Chapter 064: The Team Battle Erupts!

Three arrows shot out in quick succession, each aimed at a different dark elf sentry. Directly to the north, Tuvey was already on high alert. With his wealth of experience, he immediately threw himself sideways, rolling on the ground to evade the attack. His two companions, however, were not so fortunate.

With a dull thud, one sentry—just turning to react—was struck through the throat by an arrow and fell backward, hands clutched desperately at his neck. The other took an arrow to the knee, instantly losing the ability to move, rolling on the ground in agony and groaning in pain.

At the very same moment, Ron, stationed in the rear, sensed the sudden change a hundred meters ahead. Without the slightest hesitation, he drew three arrows from his quiver, nocked them to his longbow, lowered his center of gravity, steadied his breath, and loosed all three at a forty-five-degree arc. The arrows flew in unison! Ron had absolute confidence he would not strike his companions, aiming the arrows to land just beyond the pit.

No sooner had the three arrows left the bowstring than he drew another arrow and nocked it. Whispering a spell under his breath, a faint white glow began to shimmer at the arrowhead, a magical array of glimmering motes swirling into existence. Soon, a sphere of white light shone from the tip, dispelling the darkness in a ten-meter radius around Ron. He straightened his back, raised the bow to a vertical angle, and shot.

The arrowhead blazed like burning magnesium, streaking through the night sky across the plain like a beacon. The signal arrow! A single signal arrow, and countless troops would rally!

Indeed, at the very instant the two teams ahead first clashed, Ron made a snap decision and fired off a signal arrow.

A kilometer away, another patrol of dark elf sentries quickly noticed the bright, ascending arrow piercing through the night sky.

“Captain! It’s a signal arrow!”

“There’s trouble somewhere!”

“You two keep patrolling. Everyone else, with me—move!”

Under the cloak of night upon the Northen Plain, squad after squad of dark elf sentries hastened toward the source of the signal arrow.

...

At the front lines, after shooting their crossbows, the three ratfolk immediately tossed them aside. Carl, gripping a shield and bamboo blade, planted a foot on the edge of the pit and launched himself toward the rising Tuvey.

The battlefield’s tide shifted in the blink of an eye; there was no time for words—only silent understanding and instinctive combat. As Carl burst out of the pit, Francis, spear in hand, charged out behind him. At the rear, Edward quickly reloaded his crossbow, rolled backward out of the pit, and the moment he cleared the edge, three long arrows thudded into the slope behind him.

Tuvey, just beginning to rise, saw Carl rushing toward him. He adjusted his stance and, at the last moment, rolled backward to dodge Carl’s shield bash.

Missing his mark, Carl quickly withdrew. Three sentries were closing in from all sides, their long spears already poised to thrust from left, right, and center.

At that moment, Francis dashed to Carl’s side, swinging his bamboo blade to deflect the spear thrusts from the left and front. The spear from the right was easily blocked by Carl’s shield. Even in the growing gloom, Carl’s instincts were sharp—his shield turned aside the lethal point.

“Fall back!” Carl growled.

Francis understood instantly. The two ratfolk retreated three steps in unison.

“Down!” Edward’s roar rang out from not far behind.

Without hesitation, Carl and Francis dropped to one knee and raised their weapons in defense.

Two faint whistling sounds split the air. Edward, having found his mark, stood twenty meters behind his companions, a crossbow in each hand. He pulled both triggers at once. Two dark elf sentries, pressing the attack, were struck in the head and fell back lifeless.

“Damn it!” Tuvey cursed under his breath. These three ratfolk were no ordinary foes—already, four of his men had fallen on the grass the moment battle was joined.

“Give me the shield! With me—attack!”

But Tuvey was not made captain without reason. His temper might be fierce and his pride high, but his skills were formidable. Grabbing the shield his comrade tossed to him, he charged forward.

Meanwhile, after Edward loosed his shots, a chill of death crept up from his flank. Every hair on his body stood on end; his muscles tensed as he dove headlong into the pit, heedless of dignity in the face of mortal peril. In that instant, a swift arrow whistled through the spot he’d just vacated.

...

As both sides clashed in earnest, Ron moved swiftly along the flank and rear of the melee, searching for a vantage point to suppress the ratfolk from a distance. Bow in one hand, arrow nocked in the other, he slipped through the waist-high grasses, posture low and movements fluid—reminiscent of Hanzo from Overwatch. His silver hair, brushing his lower back, danced in the wind, his bearing gallant and fierce.

Missing his first shot did not dishearten Ron. He knew well that for a marksman on the battlefield, skill was only part of the equation. Mindset often mattered more. Drawing another arrow, he nocked it to the string and adjusted his position, maintaining a steady eighty-meter distance from the pit.

He was well aware that eighty meters marked the very limit of a hand crossbow’s effective range, while his own longbow could reach nearly twice as far.

...

At the front, Carl saw Tuvey and another dark elf sentry charging. He did not evade but met them head-on with Francis. Close-quarters combat was his strength.

With a roar, Tuvey leapt and brought his shield crashing down toward Francis’ head. Francis did not retreat; face set, he raised his own shield and bamboo blade to meet the blow. As the shields clashed, Francis shifted his weight, skillfully redirecting much of Tuvey’s force away.

In the same motion, Francis twisted his wrist, holding the bamboo blade crosswise and thrusting from beneath the shield toward Tuvey’s weapon hand. The blade struck and lifted, carving a gash along Tuvey’s forearm.

Tuvey gave it no heed. He drove a powerful knee into Francis—an unavoidable, crushing blow. The force far exceeded Francis’s expectations; his shield shattered, and he was hurled five or six meters, landing heavily in the pit beyond. The sheer disparity in size left Francis feeling as though his body would come apart.

As Tuvey sent Francis flying, Carl was just withdrawing his spear from the thigh of another dark elf sentry. In that instant, elf and ratfolk locked eyes.

With a shout, Tuvey swung his spear like a staff, bringing it down on Carl with brutal force—his style direct and overwhelming, brute strength breaking all defense.

Carl understood well the difference in their strength. Francis’s fate was still vivid in his mind. He stepped rapidly back five times, then hurled his spear at Tuvey with one hand. As Tuvey instinctively raised his shield, Carl rolled forward, ducked low, and darted nimbly around the burly elf, quickly gaining distance before sliding back into the pit.

Just as Tuvey prepared to pursue, a searing pain shot through his calf. Reflexively, he reached down—only to find a bamboo dagger lodged deep in his leg.