Chapter 129
One shot, one kill.
Just how mentally taxing is this task?
Sweat drips, and gradually, my concentration wavers.
"Thirty-nine."
At first, I thought I had it under control. But the moment I miss even a single arrow, the flock of wyverns will take flight and attack me—that pressure weighs heavily on me.
And yet, how strangely pleasant that pressure feels.
The biting tension, a sensation akin to exhilaration I haven’t felt in so long—it’s starting to get fun.
"Forty."
Not even halfway yet.
A faint numbness tingles in my fingertips. Have I fired so many arrows that my senses are starting to dull?
The harsher the conditions, the higher the difficulty of clearing the game—and here I am, enjoying it.
Endlessly grinding through easy games feels like mindless labor. It’s not satisfying.
A game only becomes truly fun when the clear conditions grow progressively tougher, forcing you to achieve the seemingly impossible.
Betting my real life on clearing a game—some might call that insane.
The part of my mind still clinging to sanity urges me to take a break, signaling exhaustion.
But right now, I don’t want to lose this focus. Being a little crazy feels better.
My breath falls into a mechanical rhythm, precise to the last beat.
I consciously control my body’s movements, sharpening my senses as if refusing to tolerate even the slightest error.
I detect discomfort in deviations smaller than a millimeter, correcting those minute flaws through experience.
"Forty-one."
Again, the arrow pierces the wyvern’s skull, sending it tumbling down the cliff.
I fire the next arrow, certain it’ll hit—
"Tch."
I click my tongue and immediately switch from firing stance to full-on sprint, fleeing the open area.
That arrow wasn’t going to hit.
I knew it.
[■■■■■■■!!!]
And my gut was right.
The wyvern’s roar—an alarm cry. The arrow must’ve struck near its collarbone.
Once that cry echoes, the surrounding wyverns will take flight, soaring into their territory to slaughter the intruder.
I’ve been preventing that with one-shot kills until now, but—
"Yeah, can’t expect perfection."
A single glance back confirms it—wyverns rising from the ravine, filling the sky.
Before they even begin circling, one among them, predictably with an arrow deeply embedded near its collarbone, locks furious eyes on me.
[■■■■■■!!]
Its roar practically screams, You’re dead, bastard! as it executes a barrel roll and charges straight at me.
"Well, well. Up till now, it was about stopping them in their tracks. Let’s see how my running shots hold up."
Ideally, my Headhunter Assassin build would’ve handled this cleanly. But things not going as planned is part of the plan.
"Ugh, damn it. Nothing ever goes smoothly, huh?!"
Stat-wise, I might barely scrape by.
But let’s be real—this isn’t a situation I can welcome.
If they’re charging at me, maybe I can use that momentum.
"Hah!"
Slamming to a halt, I shift into firing stance, snatching an arrow with one hand and nocking it.
Draw the string. Take aim.
The wyvern speeds toward me, jaws gaping wide to devour my small frame whole.
"Hmph!"
A headshot from this angle is tricky—but not impossible.
Firing upward from a low stance seems counterintuitive—gravity drags the arrow down, reducing speed and power, making it harder to land.
But if the enemy’s lunging straight at me—
The arrow can pierce the wyvern’s maw and drill straight into its brain.
"Nice."
I mentally pat myself on the back for pulling off such a precise shot despite waning focus, then switch back from firing stance to sprint.
You might think firing while running would work, but running destabilizes my arms. Besides, bows meant for that are smaller and more maneuverable.
Expecting that from this massive longbow strapped to my back is asking too much.
It’s not impossible—but I lack the necessary bow-related skills to pull it off. In this world, supernatural skills compensate for such techniques.
Which means I’m left with skill-less skill.
But even that’s bound by physical limits—if my body can’t do it, it can’t be done.
"Maybe I should’ve trained more with the bow, huh?!"
Being chased by wyverns while firing a longbow—sounds like a circus act, right?
Well, guess what?
I am the circus.
Wasting arrows against these monsters is a death sentence. That’s why I’ve honed my skills to land precise shots in any situation.
You’ve seen those real-world trick shots, right? Firing from absurd stances with insane speed and accuracy.
Ranged attacks make bows powerful, but without arrows, that power drops to zero.
This technique exists to prevent that.
A wyvern crashes onto the path behind me, the impact reverberating as I break into another sprint.
"Doing that just gives away my position."
I glance back as the wyvern, too large for the narrow path, slides off into the ravine. Above, more wyverns roar, homing in on me thanks to the noise.
This mountain is practically a rock wasteland. Picture the summit of Mount Fuji—barren, exposed stone, no trees.
Nowhere to hide. Even on these narrow paths, they’ll catch up fast.
"Whoa!"
One dives, talons outstretched. I dodge, but the gust tears through my hood with a sharp rip.
"Ugh! Annoying!"
The tattered hood flaps wildly, obstructing my view, so I tear it off in one motion.
"This too!"
For good measure, I yank off and discard my mask.
That mask was just for anonymity—zero combat utility.
For archery, wider vision is better. I only wore it earlier because the narrowed focus helped with sniping.
