Chapter 55
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 55
Chapter Title: The Person Who Should Be There Is Me
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That happened about 200 years ago.
If I had to sum up who I was back then in one word, it would be innocent.
A thunderbolt-headed fool.
A time when I didn't know how the world worked or what the power in my hands truly meant.
Back then, I was the kingdom's one and only high elf princess.
Long before defective goods like Aira were born, and even before Belcia and Celcia came into the world.
I was young, ignorant, and because of that, I believed myself to be special.
And ironically, that belief wasn't wrong.
I really was a 'special existence.'
"Amazing, Princess! You took down an entire bandit gang all by yourself!"
"These weren't just any riffraff. They're definitely deserters who fled from the Abellan Empire!"
"And you handled them all outside the forest? Truly impressive!"
The praise never stopped.
The more it poured in, the higher I held my head.
"Hehe. Of course! After all, I'm the next 'Hero of the Bow'!"
The Hero of the Bow.
One of the hero bloodlines born into this world.
Sword, spear, shield, bow.
Countless legends existed, but among them, the bow stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the sword in etching the most names into history.
The reason was clear.
Unlike other heroes whose birthplace was unpredictable, the Hero of the Bow was always born solely among high elves of noble bloodlines.
It's said the Sword Hero is born randomly in one of the four great families besides the Argent family of the Abellan Kingdom.
The Spear Hero was even stranger.
They were born among shockingly lowly commoners or even serfs.
As for the Shield Hero... honestly, I have no idea.
There are hardly any records.
They only appear when the world is truly on the brink of destruction, but even going back to my grandfather's generation, there's no record of one emerging.
A hero whose very existence is ambiguous.
Amid all that, the bow always came from high elves.
And not just any—every high elf bloodline inherited that power, to greater or lesser degrees.
Perhaps that's why high elves as a bloodline receive such special treatment.
'Of course, not everyone was born with the same strength~.'
But even among them, I was undoubtedly exceptional.
According to the records, a typical high elf takes 50 years to fully manifest their bow, and another 100 years after that to reach the realm of 'A hundred shots, a hundred hits.'
Even then, most fade before fully inheriting the power and never quite touch that realm.
In fact, many of my father the king's cousins—who became nobles despite being high elves—couldn't even form a proper bow.
The hero bloodline name rang hollow as they barely managed to shape a single arrow.
In comparison, I manifested my bow after just 10 years of life, and 10 years later, I had already reached perfect accuracy.
Even my father, Erdas, was called a genius for achieving it in 70 years, but I did it in half that time.
The pinnacle of specialness.
...or so I believed.
Until the day I laid eyes on that woman.
"Huh? Isn't the palace unusually quiet today?"
"W-well... a guest has arrived..."
"A guest?"
It was just another ordinary day.
No major rituals, birthdays, or anniversaries.
Yet the palace was frozen as if awaiting some grand event.
The maids moved with caution, their breaths hushed.
So I grabbed one of the terrified maids and interrogated her until I got answers.
A long time ago.
I'd heard it once from my grandfather—my father's father, who had lived nearly a millennium before passing.
A being born of high elf blood who couldn't form a bow, shoot an arrow, climb trees, or cast even the simplest nature communion magic.
After testing, they were deemed devoid of mana.
Not worthy of being called high elf, let alone elf—a failure who inherited nothing but pointed ears.
Though royal blood and a princess, she was seen as the kingdom's shame, erased from records, and ultimately exiled.
Such a being had once lived in this elf kingdom.
A story not to be spoken aloud.
But Grandfather was suffering from the long-lived races' greatest fear: dementia.
Bedridden, he often rambled, and this was just one such tale.
Yet.
That very 'waste' had returned to the palace today.
The moment I heard, my eyes sparkled.
My heart raced, a smile creeping unbidden onto my lips.
Like a beast spotting ripe prey.
I wanted to see her.
To witness how utterly useless this 'waste' was—a high elf name on something worse than a common elf.
And to reaffirm, right in front of her, just how special I was.
I rushed straight to the audience chamber with the throne.
And the instant I arrived, I unwittingly swallowed hard.
"S-sorry... I was wrong... Please, just don't kill me!"
"......"
"I'm still your big brother... Please, for old times' sake, at least spare my life...!"
The king's audience chamber.
The elf kingdom's most sacred space, where elders of the council debated national affairs and elite armed elves stood guard for the king.
