of 500 meters if he wished.
Of course, Muslan had no intention of shooting at such extreme range. He would use his internal energy sparingly and fight at mid-distance. Though sniping was within his ability, he preferred mid-range shooting—especially rapid volleys.
“They are coming, are they not?”
“They are here?”
Dawn had not yet broken; darkness still lingered. The rebels were not yet visible. But to Muslan, whose senses had sharpened with the formation of his dantian, their approach was clear.
“Yes.”
As he spoke, Muslan raised the bow at a forty-five-degree angle and released.
The arrow soared in a long arc.
Kuek!
A strange scream echoed from afar. Everyone’s ears perked up at once, as though they had rehearsed the moment. They knew the battle had begun.
“Prepare yourselves!”
There was no overall commander. Only gladiator slaves and guards from the arenas defended the gate. Each manager looked after his own men, so no single leader controlled the entire force.
Even so, they followed Liscal’s orders. The other managers did not object to his commands.
‘He must have a solid reputation.’
Had his standing been poor, the soldiers from other arenas would never have listened to him in such a crisis.
Regardless, the rebel horde soon appeared. Fighting erupted at the front. Muslan, positioned in the middle line, drew his bowstring. Isaac, Obben, and Chira watched the situation calmly; their turn had not yet come.
Whish!
Muslan loosed arrows with fluid speed.
“You were an archer?”
They had already sensed something unusual in the way he handled the bow. Now, in battle, his true skill shone.
His rate of fire was terrifying.
Standing atop the table piled with arrows, Muslan released one shaft every few seconds. Each arrow found its mark—most often between a rebel’s eyes.
Whish! Whish! Whish! Whish!
The rebels were no fools. As arrows rained down, they advanced behind raised shields. With so few defenders, the lines quickly became entangled.
Once that happened, shooting became dangerous. An arrow might strike an ally instead.
Imagine an ally’s arrow striking the back of your head while you fought for your life. Nothing could be more horrifying.
“Put the bow down now.”
Liscal ordered. Muslan ignored him.
They were outnumbered. Sooner or later the fight would turn into a chaotic melee. He had to make the most of this moment while he still had clear shots.
‘Not a chance.’
If he had intended to stop shooting so soon, he would never have brought the arrows at all. Over two hundred shafts had come with him. He had not yet used even a tenth. Muslan planned to loose every last one.
“Push them back. Fall back with me.”
In his previous life he had served as a soldier for a great power. He was not the sort to charge blindly into battle. Such a man would never have gathered followers without reason. Every decision had purpose.
An archer’s greatest advantage was controlling distance. When the enemy pressed forward, the defenders could simply retreat. The front line would hold while they fell back.
They pushed the cart loaded with arrows thirty paces to the rear, then resumed shooting. Liscal clicked his tongue in irritation.
“You might hit our own men!”
Whish!
Thud!
His worry proved unnecessary. Even amid the swirling melee, Muslan struck only enemies. His rate of fire had slowed to roughly half its earlier speed, yet it remained deadly.
“It will not hit them.”
“……”
After confirming the arrows struck true, Liscal turned away with an awkward cough.
“Still need to check?”
“No. It seems they will not hit.”
Whish!
Another arrow flew. Though slower now, it was still swift.
Whish!
Like a sniper’s shot, the arrow buried itself in a rebel’s body.
As long as the lines did not fully merge, arrows remained devastating. The rebels’ equipment was pitiful. Some wore armor, but it was neither uniform nor well-fitted. With the Raiphon bow in his hands, Muslan could pierce light armor with ease.
Thud!
An ally who had dropped his sword was about to be cut down when Muslan’s arrow saved him. The guard looked back in surprise and met Muslan’s eyes. They nodded to each other. The man retrieved his sword and returned to the fight. Even so, his chances of survival were slim.
“Damn it… how many have crossed over? Were there this many gladiator slaves in the fourth district?”
“Not only gladiator slaves. Ordinary slaves must have joined as well. And have you forgotten what the fourth district specializes in? They hold mostly group battles there.”
Each district favored a particular style of match. The fourth district contained the largest arenas in Airs precisely because group battles were common. Consequently, it housed far more gladiator slaves than any other district—men far more accustomed to battlefield conditions than those who fought only in individual duels.
“Fall back, Isaac.”
Muslan remained composed even now. It was almost unsettling how steady he seemed. Even veterans like Isaac and Obben felt the battlefield’s fever—fear and awe mingled together—and were ready to charge at any moment.
Yet Muslan continued shooting calmly while assessing the entire situation. When Isaac started forward in excitement, Muslan called him back in an even voice.
“The time to fight will come soon enough. Save your strength for then.”
“But… they are pushing too hard.”
“That is their duty. They have trained for this and been paid accordingly. Wait. Your turn will come.”
“They are here!”
Obben shouted. Reinforcements had poured in from behind.
“The suppression forces?”
“No. Guards from other arenas.”
“Tsk. When will they arrive?”
“They are slow. They are probably still asleep in their mansions. How could they come at once?”
The battle dragged on. The line nearly broke several times, but fresh guards from other arenas helped seal the entrance once more.
If the gate fell, the rebels waiting behind would flood through and end everything in moments.
The rebels outnumbered the defenders by at least ten to one. It was impossible to see how many more waited just beyond the entrance.
Eventually a few rebels reached the position where Isaac, Obben, and Chira stood. The front line still held, but the pressure was mounting.
Whoosh!
While skillfully dispatching the enemies who had slipped through, Isaac cried out.
“It is not only the fourth district. The fifth must have joined as well. There is no end to them!”
“Does that matter now? They are crossing over. Protect Muslan. We must protect him at all costs. Damn it, they are pushing again.”
More and more rebels poured in. The fighting grew fiercer, and the outnumbered defenders grew desperate.
They held only because fresh allies kept arriving in small groups.
This was why a proper chain of command mattered. Had all the arena guards answered to a single leader, they could have responded far more efficiently. Instead, each man served a different private employer, so information and reaction times varied wildly.
“Chira!”
Chira had been driven back while fighting two men. He had cut one down, but the second pressed him. Fallen, he tried to resist, yet a spear was about to pierce his body.
Then a helping hand appeared.
More precisely, a spear.
A two-meter spear flew through the air and drove straight through the chest of the man about to kill Chira.
Tat-tat-tat!
Whish! Whish! Whish!
A figure rushed forward at incredible speed and cut down three enemies in succession.
“A knight!”
Obben shouted.