Chapter 16
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Bandit Subjugation
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I stared at the dozens of arrows raining down from the sky.
Difficulty? And extremely difficult, no less?
Suddenly?
Why? How? What the hell was happening?
I couldn't comprehend it.
All sorts of thoughts flooded my mind, but even as my head grew heavy, my body followed its survival instincts and moved of its own accord, ignoring my will.
I kicked off from my spot and broke from the formation.
There was no way to block that volley of arrows.
I bolted blindly and took cover behind a tree.
The trees around here weren't large, but they were plenty big enough to hide my small frame.
Screams erupted amid the arrows pouring down like a thick downpour, jumbling my thoughts.
My head throbbed.
My breath came in gasps, and my body shook like an aspen leaf.
"Uwaaaack-!"
"Arrows, what the fuck!"
"Kill that informant bastard! They said these were guys who turned to banditry 'cause drought ruined their crops! How the hell'd they get that many bows and arrows?!"
"My arm! My arm!"
Pandemonium.
Fortunately, the knights deflected arrows while shielding the nobles, and the soldiers—startled but trained—hoisted their shields to ward off the barrage, keeping losses light. But the adventurers, lacking both shields and the skill to bat away arrows, suffered heavy casualties.
Just one volley, and several were out of the fight.
The situation looked grim.
Even the noble leading us wore a look of bewilderment.
We'd figured they might have bows and arrows, but unleashing dozens in a single salvo? No one saw that coming.
"Sir Neon!"
The noble called out to the knight, who swiftly scanned the arrows stuck in the ground and reported.
"They're all properly crafted arrows."
"Properly... crafted."
That sent a chill through me too.
These were bandits pushed to the brink, with nothing left to lose.
For them to wield proper arrows? Something was seriously off.
Everyone here realized it.
But the second volley came down faster than our realization.
Someone spotted me.
Seeing me ducked behind the tree, they bellowed.
"Hide! Get behind the trees!"
Everyone who wasn't dead or crippled scrambled for tree cover.
Two more went down to arrows mid-sprint.
Blood pooled on the ground.
The rain from yesterday left the earth damp; now a metallic tang mingled with the wet soil scent.
"No weapon beats a bow on open flats with no cover, but spots like this have their limits!"
Shouted loud enough for the bandits to hear, on purpose.
Arrows aren't infinite; they couldn't spam them forever.
And behind trees? Good luck landing hits.
Trunk blocks the front, branches shield the sky.
The trees were small—everyone else's bodies peeked out a bit unlike mine—but if they could nail a glancing exposure like that, they'd be city guards or adventurers anywhere.
Not rotting in these hills playing bandit.
"Damn it all. When we get back, I'll carve out that informant's tongue and slice his hand and foot tendons."
The noble spat the words like chewing gravel, scanned around, then signaled.
Everyone dashed to the nearest tree on cue.
Like this, inching closer.
Nearly eleven down, sure—but we still held superior numbers and quality.
Or so we believed.
"Can't trust the informant anymore. Better safe than sorry."
The noble hand-signaled; soldiers raised shields against potential skyward shots and reformed ranks.
The mountain lair's wooden barricade looked flimsy enough—a single rush would smash it.
"Sir Neon! You're on barricade duty!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Adventurers—once we breach, follow and wipe 'em out!"
"“Understood!”"
Under noble command, shock morphed to taut readiness.
Hard to believe these were the same bored, slack folks from moments ago—eyes sharp, grips tight with tension.
I glanced up at the branch-veiled sky.
Arrow rain ceased.
Ammo dry? Or gave up on hits? Didn't matter—in clear skies unfit for it, chills prickled anyway.
Cloudless heavens, but arrows fell rain-like regardless.
I bit my lip, fingers tracing the sword hilt.
Sweat-slick palm clung stickily to the leather—unpleasant.
Lives snuffed so pointlessly.
Watching firsthand, futility hit harder than shock.
Seeing souls flicker out bug-worse, disgust for this world renewed.
Loathsome.
So I must become loathsome too.
No gain in solo purity plays.
Ranks reformed. Noble's signal, and knights-soldiers charge—we follow.
And I'd kill with steel too.
That frozen moment—the dice roll, "subjugation difficulty: extremely difficult" echo—nagged, but what could I do?
Just tag along.