Designed in harmony with nature, it should have been as serene as a forest, as beautiful as a sanctuary.
But now, the audience chamber was a slaughterhouse.
The branches and leaves once one with nature were soaked in blood, and hardly a spot on the ceiling, walls, or floor escaped the splatter.
Lowering my gaze revealed mangled corpses piled high.
Torn organs, the remains of elf warriors who died without mounting a proper defense.
No way to call this the end befitting honor-obsessed elves.
And at the center, my father—who always sat on the throne with shrewd cunning, as if piercing the world's truths.
King Erdas's face held no pride or dignity left.
Only terror and tears remained.
He knelt, throat gripped, clinging to the blood-soaked hands of the high elf before him.
Not resisting, forgetting he was king, groveling pathetically for his life.
The sight was unbelievably wretched, humiliatingly pathetic.
Then.
She flung my father aside like trash and passed by me as if nothing had happened.
A chill ran down my spine.
And only then did I understand.
Why my father—the king hailed as high elf pride—had been reduced to that state.
Facing an enemy sword in hand can be called courage.
But pointing your blade at a storm? That's not courage.
It's just being swept away, unaware of what you're facing.
She was already leaving the audience chamber.
We who remained had simply realized too late.
The events of that day were utterly shocking.
The aftermath lingered long.
I woke from nightmares to bedwetting for days, my body and mind in ruins.
The first 'collapse' I'd ever known.
Of course, Father suffered worse, from what I heard.
The shock of death before his eyes left him unable to sleep without a woman afterward.
But what lingered in me wasn't that kind of fear.
When I first faced that overwhelming existence, the emotion that hit before fear was 'admiration.'
I wanted to stand at that realm.
By my 'aunt's' side, shoulder to shoulder.
I wanted those eyes that never once looked at me to finally meet mine.
The being who shattered my world where everything came easy.
The elf kingdom's public enemy who dragged the frog in the well—me—out into the open, and my benefactor all the same.
Not as a high elf, but as one 'special existence' to another, Elcia yearned for recognition from the world's strongest elf.
Maybe that's why.
This situation grated on me unbearably.
"What is that look?"
"......"
"Since when could you make that face?"
The way that child looked at her had always been the same.
Admiration.
Excitement.
Respect.
Eyes that gazed endlessly up at family, knowing she was lacking compared to us.
But this time was different.
Flames dwelled in those green eyes.
Not passion.
Not resolve or determination.
The predatory glare devouring its prey.
A near-black, dangerous gleam.
Elcia knew those eyes.
Because they were the ones she most desperately wanted to emulate, yet never reached.
Her aunt's eyes.
A fleeting glimpse in passing, unforgettable even 200 years later.
The absolute predator's gaze she still hadn't claimed.
And yet.
Why.
Why were they in your eyes, not mine?
And it wasn't just the eyes that had changed.
"Make a bow."
"What?"
"I'll wait until you do."
"......Ha?"
Wait?
Make it for whom?
You, for me?
Grind.
Her molars ground as if to shatter.
"How dare you... know nothing of your place."
Just one month.
A blink for long-lived races.
Believing anything had changed in that time was arrogance itself.
Humiliation and blasphemy too.
In elf society, where honor was life, this was unforgivable.
The one who once looked up endlessly, who lit up at a glance, now gazed down on her.
Unacceptable insolence.
Only one choice remained.
Summary execution.
"Know your place, Aira."
"......"
"I have no need to draw my bowstring against trash like you."
As she spoke, Elcia drew a small iron bead from her pocket.
It looked like a child's toy.
But in her hand, it became an execution tool.
The mana awakened by the Hero of the Bow bloodline: Hundred Shots, Hundred Hits.
Whatever she shot hit.
No dodging.
Didn't matter if it wasn't an arrow.
If she could throw it, it was already a projectile.
"It's over."
She flicked it with her thumb.
Whoosh—!
The bead tore through the air toward Aira.
"Repent your arrogance in hell."
And—
Snap.
...it stopped.
"Huh?"
Aira had casually snatched the flying bead from the air.
Then.
Crunch.
Her fist clenched.
The bead crumbled to powder without resistance, scattering to the floor.
And through it, a voice came again.
"Make a bow."
Calm.
Not a breath out of place.
"That way, I can end it just shy of killing you."
No bluff, no anger in those words.
Just a simple notice of what was needed—and what was lacking—right here, right now.