The Professor Smiles

My Monday schedule was packed back-to-back through periods one, two, and three. Unless you were some undisciplined college bum who spent entire weekends pickled in alcohol, this kind of relentless timetable was par for the course for any ambitious academy student.

If I want to squeeze in club content, stacking my lectures onto as few days as possible is basic common sense!

Front-loading everything into a Monday marathon was, without question, the optimal meta.

"My goodness, Di. Are you really taking lectures straight through fourth period on Mondays? What a grueling schedule."

"Arcadia, your timetable looks pretty full too."

"Well, I am seventeen, while you, Miss Orknodi, are only eleven. A schedule like this is a breeze for someone my age."

Arcadia had just arrived after attending another class in the previous time slot. The course where I ran into her for fourth period happened to be an elective offered by the Knight Faculty: Ranged Weapon Mastery.

True to her reputation for having a wardrobe devoid of any stylistic foundation, Arcadia was equally notorious among players as a supporting character whose skill rolls made zero logical sense. In every single playthrough, her starting proficiencies were completely randomized.

Whenever a newcomer picked Arcadia and fell into despair over her chaotic skill distribution, seasoned veterans gathering in droves to publicly roast them was practically an official community pastime.

"Arcadia, what kind of weapons do you know how to handle?"

"Fufu. Brace yourself for a shock. Believe it or not, I know how to wield a firearm!"

"Oh."

Looks like she rolled Martial Artist Arcadia this time.

...Or so I wanted to believe, but a faint dread lingered in my chest. Her social influence was sky-high in this playthrough. She was practically serving as the spiritual matriarch for every girl in Group A, which meant she almost certainly possessed stats related to Politics or Leadership as well. If she was a commander build who also dabbled in martial arts, wasn't her skill spread stretched far too thin?

Spreading stats wide is only good if your total pool increases to match.

An NPC's skill ceiling was generally fixed from generation. Some rolled a baseline pool of 3,000 skill experience points, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠while true prodigies started with 10,000. Beyond those inherent caps, virtually none of them could exceed their predetermined total.

Jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none Arcadia is the worst-case scenario!

In hardcore gamer vernacular, a character without a clear specialization had a very specific name: a bricked build.

The instructor for Ranged Weapon Mastery was a beastfolk of equine descent whose very silhouette practically screamed archery mastery. Sadly, she was not an anthropomorphic racehorse walking on two legs, but a bona fide four-legged centaur.

Famed throughout continental history for producing a long line of legendary champions, centaurs were revered as a warrior race. This professor was no exception: she was a towering, heavily muscled amazon of a woman.

Clop, clop, clop.

As this living monument of martial prowess strode into the lecture hall with the hollow clatter of heavy hooves, a nearby student whispered under his breath.

"How does someone that size even use a bathroom?"

The entire hall froze, plunged into profound, horrified contemplation.

Even I found my mind wandering down that speculative rabbit hole. I never once gave it a second thought when playing the game, but that really is a mystery. How do centaurs handle biological needs? Do they have custom-built stalls?

"Greetings, young pillars of the continent. It is an honor to meet you. I am Professor Eveningshooter, and I shall be instructing you in ranged weapon mastery over the coming months."

"No, but seriously, the stall..."

"...Maybe a stable is the only..."

"...They must have specialized facilities..."

Despite the professor's formal address, the students were far too rattled by the logistical nightmare they had just envisioned to snap back to reality.

Without twitching a single facial muscle, Professor Eveningshooter raised her massive bow and notched the string without a single arrow.

Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!

Crack-crack-crack!

"Gah!"

"Oof!"

"Ow!"

Magic projectiles whistled through the air at blinding speeds, slamming dead-center into the foreheads of the whispering students and drawing immediate tears of agony.

I had ducked aside by a razor's margin. Feeling my heart hammering against my ribs, I caught Eveningshooter's eye. She was staring straight at me with a gaze that practically said, You managed to dodge that?

For a terrifying second, I braced for her to unleash a volley of a dozen concentrated shots just to test my reflexes. Thankfully, the satisfying thwack against the other students' skulls seemed to have vented her irritation, and she lowered her bow.

"As you can see, mastery over ranged armaments allows one to discipline students who fail to pay attention, or scatter an inattentive enemy force into utter disarray."

Her temper appeased, the professor formally launched into her lecture.

"Throughout this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠course, you shall learn the practical application of ranged weaponry across diverse tactical scenarios. Bows, guns, crossbows, slings, blowguns—regardless of the tool chosen, you will acquire the technical skill and strategic wisdom necessary to strike down your mark. Whosoever fulfills the assigned objective shall pass today's evaluation. Upon passing, you may depart immediately or remain behind for self-directed training until the period concludes."

We adjourned to an expansive outdoor firing range. To prevent fatal accidents caused by stray discharges during live-fire drills, Professor Eveningshooter was assisted by an array of experienced military instructors.

I trotted over to the archers' lane, though to my dismay, Arcadia wasn't there.

"Gyahaha! When it comes to ranged combat, nothing beats a cannon! Can I shoot? Can I blow everything to pieces?!"

