Two Hundred Paces Away
Two hundred paces out.
A small scrap of wood, precariously swaying in the north wind, shattered into dust with another sharp whistle slicing the air.
Boom!
The silence shattered as two arrows—shafts vanished deep into the north wall's palisade, only fletchings visible—trembled wildly.
Jinhyuk bit his lower lip hard against the electric thrill racing from his palm up his spine.
The impossible feat he'd only seen through a monitor in his shut-in days now coursed through his own muscles and bones, raw and real.
It was so novel, so intense, it nearly numbed his brain.
Heh.
His lips twitched upward in a grin.
"It actually works? This is really me shooting?"
Eyes glazed with excitement, Jinhyuk ignored the lingering recoil, snatched two more arrows from those stabbed into the ground, and nocked them in quick succession.
Thwip! Thwip!
The shafts tore through the winter air without mercy, brutalizing their targets.
But euphoria lasted only an instant.
Reality's cruel pain warned him via the bow's recoil surging through his muscles—and the backlash of overexertion hit right on cue.
The moment he loosed the fourth arrow and lowered the bow.
A gruesome rip echoed from his right shoulder joint, followed by excruciating pain crashing like a tidal wave.
"Ugh, damn it...!"
A scream nearly burst from his lips.
Even with modern upgrades he'd slapped on—pulleys for tension control, like those from Olympic archery broadcasts—the bowstring of monster hide and the limb's recoil were too much for a modern man's frail muscles and frame.
His scapular muscles, twisted to their limit, quivered as if shredding apart fiber by fiber.
Insane. Even with all these aids, it's this bad? How the hell do these nomadic locals handle raw composite bows like it's nothing? Are they even human?
He clicked his tongue inwardly, acutely aware of his limits.
His arm felt like lead.
But the Cheonrangdae soldiers gathered around reacted the opposite way.
To these black道 outcasts, armed only with wooden spears and crudely reinforced shields, their leader Jinhyuk's surreal archery was more than a skill.
It was proof they could snipe and butcher beasts from afar before those claws reached their throats—a tangible sign of survival.
To men who'd tossed face and martial pride to the dogs, the captain's bow was divine salvation sweeping away the terror of death.
Woooaaah! Captain!
"You see that? That's our captain's skill!"
"We're gonna live! Stick with the captain, and we really survive!"
Morale spread like wildfire.
Defeatist eyes now glinted with sharp, hopeful venom.
In any game, Korean raids—full of vets, rotten waters, aka demons—prioritized top healers or buffers first, then tanks or raid leaders, then ranged DPS or melee DPS third, right?
Slave soldiers were basically melee DPS.
Zero-priority: those demons who solo everything without guides, potions, skills, or gear, just a shield and club. Gearless, potless, guide-less grunt melee? Untouchables.
Jinhyuk hid his spasming right arm deep in his sleeve, forcing a cold expression.
"No time to gape and cheer. Can't raid with one bow."
He turned a piercing glare on his lieutenants.
"Doksa, Beom Dal! Form a scout team now. We're entering the Black Forest."
The scout team's march back to the Outpost after a quick lunch was taut with tension.
Jinhyuk, who knew the vital importance of concealment in scouting or searching, had drilled the team over one shi-jin—about two hours—before bringing them out.
Doksa and Beom Dal trailed their captain cautiously, sniffing the forest air heavy with blood and beast musk.
From the treeline, massive claw marks gouged trees, littered with snow wolf tracks.
Jinhyuk knelt close, scrutinizing the wound depths.
Blue Ice Wolves. Their leap range is even more insane than I thought...
He asked Beom Dal about nearby terrain: narrow gorges or swamps the beasts couldn't vault in one go.
Beom Dal suggested a tight passage behind the three-way fork called Ghost Cry Gorge.
Sheer cliffs on both sides—a natural kill zone forcing them single-file.
Mid-scout, Jinhyuk spotted translucent, viscous slime pooled in rock crevices.
He cautiously prodded it with a dry grass stem.
Sizzle!
The stem melted instantly in a creepy hiss, belching ominous purple smoke.
"Everyone back! Gas! Cover nose and mouth—now!"
His instincts screamed; he yanked the men rearward.
Trauma from CBRN drills—rolling through the gas chamber, tears and snot streaming—moved his body before his brain caught up.
