In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

The completed bow was shorter than a standard bow, designed specifically for ease of use on horseback. It was a powerful bow that required five men to draw its string. Even Sir Ronald, known for his great strength, could barely pull it, let alone fire an arrow.

Only Michael, with his innate physical prowess and the "archery skill" he had honed, could wield the steel bow effectively.

The arrows he shot flew with unerring precision and so much force that they were unaffected by the wind. However, the strength of the bow posed a new problem—the arrows themselves couldn't withstand the power. Even at greater distances, arrows would often crumple on impact.

The steel bow's power far surpassed that of a wooden bow. The string, too, was an issue. The combined strength of Michael and the bow snapped every string he tried.

In the end, they used the hair from the tail of a Pegasus, an heirloom passed down in Michael's family for five generations. The steward, tearfully handing over the precious material, felt his heart break each time a strand snapped under the strain.

For the arrows, there was no perfect solution. They resorted to using the sturdiest wood available, tipped with heavy iron heads.

Holding his steel bow, the product of such arduous preparation, Michael fixed his gaze on the battlefield ahead.

Shifting his unit to the left flank had been worth it; the position made it easier to aim. Using his improved vision and keen "archery skill," he spotted the enemy commander.

The man, covered in strange red patterns as if painted with blood, was grotesque to behold. In the cold winter air, steam rose from his bare body, and his lips moved ceaselessly in what seemed like an incantation, accompanied by bizarre movements.

"A mad sorcerer," Michael muttered to himself.

The commander had no helmet, as though he was utterly careless or overconfident due to the distance.

"Looks like you're begging to die. Wish granted."

Michael released the arrow, which flew with blistering speed.

The enemy commander died instantly, his head struck clean through. As blood spurted like a fountain from the corpse, Michael turned his focus to the next target.

More figures with similarly grotesque appearances caught his eye.

"Lord, sending another one to you," Michael quipped, as his next arrow smashed through a fanatic's skull like a watermelon.

Perhaps he had used too much force.

Smiling faintly, Michael nudged his horse, Bucephalus, into motion. The Pamir mountain steed responded with fluid agility, allowing Michael to maintain his position in the blind spots of the enemy forces while continuing his deadly archery.

Five or six commanders fell in rapid succession, their skulls shattered before they even realized what was happening.

Then Michael noticed something strange.

As the grotesque commanders fell, fanatics began collapsing en masse. The wild-eyed attackers, who had been screaming in fury, now crumpled into withered corpses, their vitality seemingly drained away.

"So that's why they were so crazed. Must've been under some berserk spell," Michael thought.

The front lines opened up.

"This is the chance!" Michael shouted. "Sir Ronald! Father! Now is the time to storm the fortress. Rally the soldiers!"

Sir Ronald, who had been stunned by Michael's skill with the bow, quickly gathered the soldiers, with Michael's father following close behind.

The remaining fanatics, disorganized and weakened, were no match for Ronald's swordsmanship. Wielding a massive greatsword in one hand, he cut down the enemy with an ease that reminded onlookers of the legendary warrior Zhang Fei.

From a safe distance, Michael continued firing arrow after arrow, eliminating threats whenever his allies were in danger. In no time, dozens of fanatics fell to his relentless assault.

Baron Crassus took advantage of the chaos to behead several more enemies.

Baron Kensington, meanwhile, realized with a sinking heart that his comrades were falling one by one.

These fanatics were beyond reason. Their bloodshot eyes and disregard for life made them terrifying opponents.

By now, some should have hesitated or retreated in fear, but they all pressed forward with unrelenting fervor.

Then Baron Kensington noticed the scattered commanders among the fanatics—bare, bloodied figures chanting incomprehensible spells and gesturing wildly. Each cry from them seemed to further intensify the fanatics' assault.

"Kill them! Those naked ones! Take them out!" he shouted.

But it was easier said than done.

The knights with bows attempted to shoot the commanders, but their aim was poor, and the targets were too far away. As the casualties mounted, Baron Kensington grew increasingly anxious.

He was no fool. The more nobles and knights fell, the weaker the alliance's collective strength would become.

Unintentionally, he had moved too far from his soldiers, leaving himself vulnerable to being surrounded by fanatics.

Frustrated, he turned his gaze toward the fortress.

"Damn that Count! Reinforcements are here, and he's still not deploying his troops. How can this be?"

Grinding his teeth in anger, Baron Kensington regretted holding back his gryphon and magical beasts.

"Everyone, pull back and regroup! The fortress troops will come to our aid soon," he ordered.

Inside the fortress, Count Charles clicked his tongue as he watched the minor nobles struggle.

"I had hoped to weaken these irritating small fry using the fanatics, but they're already retreating. Useless fools," he muttered.

Still, he couldn't let things go too far. Breaking the unwritten rules of noble warfare would tarnish his reputation.

Now that the survivors had been sufficiently humbled, it was time to save them and be hailed as a hero.

As he watched, he noticed a group of soldiers nearing the fortress gates.

"Ah, Crassus Barony. Impressive," he mused.

Mounting his fourth-grade magical beast, a chimera passed down through his family, Count Charles prepared to make a grand charge, leading his knights to secure victory.

A fanatic's neck snapped with a sickening crack as the chimera's snake head coiled around it.

The sight of over a hundred knights charging on horseback was awe-inspiring. The ground trembled under the thunderous sound of hooves.

Baron Kensington and the other struggling minor nobles didn't remain idle. Once Count Charles's knights joined forces with them, a path was cleared in no time.

The chimera's combat power was overwhelming. Its lion head spewed fire, the goat head exhaled black mist, and the snake head extended to snap the necks of the fanatics.