Behind the cavalry, more than fifty infantrymen followed. Together with the fifty soldiers who had come out earlier, this was already the entire military force of the castle.

The enraged The Old Sir roared furiously, “Let’s see if his legs are faster, or my horse! Soldiers, block every exit of the town and search for him!”

His soldiers immediately obeyed, with the cavalry leading the way, charging into the town and quickly surrounding it completely.

Every exit of the town was blocked, and many soldiers began a house-to-house dragnet search.

The town was very small; it would take only half an hour to search the whole place. To escape unscathed, unless Devon was a mouse.

The townsfolk on the hillside watched all this, their faces pale.

With such a formation, could the young man in the town survive this ordeal?

Nolan was filled with guilt, pounding his thigh hard with his fist. He had harmed Devon. If only Devon had run away at the start, he wouldn’t be facing this impossible situation now.

Unfortunately, it was all too late.

Chapter 8: Ambush in the Town

Those left in the town were mostly the old, weak, women, and children. Now, with a large number of soldiers rushing in, everyone was on edge, shutting their doors and windows, terrified of provoking these fierce and vicious soldiers.

The townsfolk on the hillside were all able-bodied men, but, threatened by The Old Mayor, they couldn’t enter the town and could only watch as over a hundred soldiers stormed in.

As per The Old Mayor’s orders, the cavalry didn’t pursue Devon at all, but instead swept past the town like the wind, blocking every exit at once.

For a moment, the streets and alleys of Vito Town became extremely quiet; this was now an arena for Devon and the castle soldiers.

The more than one hundred infantrymen searching the town split into over twenty groups, five men in each. After entering the town, they scattered and began a meticulous dragnet search.

The town was so small that any noise would be hard to hide from others, especially from the sharp-eared Devon.

Before long, Devon realized the enemy’s objective.

In theory, for Devon fighting alone, this tactic was unsolvable. But that was only in ideal conditions; real combat was far from that simple.

Devon immediately found his own advantage.

He had lived in this town for ten years and knew it like the back of his hand. Every tree, every rack, every hidden alley—he was intimately familiar with them all.

His opponents, on the other hand, were all outsiders hired by The Old Mayor from Lumba City.

That advantage alone was enough!

In a small alley, a group of soldiers had already come within fifty meters of Devon. They were searching very carefully, leaving no corner unchecked, entering every household.

Devon was hiding behind a grape trellis, covered with a large bundle of dry grass, quietly observing his opponents.

There were five of them. Any disturbance here would bring a large number of soldiers rushing to help.

He was alone, so he had to act quickly and decisively.

He slowed his breathing, and slowly reached back to draw three hardwood arrows from his quiver, holding them between his fingers and nocking them on the bowstring at the same time.

He was preparing to use the last and most difficult archery technique taught by Uncle Nolan: rapid fire.

Three arrows on one string, each shot with precision.

This technique was extremely hard to master, but Devon, with his abundant energy and relentless practice, had perfected it—reaching a level even his teacher, Uncle Nolan, could not attain.

Uncle Nolan didn’t lose in accuracy, only in speed; in terms of quickness, he was far behind Devon.

This was a natural physical advantage, one that was nearly impossible to make up for with training.

Devon waited until the enemy was within thirty meters. At this distance, he could guarantee that all three arrows would be highly accurate.

This was still because he was using hardwood arrows; wooden arrows were too light, and if the bow was drawn too fully, the arrows would fly too fast and easily veer off course.

If he switched to heavy iron arrows, Devon could maintain accuracy within a hundred meters!

The soldiers on the street were still unaware that death was near, continuing to search every corner diligently.

Step by step, they walked into the death trap Devon had set for them.

Devon was extremely patient. Just as three of the five men entered his planned range, the sound of a bowstring snapping came from beneath the grape trellis at the street corner.

There was only one sound, but three arrows flew out.

With the subtle intuition honed by relentless practice, Devon’s fingers flicked each arrow shaft as it left the string, adjusting their direction to target three different enemies.

Each arrow shot through the eye slit of a helmet—no suspense at all.

Two of the soldiers died instantly. The third had just turned his head, but this brought him no luck—only a more tragic fate.

The hardwood arrow slanted into his eye socket and then pierced out through his temple.

The soldier felt a stabbing pain in his eye and let out a heart-wrenching, blood-curdling scream. His body collapsed to the ground, convulsing violently, struggling as blood gushed from inside his helmet—a terrifying sight.

The shrill screams echoed throughout the town, making the townsfolk watching from the hillside look at each other in shock.

“Was that Devon?” someone asked.