NOVEL WEB Chapter 18: Shooting skill
Bullet comments exploded across the screen like machine gun fire.
[HolyArrowGod69]: "WHAT THE FUCK?! Did this guy uses an arrow, why does he sound like he knows his thing about arrow?!"
[PaleMoonReader]: "This Vonjo dude—yo—is he an archery expert???"
[BurnedBySwords]: "WE'VE BEEN SCAMMED. THIS UNKNOWN CHARACTER NAMED VONJO IS THE ARCHER, NOT EUGENE."
[SwordSucks]: "FINALLY SOMEONE WHO USES A BOW. I'M DONE WITH EDGELORD SWORD MCs."
[ArrowKisser]: "Wait...wait...IS VONJO… GONNA BE A TEACHER OF EUGENE??"
[LiterallyADragon]: "I KNEW IT. VONJO IS FROM THE LOST ARCHER CLAN. BOOK IT."
[MoldovaTerrorist]: "Bullshit. He's from the House of Sutterfouse."
[UncleSins]: "I thought Eugene was the one who'd bring archery back, but this guy…"
It didn't stop.
Thousands of usernames lit up the side of the screen, most lost in a frenzied debate, throwing theories like knives in a back alley brawl.
Vonjo, however, only smirked.
Ah, so that's why they're excited, he realized, fingers brushing the wooden grip of the bow like an old friend reunited after decades apart.
The chat wasn't hyped because he was accurate or dangerous—it was because he used a bow.
Archery.
Something that had become a phantom skill in this world. Something that fans had begged to return for years. They wanted archery back. They wanted an icon.
And yet, the one who was supposed to be that icon—Eugene—wasn't.
Eugene, the main character of the original story, was meant to wield the bow. He had, after all, been branded with the "RPG Bloodline"—a unique ability that let him dive into unexplored layers of the cursed underworld like a literal video game, leveling up and gaining rare skills and traits.
Everyone thought his class would be something fresh, nimble, unique.
An archer.
A hunter.
But the writer had changed the script. Somewhere along the line, Eugene had been given the sword.
A normal, forgettable, boring, uninspired blade to wield against demons.
Vonjo's lips twisted in dry amusement. He remembered the outrage from his old world all too vividly.
There was fire.
Literal fire.
When the fandom learned Eugene would never pick up the bow, the backlash turned from digital fury to real-world insanity.
The author's family nearly died when a crazed reader burned their house down in the dead of night. For what? A weapon swap. And the worst part? Most of the comments on the articles weren't condemning the act—they were praising it.
"That's what you get for ruining the arc."
"Eugene WAS archery. You KILLED that."
"Justice was served."
"So please… put him back to be a bow wielder!"
But instead of feeling fear, the novel writer became adamant on letting Eugene use a sword to spite the readers who are tired of swords.
"It's their fault…" the novel writer said at that time.
As always, readers erupted. But they couldn't do anything so the readers were forced to adapt.
They swallowed the change, accepted that Eugene now used a sword, because at least his RPG-style bloodline was still overpowered.
After all, he didn't need to sacrifice his life like other Fallen Curse Sorcerers who left the Human Territories to gain resources—he could solo quests in the depths of Hell without dying, unlike others who had to gamble everything just for a chance at freedom.
But that was a different story, a different arc, so Vonjo pushed it aside.
He turned to Eugene now, still holding his drawn bowstring, and asked without looking, "You think I can hit them?"
Eugene's sharp gaze flicked from the disappearing dots on the horizon to the tension in Vonjo's bow.
"No," he said bluntly.
Vonjo raised a brow. "Why not?"
Eugene hesitated.
Vonjo smirked. "If you lie, you know what will happen."
Eugene trembled in fear. He didn't know what he meant, but it only added to the terror he felt from that smirk.
Vonjo raised his eyebrows, "yeah?"