The wooden mask clatters to the ground, but the sound is drowned out by—
[■■■■■!!]
—another wyvern’s roar. This one’s going for a bite.
If the flock bombarded me with breath attacks in unison, I’d be toast. But as long as they come at me one by one, I can manage.
"Sorry ’bout this!"
My move here is inspired by a certain famous plumber. Stomping enemies to reposition is great timing practice.
I pivot mid-sprint, suddenly reversing direction.
Then—a leap. The wyvern, caught off guard, becomes my stepping stone as I vault over it.
"Hello there!"
Midair, I draw my longbow, aiming at the next wyvern trailing behind.
It spreads its wings wide, trying to brake—wrong move. Should’ve accelerated instead.
Even if it meant colliding with the first wyvern, that’d be better than slowing down.
The decelerating wyvern’s movements crawl in my vision.
I kick off its face while nocking an arrow, draw, aim, and fire—all in one fluid motion.
At this range, the longbow’s sheer power drives the arrow deep into the wyvern’s forehead, disrupting the delicate balance required for flight.
The wyvern plummets headfirst into the ravine.
Before following it down, I use the falling wyvern as a platform to land safely.
"Whew!"
I exhale sharply, my back drenched in cold sweat.
Even knowing I had no choice, there was zero margin for error.
One misstep, and I’d be tumbling down the cliff alongside the wyverns.
No respawns here—this isn’t a game.
"Ugh, I need better stats!"
I shout my desperate wish and resume sprinting.
If I keep going, I’ll end up back in that dead end.
At my current level, sniping is the only reliable way to hunt wyverns in this dungeon.
Switching to guerrilla tactics really drives home how underleveled I am.
"Damn it! Should’ve brought a rapid-fire bow?!"
Between carrying enough arrows, tools, a spear, and potions, adding another weapon was impossible.
Wishing for what I don’t have is pointless.
The reality won’t change—I have to make do with what I’ve got.
"Pretending to run—!"
Fine. I’ll fight with weapons I don’t physically have.
Game logic: Wyverns return to the sky if you create distance, then swoop down to chase.
The wyvern I stomped predictably tries to take off, thrusting forward for lift—
I slam the brakes, spin, and slide straight between its legs.
"Wyverns have weak spots here too!"
Instead of sliding past, I rise mid-motion, dodging its tail as I target the base of its wing—the scapula.
What happens when I drive a longbow arrow into that?
"Can’t fly properly now, can you? Next comes—"
It staggers, pain shooting through one wing. But it’s a dragonkin—even wobbling, it stays airborne.
I backstep, creating distance while nocking another arrow.
The wyvern twists its long neck to glare at me, mana swirling in its maw—vengeance for the pain.
"That’s what I’ve been waiting for."
An unstable stance. A breath attack requires a windup.
And what does that mean?
"It’s practically begging me to interrupt."
A perfect headshot opportunity.
A biological weak point.
An arrow enhanced with anti-air and fire properties, packing enough punch to pierce a wyvern’s defenses—
It’ll blast through its skull before the breath fires.
"Wait, what?!"
But the charged breath doesn’t vanish. Instead, a drill-like screech tears through the ground as wind-attribute mana erupts.
Dungeon terrain—especially the ground and cliffs—is indestructible. The shockwave is deafening, but I dive toward the cliffside and barely avoid it.
"From below now?!"
I spot another wyvern rocketing upward from the ravine. Instinct kicks in—I nock and fire.
Luckily, taking cover meant I wasn’t fixated on the sky, so I notice the ravine attack in time.
The arrow strikes the wyvern’s right shoulder, but it doesn’t slow. Worse, I see mana gathering in its maw.
"Planning to blast me point-blank?!"
My hand dives not into the quiver but into my magic bag—
"Make it in time!!"
—and pulls out a smoke bomb.
I light it, hurl it toward the cliff, and backstep.
The smoke explodes just as the wyvern bursts into view.
I’m not fully concealed yet—the smoke hasn’t reached me.
To dodge the incoming breath, I dive into the smoke with a headfirst slide.
The cloud covers the cliff’s edge.
I roll through it, vision whitening briefly, then let myself drop over the cliff.
At the same moment, the breath attack slams into the ground behind me, the shockwave rattling my bones.
The force would’ve sent me plummeting—
"Thank god I brought this scythe-spear!!"
But it doesn’t. I activate Magic Edge on the scythe’s blade, morphing it into a hook that latches onto the cliff’s edge.
The smoke clears from the breath’s force, but I’m dangling in its blind spot—the shockwave’s dead zone.
The wyvern must think I’ve been vaporized or fallen.
Breath attacks are its trump card—it hovers confidently, the epitome of a king’s composure.
But kings die not from composure, but from arrogance.
Dangling one-handed in the smoke, I grip my spear’s shaft with both hands, the longbow clenched in my teeth.
With a grunt, I haul myself up, rolling out of the smoke and releasing the spear.
In one motion, I switch to the bow.
"Thanks for the breath attack! Now take this—no need to hold back!!"
The wyvern’s eyes widen in shock—Why are you here?!—as I put an arrow straight through its skull.