Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 511: Archer

However, Michael hadn’t even fully adapted to his new surroundings when every instinct in his body screamed at once.

A prickling sensation crawled across the back of his neck, the unmistakable weight of danger pressing down.

Though this was a virtual construct, it mimicked reality almost too well. The weight of the spear in his hand, the uneven earth beneath his boots, the whisper of the forest breeze—all of it carried an edge of authenticity. Aurora’s technology had advanced frighteningly far in the last centuries.

Michael pivoted sharply, head snapping to the right.

A hiss cut through the silence.

An arrow.

It sliced the air with deadly precision, weaving past his cheek close enough that he felt the faint brush of displaced air against his skin. It buried itself into the trunk of a tree behind him with a solid thunk, vibrating from the force of impact.

Michael’s grip on the spear tightened.

So soon?

His eyes narrowed, scanning the direction the arrow had come from. The mist warped the forest around him, swallowing shapes and muting sound, making distance hard to gauge.

But his instincts told him what his eyes couldn’t: someone was out there, hidden in the haze, and they had already decided to hunt him.

Another arrow whistled through the mist.

This time Michael was ready. His body twisted smoothly to the side, the projectile sailing past harmlessly. But before his boots even settled back into the earth, a second hiss reached his ears—followed by a third, then a fourth.

Rapid fire.

Michael’s eyes sharpened as he stepped, ducked, and rolled between the streaking shafts.

The arrows came in relentless succession, forcing him to weave like a shadow through the trees. Each impact echoed behind him, embedding deep into bark with lethal force.

His mind raced even as his body moved on instinct.

Archery could be learned by any awakener—he himself had picked up Spearmanship that way. But there was a difference between “learning” and “belonging.”

Only someone with the Archer class could unlock its full power.

Michael recalled a discussion thread l he had skimmed weeks ago. A skill belonging exclusively to Archers.

Rapid Shot.

A chained ability that loosed multiple arrows in quick succession. Other awakeners could learn it, sure, but they would always start from basic mastery.

An Archer, however, started from intermediate mastery at minimum—the skill would flow naturally, like breathing.

If his unseen opponent was truly an Archer, that explained the precision and speed.

But another possibility gnawed at him.

What if the challenger wasn’t an Archer at all, but someone who had trained extensively in archery?

If that was the case, Michael knew he was up against a dangerous opponent. Someone whose awakening was likely a year—or even two—before his own.

After all, why spend time on other skills when you have your own class skills?

Though it was very easy for awakeners to level up skill mastery though….

In any case, if it was an early awakened, it meant his halved-level advantage… would mean very little here.

Hidden in the shifting mist, a young woman crouched low, bowstring drawn tight against her cheek. Her breathing was steady, eyes locked on the distant silhouette through the trees.

The first arrow had missed—barely.

The second, third, and fourth had been dodged outright.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

A panel flickered faintly before her eyes:

*

[Name]: Clara Veylin

[Class]: Archer

[Level]: 15 (Half of registered level 30)

Strength: 210

Agility: 340

Constitution: 230

Intelligence: 220

Skills: Rapid Shot, Eagle’s Focus, Piercing Arrow

Attribute Points Remaining: 0

Custom Points: 0 (Spent)

*

The girl’s fingers flexed against the string before drawing again. She had awakened only a year ago—an ordinary background, an ordinary class. No prestigious family, no divine talent, no monstrous gifts. Just a bow and the grit to grind her way forward.

That was why her foundation was solid. Unlike others who rocketed upward with shortcuts or safety nets, she had clawed step by step. Every stance, every draw, every skill—hers alone.

Her rise to Rank 2 in a single year had been carved out of stubborn effort, not privilege.

The girl frowned as she loosed another arrow and watched the shadow ahead weave between the shafts. His movements weren’t as quick as hers—not quite—but they weren’t far off.

That speed… it bothered her.

Slightly slower than her, yes, but that only meant one thing: he wasn’t going to be an easy opponent. If he closed the distance, the advantage of her bow would erode quickly, and though distance was supposed to be safety for an archer, this mist changed everything.

The haze warped sound and swallowed outlines. Even with her class’s sharp senses, she couldn’t make absolute assumptions here.

Her jaw tightened. Standing her ground meant gambling against the unknown.

And she wasn’t here to gamble.

Her gaze flicked to the edge of her vision. [Points: 15]

She had already done well. Fifteen eliminations which fifteen points

Why risk all that on someone who moved like this, when easier prey waited elsewhere?

Her fingers flexed on the string, but she didn’t release. Every arrow she lost mattered. She wasn’t carrying an endless supply, and once her quiver emptied she’d have to rely on mana substitutes.

Her grip on the bow relaxed. She exhaled, drawing her focus inward, and shifted her footing.

With a burst of practiced motion, the girl kicked off the ground and sprang upward, her form vanishing into the dense canopy.

Her figure melted into the fog and foliage, leaving only silence where she had been.

For now, she’d give up this hunt.

Michael’s stance was tight, spear angled defensively across his body, eyes narrowed into the mist.

He waited.

One second.

Two.

Five.

Nothing.

Michael’s brows furrowed. That was… unexpected.

Michael slowly straightened, exhaling through his nose. His grip loosened on the spear but didn’t release entirely.

“Gone?” he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.

Michael adjusted his footing, his gaze sharp. He shifted deliberately, exposing his flank, leaving himself open—a bait. His breathing slowed, ears straining for the whistle of another arrow.

Still nothing.

He pivoted suddenly, spear tip flashing as if in anticipation of an ambush. The mist only stirred, no predator revealing itself.

Minutes dragged, the silence heavier than combat.

If the person was still there, they would have taken the opening. That much he was certain of. Whoever the archer had been, they were gone.