Eugene swallowed his saliva and didn't hesitate to hold back. "First, the distance. That roc bird is flying at nearly 130 kilometers per hour. Second, the wind. You'd have to account for the crosscurrent coming from the west—"
Vonjo nodded, eyes still on the targets. "Uh-huh."
"—and you're standing on uneven terrain, slightly elevated, but not enough to leverage gravity's full arc. Plus, they're not flying in straight lines. The Hell Hound's gallop is chaotic. The bird's wing patterns are jerky and evasive."
Vonjo nodded again. "Uh-huh."
"And even if you could match their velocity and compensate for air resistance, you'd need a draw strength that—judging by the bow I lent you—requires 120 pounds of force minimum. Most people can't even pull it past half. That thing is unforgiving."
"Uh-huh."
"And on top of all that, you'd have to simultaneously hit both targets with only two arrows, in motion, without any guiding enchantments or smart sight assistance. Not to mention their altitude, the heartbeat sync of the roc bird's wingbeats, and the vibration of the Hell Hound's gallop—it'll throw off any standard trajectory—"
"Uh-huh."
"And don't forget, even if you miraculously land the hit, the Hell creatures have regenerative cores. The shots have to be surgically perfect. Between the eyes or at the spine's weak node."
Vonjo cracked his neck slowly, like the quiet prelude before a lightning storm.
"Really?" he said, with a grin creeping into the corner of his lips. "Watch this."
With his fingers wrapped around the string, he inhaled—deep, slow, calculating.
He could feel the way the wind kissed his face from the side, curling around his ears. He could feel the tension in the string, taught and ready, vibrating with barely contained fury. He narrowed his eyes—ans then, after a long stare, he let go of the bowstring!
Peng!
…
Far away, the Hell Hound was bounding forward, muscles rippling, steam bursting from its mouth. The round-faced man on its back was cheering, voice high with glee.
The tall, one-armed man on the Hell Roc was already relaxing into the saddle, arms wide as if claiming victory. "Three kilometers!" he howled with glee. "He can't reach us! Hell yeah!"
"Bless your wings, Roc-baby!" the round-faced man laughed, reaching down to pat the hound's neck. "You're getting double demon jerky tonight!"
"You saved our asses," the tall man called, leaning back. "Mark this in the report—we encountered an awakened freak, probably the most unknown sorcerer with some unique, unknown ability that can devour any attacks we sent to him. Incredibly dangerous. A huge threat. If the House of Sutterfouse deems him a threat, we will be rewarded for providing information about him."
They both cackled as their beasts tore through the scorched plains.
"Hey, maybe he was just a theater freak. Y'know? One of those roleplayers who likes to make an entrance."
"A fuckin' theater freak, ha!"
"Honestly, I'm writing it like this: Encountered lone lunatic. No backup. Possible skillset: Extremely powerful ability. Behavior erratic. Worth following up as his ability was related to House of Sutterfouse Doom Abilities."
The Roc shrieked as it soared higher.
"Let's turn in and celebrate. I want infernal rum and a foot massage."
But just as the words left his mouth, the tall one-armed man's expression shifted.
His body jerked.
His Roc screamed—and not in triumph.
With no warning, the great bird's wings crumpled inward. Its eyes rolled. It spiraled.
The tall man let out a guttural cry as both mount and rider twisted into the sky, flipping, smashing, crashing. The Roc hit the earth in a tangled heap of blood and wing.
"C—Colver?!" the round-faced man shouted, yanking his Hell Hound to a sharp halt. "What the hell just—?" He wanted to check, but something was making all the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Then he patted the same terrified Hell Hound that's as terrified as him to go while looking back at his friend, who he was wondering what had happened along with his roc bird.
Suddenly, for some unknown reason, his chest tightened.
He didn't turn his head right away—some primal instinct screamed not to. But slowly, with every hair on his skin prickling, he looked.
There it was.
The arrow.
Like a phantom. No sound. No scream of air.
Just… there.
Frozen in the air for the briefest moment.
And then—
A splurge of blood could only be heard.
There was no time to scream.