Chapter 52: Why Did This Arrow Hit?

By a small stream within the borders of Balo, a herd of deer gathered at the water's edge, drinking, frolicking, or mating, completely unaware that a group of stealthy figures in the nearby woods had set their sights on them.

"My lord, are you sure you want to participate?" The old hunter asked, his face clearly expressing, "You should really take a break."

Alexander pretended not to see the hunter's expression and said to himself, "We came all this way to hunt, so at least let me shoot a few arrows."

Reluctantly, the others had no choice but to let Alexander join in. They quickly allocated their respective targets to avoid multiple people hunting the same animal and wasting arrows. Naturally, they tacitly agreed not to assign any targets to Alexander. They figured he could shoot at whichever one he wanted—no harm done.

With a signal, the experienced hunters and archers aimed at their respective targets. The arrows flew like the reaper's scythes, instantly felling seven or eight deer like wheat.

Several other deer were hit and wouldn't make it far. In the chaos, Alexander had missed with every shot. He looked at his bow with embarrassment, unwilling to accept defeat, and notched another arrow. Imitating the others, he drew back the bowstring and released another arrow, "Swoosh."

The result… another miss.

"Damn it... What a crappy bow, it's useless," Alexander almost threw the bow to the ground in frustration.

It seemed that when it came to archery, Alexander wasn't gifted in the slightest. His arrows always found a way to miss their mark.

With no other choice, Alexander joined his men to inspect the downed game. The wounded deer wouldn't get far and could be tracked easily by their blood trails.

As the hunters were processing the deer carcasses, a white figure suddenly darted from the other side of the stream. Its sudden appearance instantly caught everyone's attention because it was simply too beautiful.

It was a pure white stag. In the sunlight, its white fur seemed to shimmer, adding a touch of sanctity to its presence. Its majestic antlers were full and grand, like a crown upon its head.

While everyone else was captivated by its divine and lofty presence, the only one still grumbling about his "useless" bow was Alexander, who thoughtlessly notched another arrow.

"Everyone, stand back, let me do this!" Alexander shouted excitedly. This time, he was exceptionally serious, pulling the bowstring to its fullest, living up to the saying, "Drawing the strong bow like a full moon."

**Swoosh—**

The arrow flew as swift as thunder, like a shooting star in the night sky, tracing a beautiful and graceful arc.

"Wait, my lord!"

"Don't shoot, my lord, that's the mountain god the Balo people worship!"

"Stop him quickly!"

All the experienced hunters rushed forward to stop Alexander, including the captured imperial archers. But it was too late; Alexander had already released the arrow.

The good news was that Alexander's arrow, as usual, missed the mark. The bad news was that the arrow struck a common pebble on the stream's edge, ricocheting and, with uncanny precision, hit the white stag in the head.

The tremendous force instantly brought the stag down, dead as a doornail. Everyone stood in shock, staring at the fallen stag—including a group of Balo villagers who had just emerged from the forest.

Sometimes, fate has a way of playing tricks. The Balo villagers were simply out for a routine hunt and happened to pass by. It was just an ordinary day until they saw their sacred white stag lying in a pool of blood and a man still holding a bow.

Using the simplest logic, the Balo villagers knew that this man was the one who had killed their sacred mountain god.

"Oh my god, that filthy, despicable Saint Martinian killed the mountain god!"

"Great druid, forgive your people. We will skin and dismember the son of the evil god as a sacrifice to appease your wrath."

"Don't let that damn man escape. Only his blood can save Balo!"

The Balo villagers, dressed in tattered clothes and wielding longbows, shouted angrily and started shooting arrows at Alexander and his group.

Caught at the stream's edge with no cover, several of Alexander's men were immediately struck down, killed on the spot.

"They're that accurate?" Alexander exclaimed in shock.

Unlike the others who were scrambling to escape, Alexander quickly pulled out a shield from his back to protect himself and even managed to complain. After all, compared to Alexander's hopeless archery skills, the Barlo people were all exceptional marksmen.

Retreating into the forest behind them, Alexander shouted, "Prepare to engage!" This roar halted the fleeing Carius villagers. Although they were skilled hunters, they were far from being competent warriors and reacted even slower than the imperial archers who, at least, knew to immediately seek cover and retaliate.

The imperial archers retaliated while cursing. It was unclear if they were cursing the Barlo tribesmen or Alexander, but their anger and frustration were evident.

Alexander took the reins from the old hunter and had just mounted his horse to prepare for battle when an arrow struck his shoulder. Fortunately, the war knight's armor had high shoulder protection, so the arrow only pierced a little, leaving a minor injury on Alexander's shoulder. He yanked the arrow out, snapped it in half with his hands, and threw it on the ground in anger.

"Cover me!" he shouted. His Saint Martin steed carried him out from the side, darting through the forest like a white lightning bolt. Riding it was Alexander Castile of the Lion Clan, whose name would echo throughout the Barlo Mountains after today—not as a hero but infamously.

As Alexander charged at the Barlo tribesmen, they finally noticed his luxurious armor and the emblem on his cloak. The anger that had clouded their minds quickly dissipated as they recognized the lethal intent emanating from him. This despicable and murderous figure was evidently a lord of Saint Martin.

"Run! Notify the chieftain!" one of the Barlo tribesmen shouted. The others quickly scattered, knowing that if they all fled in one direction, they wouldn't outrun Alexander on horseback.

They numbered only ten, and in a fight, they might not be able to defeat the remaining dozen men. When they saw the furious Alexander cut down a tree as thick as a barrel with one swing, only one thought remained in their minds: run!

The brave Barlo tribesmen differed from the Vides—they knew when to retreat and did so faster than anyone.