On the bright side, neither was Jigoku, that gun-toting pirate lunatic. Opting for a bow had definitely been the right call.

Just as I let out a breath of relief, a student standing in another lane caught my eye and waved frantically.

"What kind of assassin touches a bow? Come over here and practice throwing flying daggers with me!"

"...No thanks. I'm sticking to the bow."

Beneath her fox mask, the diminutive assassin Zhuang wore a look of utter, theatrical betrayal. Hmph. Who are you calling an assassin, anyway?

"Attention, archery squad. Take your bows and assume positions at the firing line. A veteran instructor shall demonstrate proper form for the beginners."

A brief introductory sequence followed, covering everything from the foundational stance and grip to rhythmic breathing and sight alignment.

"Cadets lacking a grasp of basic form shall continue rudimentary drills. Those already proficient shall don mana-goggles and focus on striking the virtual targets displayed before them."

Naturally, the archery experience I had ground out during intensive hell-training in Butler Jona's personal facilities was far too high to be bogged down by elementary basics.

Most of the other students selected modest, lightweight shortbows crafted from forgiving materials, choosing weapons that matched their small frames and meager arm strength. In stark contrast, I bypassed the standard rack entirely.

I grabbed an absurdly heavy, high-tension warbow boasting a draw weight north of a hundred pounds—a weapon colloquially known as the "Knight-Lethal Draw."

"Look at that squirt."

"She's picking up a bow that weighs as much as she does."

"Isn't that bow actually heavier than the kid? Snicker."

The Imperial noble scions made no attempt to disguise their mockery. To those who had toyed with light hunting bows during annual aristocratic outings, my choice of armament must have looked like pure, laughable grandstanding.

Even the supervising instructor blinked in sheer disbelief before intervening.

"Cadet Orknodi. There is no need to select such an unwieldy piece. Our current targets are not heavily armored shock cavalry clad in plate."

"This is just the weight I'm used to."

Creeeak.

As I hauled back the bowstring, the muscles in my arms drew taut with satisfying tension. Yes. This is the stuff. A bow without absurd draw weight has no soul. What good is plinking away with a toothpick launcher like some frail novice? All you're doing is advertising that you're an amateur.

Twang. Ping.

Down the line, light practice arrows struck the target dummies with feeble thuds, wobbling pathetically in the air like toys. The arrow I had notched sang a completely different tune. The sheer pressure groaning through the wood and cord resonated in the air like a coiled spring.

Cre-e-eak.

The instant the iron arrowhead locked dead-center onto the bullseye, I released my fingers.

FWOOSH—!

KABOOM!

It didn't merely hit the target; it detonated it. The upper torso of the heavy practice dummy folded in half and vanished in a violent cloud of splinters. The Imperial aristocrats who had been snickering beside me stared at the decimated post, their eyes trembling in utter, disbelieving horror.

"What was that you were saying earlier? I was focusing on my shot, so I didn't quite catch it."

"Uh... N-Nothing. Just that... your marksmanship is extraordinary."

"Is she a monster...? Is she actually an orc half-blood or something?"

Watching their smug facades crumble into sheer dread cleared my mind completely. Hehehe. You'd better think twice before crossing someone holding a siege weapon.

"Instructor! Do we not have any ballistas available?"

"The true flower of the high seas is the naval cannon! Why are there no broadside guns here? I want to show off my bombardment arts!"

"Gyahaha! Fire! Fire! Let me blow it all away!"

While the instructors assigned to the other lanes suffered nervous breakdowns under the torment of eccentric problem children, the archery instructor sprinted toward the far end of the range the second the break whistle blew.

"Sweet mercy... What in the world happened here? It's completely pulverized."

These targets were not flimsy straw posts; they were reinforced hardwood dummies engineered to withstand dozens of military-grade impacts. Yet this one's entire upper half had been shredded into kindling.

If a living human had taken that blow, it wouldn't have just punctured their cuirass—it would have pulverized the flesh and bone beneath into absolute mince.

"Professor Eveningshooter. You need to see this."

"A Power Shot," she murmured, trotting over. "I assigned you here to instruct the cadets, instructor. Were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you practicing your own martial techniques on our equipment?"

"It wasn't me, ma'am."

"Then you mean to tell me a cadet did this?"

"Cadet Orknodi of the freshman class."

Staring at the obliterated debris left behind by an eleven-year-old first-year, Professor Eveningshooter fell into deep, contemplative silence. This was not the frivolous handiwork of a noble child who had casually notched a few arrows at a family hunt.

"The 981st Upper Class possesses an extraordinary abundance of heroic caliber," she observed, her broad, chiseled face breaking into a satisfied, predatory grin. "A scion of the Divine Bow, a master of concealed daggers, an expert pistoleer... and now an archer of terrifying monstrous might."

Professor Eveningshooter nodded slowly, thoroughly pleased.

"It seems we can safely elevate the difficulty for the upcoming sessions. Instructors, bring forward the curriculum scheduled for three weeks from now."

The baseline difficulty of the course abruptly took a massive leap. It was a tragedy written in stone for the ordinary students—whose only crime had been enrolling in the same class as Orknodi.