If Archers Had Levels

"Kill all the dwarf bastards!"

"Kill all the dwarf bastards!"

Led by the second-in-command, the Orc Warg Riders charged toward the Company, roaring furiously.

The Dwarves led by Thorin Oakenshield looked grim and stood ready for battle.

Morgan and Gandalf, standing behind the Dwarves, seemed much calmer by comparison.

Morgan in particular.

He watched a newly emerged, hulking Orc among the cavalry shout orders to the others.

Morgan had clearly seen the Orc look on as the previous Orc underchief was shot by him and tumbled from his Warg.

A distinct smile had appeared on the Orc's face, though it was a savage one.

But Morgan could still clearly see the joy in it.

Was he excited because the leader was dead and it was finally his turn to take over?

If so, you're celebrating too soon. Let me congratulate the next one in line.

Watching the Orc Warg Riders charge toward them, Morgan murmured with amusement. He enjoyed the satisfaction of being able to decide an enemy's life or death from a distance.

Morgan reached for his quiver.

This time, he drew three arrows at once.

Closer, closer.

At last, the charging Orc Warg Riders slammed into the Dwarven Company led by Thorin Oakenshield.

A second before the Warg Riders reached them,

Morgan released the arrows.

"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!"

Three arrows shot toward the Orc Warg Riders.

A third of a second later,

three Orcs charging head-on let out muffled grunts and toppled from their Wargs.

The newly emerged Orc underchief was among them.

"Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!"

More than twenty Orc Warg Riders charged ferociously into the Dwarven Company of just over a dozen.

The clash was every bit as intense as a much larger battle.

But Orc Warg Riders were unlike the cavalry of other intelligent races.

The Wargs beneath the Orcs were even more savage than their riders.

"Kill!"

The Dwarves roared and swung their weapons, fighting desperately to hold them off.

Standing beside Gandalf, Morgan never stopped drawing his longbow.

His arrows were like the most ruthless, cold-blooded assassins.

The Orcs and Wargs on this battlefield were nowhere near as tough as the giant Trolls.

Nearly every Orc or Warg Morgan hit had no chance to get back up.

Every one of Morgan's arrows struck the most vulnerable spot: the head.

This was different from the night battle against the Orc scout party a day earlier.

Back then, Morgan had been striving to kill as many enemies as possible to gain Soul Power.

Now, he understood more about what it meant to be an archer.

When victory was tipping in their favor, he naturally had to do everything he could to kill the enemy and gain as much Soul Power as possible.

But when the outcome was uncertain, or even hanging by a thread,

Morgan had to do more than kill as many enemies as possible. He also had to protect his companions.

Just like now, with the close-combat wizard Gandalf shielding and assisting him,

Morgan kept his eyes almost entirely on the Dwarves fighting desperately in front of him.

Whenever he spotted a Dwarf in danger, he could always help in time.

He might have to sacrifice some Soul Power, but protecting the Company from casualties was also a way of protecting himself.

Morgan knew his limits. Without the rest of the Company fighting alongside him,

if he were surrounded by Orcs on his own, there would be only one outcome: death!

He was still nowhere near strong enough to take on an entire army by himself.

If archers had levels,

Morgan thought they would go something like this:

A competent archer could kill enemies more efficiently on the battlefield.

An excellent archer could kill large numbers of enemies and also protect their side and their companions to some extent.

A master archer could not only kill large numbers of enemies, but even influence the outcome of a battle to some degree.

An archer of an even higher level would be a presence whose mere appearance on the battlefield could intimidate the enemy leader, like a nuclear weapon, and keep the enemy from acting rashly.

Because if he wanted to, he could easily shoot anyone dead.

His very presence threatened every enemy, especially their leader.

But once an archer reached that level, they could no longer be called an archer.

They were a master marksman!

And if there were anyone stronger than a master marksman,

they would surely be the legendary "God of Archers!"

Morgan had already reached the standard of an excellent archer and was working his way toward the level of a master.

"Duck!"

Morgan, standing back-to-back with Gandalf, suddenly called out in a low voice.

Gandalf kicked away the Orc he was fighting and immediately ducked, understanding at once.

The next moment,

"Whoosh!"

An arrow shot past, skimming the pointed hood atop Gandalf's head.

A muffled grunt rang out.

Gandalf turned and saw a hulking Orc, holding a mace-like weapon, falling backward with an arrow between his brows.

Gandalf paid it no mind and ran his sword through another Orc charging at him.

With the staff in his other hand, he swung hard at Morgan, who had his back to him.

"Thump!"

A faint white light flashed.

Invisible magical energy burst apart.

An Orc trying to sneak up on Morgan was knocked flying by Gandalf's staff.

Morgan shot dead a Warg that had been sneaking up on Thorin Oakenshield, then turned and smiled at Gandalf, who had saved him.

Gandalf ignored him and turned back to face the incoming Wargs.

That lad's put on a much better show than me today.

No, not just better than me. He's outshone everyone in the Company.

Gandalf muttered to himself.

And it wasn't just Gandalf. The Dwarves Morgan had saved today all felt the same way.

It was easy to understand.

When you were fighting a savage enemy and someone attacked you from behind,

but another person suddenly killed your assailant and saved you from danger, you would naturally be grateful.

Especially if they saved you more than once.

More than twenty Orc Warg Riders faced the sixteen members of the Company.

Although the Orcs had a slight numerical advantage, the Company members were far more skilled individually, and the Orcs soon began to suffer heavy losses.

In just a few minutes, more than half of the twenty-odd Orc Warg Riders had been killed or wounded.

Under normal circumstances, the survivors would probably have fled by now.

Orcs had no spirit of fighting to the death. They never did.

Only under an order backed by overwhelming force could they fight on despite their fear of death.

"Awhooo!"

Terrifying howls kept coming from the distance.

That meant Orc reinforcements were on their way.

Hearing the howls grow clearer, and seeing the remaining Orcs around them—fearful, yet still refusing to retreat—Thorin Oakenshield cried out anxiously, "Orc reinforcements will be here soon! Kill them all!"

"Kill!"