Gauging the gas drift, he quickly mapped wind direction by terrain.
Corrosive venom and toxic fumes—not in any bestiary—were fatal variables disrupting his calculations.
Blue Ice Wolves aren't alone—other mobs? Or a mutant named boss mixed in? This is crossing the line.
Uncertain variables meant wipeout.
He kept distance until the smoke thinned, charting the slime's spread.
Back at the Outpost as dusk fell, Jinhyuk summoned Cheonrangdae's core officers.
He spread a worn but clean cloth flat, gripped a charcoal lump—but language barriers tripped him again.
His scholar days faded; complex hanja strokes wouldn't come.
He settled for crude sketches and basic hanja scrawled large.
入口 (Entrance), 陷 (Trap), 火 (Fire).
"Hey, Beom Dal. Lay claymores—no, pressure traps in Zone A. Zone B: CBRN watch. Back to the wind, ambush in phases 1 and 2 upper ridge. Okay?"
Terms like "Zone A" and "phase" from Jinhyuk's mouth left Doksa and So-sam—the black道 crew—staring blankly at each other.
To illiterates who couldn't even write their names, modern tactics sounded like madman ravings.
As the mood chilled, Beom Dal—ghostly attuned to Jinhyuk's body language—stepped up.
He jabbed the crude lines with his foot, rephrasing for the troops.
"Use your heads! This is the captain's will!"
Beom Dal's booming voice filled the tent.
"Traps and spike pits at that first chokepoint where they step in. Ambush upridge, always wind at our backs—no purple smoke our way! Got it?"
He glared murderously at Doksa, So-sam, and the rest.
"Disobey, lungs melt in that gas? I'll slit your throats myself before the beasts chew you!"
His rough, local-flavored translation finally lit understanding in their dazed eyes.
So-sam sketched precise blueprints on the spot.
Jinhyuk added 防 (Shield) for the second company's reinforcements, ordering double-checks.
No margin for error in this hardcore hunt—no trials, no reloads, lives on the line.
Only after officers scattered to slap sense and plans into their men did cold system text float in Jinhyuk's vision.
> Strategy established and tactics disseminated. Group comprehension: 65%
> Interpreter correction applied. Command efficiency increased.
> Current survival rate: 32.11%
Jinhyuk swallowed a hollow laugh at the brutal 32% raid clear rate.
In a game, he'd reset or rage-quit calling it trash—but here, this was his best, scraped from desperation.
"32.11%... still prime dying odds."
He clamped his trembling right arm with his left hand.
His palms burned, calluses hardening.
This world still hungered for his death; his blueprint merely kicked the reaper's door shut three steps back.
But the black道's eyes had changed—that was harvest enough.
Night deepened amid meticulous prep and grim math.
Alone, Jinhyuk gulped the night air.
His reflection—tattered uniform and leather armor over suit ghost—still felt alien, adaptation be damned.
Shoulder pain eased somewhat, but max sniper shots: ten calculated.
His mind looped the gorge terrain endlessly—two hundred paces, wind direction, trap timings.
Not a game screen: real battlefield, commanding lives on his call.
Around the tents, Cheonrangdae men sharpened spear tips, crafted trap tools and snares.
Black道 curses and spits rang out—but now, they sounded like heavy, solid backing track.
Those brutes grasping 65% of my orders is near-miraculous. Without Beom Dal, we wouldn't even start.
Jinhyuk wiped charcoal-smudged hands roughly on his clothes.
"Tomorrow, results."
Survival ~32%. Flipped: 68% wipe chance.
He gripped the bowlimb tight once more.
In this hardcore world, the system wasn't kind—just raw reality in numbers.
Eyes shut, he simulated Blue Ice Wolf moves: snow wolf base speeds, gorge mouth bottleneck, cascading logs.
Temperature plunged as night deepened.
Great Wall winds knifed his cheek—but his brain burned hot, forging the plan.
Failure is death. Maybe total wipe.
Three hundred lives rode his shoulders, trusting him into the jaws.
"Don't die, everyone."
His low mutter scattered on the frigid gale.
Last, Jinhyuk climbed the north wall, gazing into the distant Black Forest.
Tomorrow, it would drown in blood—his or the beasts'.
Thus, with desperate craving for survival...