Restart:Untalented Man

Nightfall descended upon Napuna, veiling the city and its surroundings in darkness. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the forest that lay between the city and Lake Nevya came alive with an air of mystique. The dense canopy overhead blocked out the faint glimmer of moonlight, plunging the forest into more profound obscurity.

It was within this very woodland that King Nicholas I of Bagyarosia had met his untimely demise, forever imbuing the forest with a sense of melancholy. 

Alaric guided his team of skilled sharpshooters through the thick underbrush. The forest floor, carpeted with fallen leaves and moss, crunched softly under their careful footsteps. 

The towering trees' branches reaching the sky formed a natural fortress that concealed their movements from prying eyes.

The sharpshooters moved with deliberate precision, their senses attuned to the slightest rustle of foliage or the distant hoot of an owl.

As the night goes on, the air in the forest grew cooler, carrying the earthy scent of damp earth and the faint aroma of pine.

Deep within the heart of the forest, the Blande forces established their camp.

Alaric and his team halted, hidden among the thick foliage, their keen eyes piercing through the darkness. Though the night enshrouded the Blande camp, the Rogvor people possessed a heightened ability to see in low light, granting them an advantage in their observations.

From the top of the tree, Alaric discerned the layout of the camp with remarkable clarity. Torches flickered at intervals, casting an eerie glow that danced in the dark. The camp was organized, with tents arranged in neat rows, a testament to the disciplined nature of the Blande forces.

Soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their silhouettes barely visible against the murky backdrop.

Alaric's sharp vision allowed him to track their movements, noting the pattern of their patrols and the positions of the sentries.

Their numbers seem quite large but it is their reliance on light that Alaric aims to exploit.

In the heart of the camp, a larger tent stood prominent, its fabric billowing in the nocturnal breeze. Alaric deduced that it housed the commanding officers— their target.

Alaric conveyed his plan with a hushed intensity, his voice barely audible above the rustle of leaves. "First, we take out the lights. Panic will ensue across the camp, forcing the top officers to exit their tents to see what happened. After that, you guys know what to do, right?"

The rest of the team nodded in silent affirmation, their expressions resolute. As a fellow Rogvor people, Alaric was confident in their abilities. He knew they were skilled and disciplined, capable of executing their assigned tasks flawlessly.

"Good," Alaric whispered, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Remember, we strike swiftly and silently. Let the darkness be our ally."

Alaric's voice echoed softly in the night air as he issued final instructions. "Pick your targets carefully. Aim true, and remember, we only have one chance at this."

The sharpshooter team then dispersed to their designated positions, moving with the utmost caution.

In the stillness of the forest, tension hung thick in the air. Alaric's senses sharpened as he surveyed the camp once more, ensuring their plan would unfold seamlessly. A bead of sweat traced its way down his temple, a testament to the gravity of their mission.

Their bows were drawn and arrows notched. The team keep their breathing steady.

The seconds stretched into eternity, each passing moment amplifying the intensity of their purpose. And then, with a swift flick of Alaric's hand, he signalled the start of their operation.

Swoosh—

Swoosh—

Specialized arrows sliced through the stillness of the night sky. Each is tied with a unique combination of fire-retardant substances. Crafted with meticulous precision, these arrows carried a blend of sand, damp soils, and other enigmatic materials on their arrowheads. It was a piece of common knowledge for the Rogvors.

With an ethereal grace, they soared through the velvety darkness, guided by the skilled hands of Alaric and his team of sharpshooters.

The success of their task hinged on hitting the base source of the firelight which required a supreme level of accuracy and timing.

As the arrows flew through the air, their arrowheads grazed the flames, leaving behind a trail of extinguished embers.

Poof—

One by one, the lights were extinguished, plunging the Blande camp into darkness.

In the heart of the camp, confusion and panic erupted like wildfire. The sudden absence of light disoriented the soldiers, who had been lulled into a false sense of security by the flickering flames.

"Where is the light? I can't see anything!" a panicked voice cried out, the fear palpable in their tone.

They scrambled to ignite torches, but the darkness seemed to devour their feeble attempts, leaving them vulnerable and disoriented.

"Don't panic! Stay together! Don't lose sight of your comrades!" shouted another soldier, his voice tinged with desperation, trying to restore a sense of unity.

"What's happening? Are we under attack?" a frightened voice questioned, the fear evident in their trembling words.

"We are under attack?! Let me grab my weapon!" a soldier exclaimed. "Sh*t! I can't find my weapon! It's too dark!" his voice filled with frustration, frantically patting himself down in search of his lost weapon.

Voices rose in a crescendo of bewildered shouts and startled cries. The soldiers stumbled over one another, their hands outstretched, searching for familiar faces in the sea of shadows.

"I don't know where I am! I can't find my way back to the tent!" a disoriented soldier pleaded, his voice tinged with fear, his outstretched hands grasping at nothingness.

"Calm the f*ck down!" a resolute voice tried to rally the soldiers, but it was drowned out by the chaotic frenzy, its call for composure falling on deaf ears.

Meanwhile, Alaric remained concealed, silently observing the soldiers' frantic movements through the dense foliage and carefully noting their position. The darkness doesn't affect him or his subordinates as much as it did to Blande soldiers.

His heart pounded with anticipation as he waited for their targets to move.