“Honorable lords, ladies, and gentlemen. And my dearest citizens of Nottingham!” the town crier announced to the crowd. “Today’s performance in the champion trials has been a let-down. Thirty-three contenders stepped up to the challenge, and all of them failed miserably!” He paused to look at the anxious faces.

“Not a single aspirant could hit the mark! Will Nottinghamshire not yield a champion this year?! Will no adventurers find their way into the King’s service?” Another pause.

“Fear not, folks! Let us place our faith in the last three contenders.”

The announcer sat on a high fence that surrounded a public park. Overflowing crowds flocked around the circular wall, cheering and booing in equal numbers. The lords and ladies were seated in a small gallery in the north.

‘Sir Guy must be there with Elaine,’ Pete figured, craning his neck to get a better view. ‘Along with the famous Sheriff of Nottingham.’

The boy turned his attention to the trial’s challenge.

Three circular, wooden targets were set on vertical poles at the other end of the park. The targets had concentric black and white circles, with a central bullseye drawn in yellow.

‘A marksman test?’ Pete mused. ‘Archery? Pfft! I don’t know the first thing about it.’

He asked fellow spectators about how the trials had gone until then.

“Worthless!” a middle-aged man spat. “Not a single contender has been able to graze the wood even. Worthless!”

“Look how far the targets are, Mose,” his friend chimed in. “The Sheriff has made this year’s challenge tougher than the last time.”

The final three contenders stood at their stations with generous spacing. They faced a target each.

Pete had decided to skip the trials, but something in him overturned his decision. “Hey, how does one become a contender?”

Mose shrugged. “You can walk into the arena after informing the crier. But why would you want to? Failures have to pay a thousand gold to the Sheriff as a penalty. I keep saying it is a scam, but no one believes me.”

Pete thanked Mose and went up to the announcer.

“Hey, old man! I want to participate in the Champion trials. Let me in.”

The announcer, who was called Crease, looked him up and down.

“This isn’t your barnyard practice, pretty boy,” he scoffed. “Watch from the fences, or you will get yourself hurt.”

Pete had never imagined he’d ever be called a pretty boy. It was a good feeling. However, he pursed his lips and brought some menace into his voice. “Let me play, pops! Or I’ll jam an arrow up your arse!”

[ Intimidation +1 ]

Crease turned to him and smirked nervously. “Hey, hey, no need for violence, young man.” The old man was a town crier and not a fighter. He was frequently spoken to like that by his superiors. “You can come in and take a position. Just be prepared to shell out a thousand gold.”

“We’ll see about that.” Pete placed a hand on the rail and vaulted over the five-foot-high fence. The jump and landing were perfect. The boy was surprised by his athleticism.

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[ Vigor + 1 ]

The Perfect Gene attribute was really fantastic. It bestowed on him both beauty and strength.

Pete walked up to the other three contenders. The first two were young men in shabby clothes. They were stringing their bows awkwardly.

The third was a busty, sinewy girl. She already had her bow ready, her hand on the quiver of arrows.

‘Are females allowed to participate in heroic contests of this era?’ the boy wondered.

“Hello,” Pete greeted her, but the girl offered no reply.

The boy shrugged and walked to his position. An unstrung bow and a quiver full of arrows lay on a tree stump.

As soon as Pete grabbed the bow, he received a notification.

Ding!

[ Collected: Simple Bow x1 ]

[ Collected: Goosefeather Arrows x10 ]

[ Dexterity: 100 ]

[ Learning combat skill… ]

[ Archery: Lvl 1 ]

The boy’s hands moved by themselves, dexterously stringing the bow. He took a flamboyant archery stance in a few seconds, the simple bow in his left hand. His right hand fingered the quiver.

‘Whoa, I don’t believe this!’ he told himself. ‘I know archery!’

“Ready! Nock! Aim!” a supervising soldier ordered.

Pete recognized the words. They felt almost religious to him. He readied his hand, pulled out an arrow from the quiver, and nocked it. While the hands of the other male contenders were clumsy, Pete’s were stable and steadfast.

Immediately, crosshairs appeared in his vision, and the target zoomed up close.

‘Wow, this is so cool,’ the boy almost said aloud. ‘Finally, something magical within me has unfolded.’

“Loose!” the supervisor called out.

Pete kept the bullseye within the crosshairs and let the arrow fly.

Zip!

The distance from the station to the target was at least three hundred feet. The arrows of the other two men faltered and fell short, lodging into the ground.

Plock! The girl’s shaft hit a black circle adjacent to the bullseye.

“Hurrah!” The spectators cheered.

Twang! They turned to see the other target.

Pete’s arrow had hit right in the middle of the bullseye!

Ding!

[ Archery: Level 2 ]

[ Peripheral Vision has increased from 150 to 180 degrees ]

“Yes!” the boy exclaimed.

The crowd fell silent all of a sudden. They muttered among themselves in disbelief.

Crease got down from his fence seat and walked towards the contenders. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, squinting to confirm whether what he saw was true. “Folks, this is truly a miracle!” the old man announced. “In the history of the Champion Trials, this is the first time an archer has hit the bullseye! Bravo!”

The spectators broke into hurrahs. They kept asking who the new contender was.

“Lucky shot, huh?” Pete heard a voice beside him. It was the sinewy girl who had almost hit her target.

“So, now you are talking to me, Miss?”

“Just wait,” she warned, walking back to her position. “They’ll make you do it again. And if you can’t, you’ll end up in prison.”

The announcer approached Pete. “What is your name, boy?” Crease asked with a hand on his shoulder.

“I am Rob Huntington.”

“Folks! Rob, the Sharpshooter, has hit the bullseye!”

The crowd cheered some more. However, in the commotion, Pete could hear a few dissenting voices.

“It was a fluke!”

“It’s a trick!”

“He’s a fraud!”

Soon, more voices joined in on the complaints, questioning Pete’s credibility. In no time, a fair portion of the crowd had become hostile. Even a few members of the gentry stood up and voiced their disbelief.

‘I can never catch a break!’’ Pete thought, lowering his bow.