So eyes front on my must-dos, not can't-dos.
Noble raised hand.
All eyes locked on it.
He slashed it down firm—signal.
"Charge-!!"
Knight cloaked mace in eerie glow, surged first; drilled soldiers trailed.
We tailed those soldiers.
Our move triggered volley three.
But earlier surprise won't repeat—alert now.
Skilled adventurers handled incoming arrows solo.
Parried, blocked.
I hoisted my wooden shield overhead—forgotten till now.
Crack-!
Shield splintered, arrowhead poked through—but missed my flesh.
"Uwaaaack-!"
Sharp wail from behind.
No deflection skill, no prep gear—unready lot.
Wanted to glance back.
If helpable, shouldn't I?
Least drag to trees arrow-proof? Fleeting conscience sparked—but shoved aside.
Be ruthless.
No formation breaks.
Weak pleas drilled ears, echoed brain—but my charge faced front, not rear.
"Uwaaaack!"
All about—nobles, knights, soldiers, adventurers—roared.
They weren't fearless.
Overwhelming odds or not, one slip ends you—fear levels all.
So bellow to bury dread.
"Uwaa-!"
I joined, mouth gaping in primal yell.
Fear inevitable—dredge others to smother it.
Excitement surges; fear-pounded heart thuds wild, cold sweat slicks brow-back-palms.
Roars summon thrill; vision tunnels.
Periphery shrinks—but forward? Razor-sharp.
Crude thorn-barricade exploded under Sir Neon's mace—boom! Shards everywhere.
No volley four.
"Shields! Front!"
Commanding knight barked; sky shields pivoted forward.
Knees bent low, spears leveled.
"Enter-!!!"
Noble's cry—we poured past breach after knights-soldiers.
Metal shrieks clashed with shouts-screams.
Dust-blood bloomed; stronghold entry, blind arrow skewered adjacent adventurer's brow—he crumpled.
Casualties massive.
No standard subjugation.
Something wrong.
But no pondering now.
We adventurers gripped arms, fanned out.
Knights-soldiers front-lined bandits—we hunted runners, encircled.
Trampled blood-slick ground, lunged.
Fleeing bandit spotted.
Closest me—so mine.
"Scram, you little shit!"
Vicious mug, foul mouth; sword leveled at bandit.
"Fuck... this tiny prick's mocking me..."
Sword tip fury? Hyper-rage? He two-handed axe, charged.
Moves oversized, sluggish.
Raw power ace—but no training signs.
Talentless me, but grandpa spars honed my 'eye' solid.
No head-on clash.
Power duel? I'd split clean.
Swift call: evade over parry.
Stall suffices anyway.
Ideal: drop runners. Can't? Hold till knight-soldier aid—that's doctrine.
Gulped at gale-whipping chop, eyed main lines.
Knights-soldiers—meant to mop quick—bogged down.
"Eyes off?!"
Whirlwind axe redux—waist-twist dodge.
Cloth ripped, skin gashed—burned.
Blood welled.
One slip, waist gone.
Now clear.
"...Not bandit-grade gear."
Triple arrow storms, this axe...
"...All top-shelf quality."
Suspected at 'proper' arrow report.
Sealed now.
No mere bandits.
"Backed by sponsors, huh..."
"Too late for epiphanies."
Creep-laugh; hilt crushed vise-tight.
No simple bandits.
Some faction's proxies, sowing local chaos for ends.
Something thudded at my feet.
Fellow adventurer's head.
"Long hair hid it, but damn—cute despite the creep factor? Drop gear, maybe I spare ya. Deal?"
Gulping air, locked eyes on lecherous leer.
"Nah. Vile slut—I'll hack you apart."
Sudden filth-talk—better fuel.
Dodged bisect-chop barely.
Sloppy skill now rage-warped.
Overgripped brute-force.
Reclined past throat-slice axe, arced sword.
Power short.
Thus no speed-blitz.
Straight path though; foe couldn't recall wild swing.
"Die-."
Low thrust—blade bit neck halfway.
Weak sauce stalled on bone; snag-jolt vile—but no wallow time.
Lip ground teeth.
Splash crimson; pain-fishy mouth-rush woke me sharp.
Flicked blood free, paced calm, soundless.
Scream-metal-gore-yell melee—I alone paced deliberate.
Urgency demanded it.
No sound.