Suddenly, Vonjo noticed an arrow beneath his feet. He remembered this one. It was dragged by one of the arrows he pulled. Not wanting to waste it, he kicked it upward and caught it with his right hand.

Then he placed it back on his bow and pulled it hard!

The moment the final arrow slipped from Vonjo’s fingers and buried itself deep into a reanimated corpse’s forehead—splintering bone, skin, and the rotted echo of cursed life—the battlefield fell into a strange hush.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned, filled only with the sharp hiss of the dying wind, and the faint twitching of twitching limbs that hadn’t yet realized they were dead again.

Smoke coiled around Vonjo like a cape made of vengeance, the lingering scent of charred flesh and broken souls thick on his breath.

But the Sand Man felt it first.

The shift.

The pause.

The absence.

His wide, lidless eyes blinked once, then again, and a knowing grin began to slither across his granular face. “Oh?” the Sand Man said, voice rising from a deep croak to a joyous screech, as if he had just uncovered the punchline to a long-forgotten joke. “Is that… all of them?” He tilted his head, grains of sand tumbling down his cheek like sweat. “Could it be… the quiver is empty now?”

Vonjo didn’t move. His arm hung by his side, bow still in hand, but no arrow notched. His shoulders were rising with each breath, his body coated in sweat, in dust, in blood that wasn’t his.

The Sand Man took a bold step forward, his voice growing louder, echoing through the barren stone floor like an announcer savoring his moment. “Bravo! Marvelous! Spectacular, even!” His arms spread wide. “I must say, boy, you’ve done more damage to my dear army than the last three wars combined! Such power! Such grace! A precise execution with a flair for dramatic timing. Oh, you truly are a product of this chaotic age, aren’t you?”

Vonjo lifted his gaze, silent.

“But now,” the Sand Man continued, walking slowly, dramatically, as if this were a stage play and he the villain of some grand tragedy, “let me ask you—out of pure curiosity, mind you—what fuels a man like you? What kind of training does this new era offer? Are your academies so… refined? So brutal? Is this the strength of modern cursed energy? Or have you simply lived a life of agony and instinct? Tell me—what year is it now? How long has it been since I was sealed away? The stars look different. The earth, dryer. The air… it lacks the spirit it once had.”

He stopped and leaned forward, his mouth curled in a snake-like grin. “Are there still kings? Sorcerers? Did the world finally burn in a war? Or was it drowned in its greed? Tell me, archer—do humans still fear the night?”

Vonjo calmly adjusted his stance. His breath had slowed. His body, while tired, was far from spent.

“I don’t have time to answer all your nostalgic ramblings,” Vonjo replied, tone cool and level, like the calm that comes after the storm—but before the second wave. “But I will say this. We’re not what we used to be.”

The Sand Man raised a sandy eyebrow. “Oh?”

“We’re worse,” Vonjo said. “And better.”

That earned a throaty chuckle from the ancient creature. “A riddle! You are entertaining. But there’s one thing I cannot overlook, young hunter. You’re out of arrows.” He gestured broadly to Vonjo’s bare back. “No more silver tongues to sing your cursed songs. No more needles to pierce my children’s memories. What will you do now, I wonder?”

Vonjo’s mouth curved into a lopsided smirk. “Who said I was out?”

For a beat, nothing happened.

Then, with a mighty splash of cursed aura rippling through the air like a stone through a pond, a massive shape leapt from the shadows behind him. A triple croak resonated through the arena. The earth trembled.

A three-headed frog—its skin glistening with swirling ink-like curses, each head marked with ancient runes—landed heavily behind Vonjo and let out a thunderous trill. One of its heads opened its mouth and extended its long tongue with surprising precision, slapping into Vonjo’s palm something wrapped tightly in enchanted cloth.

Vonjo caught it with ease and began to unwrap it, revealing a fresh bundle of meticulously carved arrows. Each was etched with silver veins, crackling faintly with blue and black curse lines. He slid them over his back in one smooth motion and notched the last remaining arrow he held in his hand.

The Sand Man’s smile faltered.

The grin cracked.

Then it fell away entirely.

“Faster!” he shrieked, his voice no longer playful, but frenzied and desperate. “Kill him now! Before he starts again! DO NOT let him draw again!”

The remaining reanimations—those that had paused out of caution, or fear, or awe—lurched forward as if driven by pure command, their movements erratic, weapons raised, eyes blank but furious.

A sword swung at Vonjo’s side.

He twisted, the blade missing his ribs by inches.

A spear stabbed forward from behind. He spun and ducked, his hair fluttering in its wake.

They were too close now. He had allowed them near, unintentionally, when the arrows had run dry. Now their rotten hands and jagged weapons threatened to close in, to pull him down with weight and numbers.

“Crush him!” the Sand Man howled, voice warping into something monstrous. “Hold him down if you must! Tear his arms apart—break his fingers! He must not fire another arrow!”

One reanimation latched onto Vonjo’s shoulder. Another grabbed his leg. A blade scratched across his thigh.

He clenched his jaw and activated a burst of cursed energy from his core—Bang! A shockwave of aura erupted from his body, sending nearby corpses flying. Bones cracked, sand sprayed in all directions.

But they just kept coming.

Vonjo’s boots slid against the ground as he struggled for space, twisting and weaving between limbs, snapping necks, dodging spears, his mind racing faster than his heart. Sweat poured from his brow. He needed distance. He needed air. He needed a moment—just one—to draw.

Then, at the last second, with a sudden leap powered by sheer will and desperation, Vonjo dove backwards, rolled, and kicked off a reanimated head like a springboard. He soared over the crowd, landed roughly but upright, and skidded several meters away, leaving a trail of scorched footprints.

He rose slowly.

Breathing heavily.

Laughing.

Not hysterically.

Not mockingly.

But triumphantly.

“Now…” Vonjo exhaled, fingers tightening on the bowstring. “It’s my turn.”

The Sand Man stumbled back in shock, sand tumbling from his arms in panicked spirals. “No… No no no! Do not let him draw again! Get to him! Rip his limbs! USE THE REST OF YOUR BODIES IF YOU HAVE TO!”

But it was too late.

Vonjo raised a new arrow—its shaft darker, heavier, alive with pulsing symbols etched deep by hours of ritual. His hand pulled the string back farther than before. The bow groaned under the tension, cursed energy spiraling around him like a vortex. The arrowhead glowed with a cruel promise.

And Vonjo smiled, cold and calm, the wind hissing around him.

“Let’s see if you like this one.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep