Eric laughed with sheer exhilaration as raced across the fallow fields, delighting in the sharp clean scents of early autumn, pretty sure he was breaking 120 mph while feeling nothing but a gentle burn in his quads like he would have felt with a light jog, just half a year ago.

He frowned, pretty sure he could go even faster if he really pushed. But at his current pace, wind drag was becoming a very real thing. Contrary to popular belief, humans with their efficient two legged stride had evolved to be excellent endurance predators, chasing down large game with spears across the savannas and plains of the prehistoric world for hundreds of thousands of years, much like the grassland he was racing across even now.

But not at his current speed, where a body shape that was excellent for efficient metabolism at a loping jog, a shape that had served countless generations of his ancestors and who knew how many other humanoid races pretty damned well, now left his entire upright body vulnerable to the wind like a fleshy sail when he approached racing car speeds.

But it was only when he finally began to close in on his prey, blinking red lights on his interface making it clear he was only a minute or so out, that he found himself slowing down, no longer worried about his top speed. Because he was about to close with one of the bastards who had made such a mockery of him, unleashing lightning bolts near half a mile out. And even if they hadn’t done more than torment him at far range with his considerable health pool, it had certainly made it abundantly clear who was dominating the territory, and who was fleeing with their tail between their legs.

Eric flinched and scowled at the memory, his furious pace easing to a surly jog.

He grit his teeth, knowing damn well that if he didn’t have a plan, he’d be forced to flee yet again, to the hoots and laughter of hundreds of conscripts he could obliterate with relative ease, and at least one shaman who he damn well couldn’t. Not easily, anyway.

Eric sighed, gazing down at the strip of enchanted leather in his hand, and what was now, effectively, his most valuable possession. Perhaps, along with the throwing spear, the most primitive weapon he’d ever used. Yet with his strength, speed, and choice of ammo… arguably the deadliest. But that didn’t change the fact that it was, in Nick’s own words, a bit of a compromise design.

“Basically, them Roman auxiliaries used two types of sling, Eric,” he could so clearly recall Nick saying. “A shorter one for straight line aiming at enemy troops within a hundred yards or less, and a longer one you do have to twirl a rotation or two, just to get centrifugal force fully on your side before you finally release. Now with the shorter ones, you just hold the sling behind you, kinda loosely, See? Look at mine. Just short enough that the cup will never touch the ground if I hold it loosely the way I am. Then you eyeball where the target is, and one sharp swing and release, using the rotation of your torso and hips to add maximum power to your bullet. It’s kinda like throwing a fastball, but with a bit more oomph, and your rock’s basically a bullet tearing through your enemy’s skull.”

Nick had then demonstrated using his own sling, loading the pocket of his sling in an eyeblink. The boy’s quirky smile had turned hard and cold as he sighted for the target Eric had set up a full hundred yards out, and then, from a completely relaxed position, he whipped his body forward and around, the sling going from absolute stillness to a whiplike snap as the lead bullet streaked through the air before blasting into the revenant Eric had ‘volunteered’ for target practice with such force that a bemused Eric had no doubt that multiple ribs would have been shattered, if the orc had still been among the living.

Even if his centurion had only stumbled back a step, Eric could see the burst links from here. And that was was most definitely saying something about the power of a Classer, when arrows shot by a mortal would have had no chance of doing the same, save for narrow bodkin heads that would have pierced for minimal damage.

Billy’s class-boosted lead bullet, on the other hand, had hit harder than a musket ball would at equal range.

The boy gave a satisfied nod before pulling out a second, much longer sling. This one he had to twirl about his head a couple of times. But not with mad force, just enough to form tension in the braided rope before smoothly twisting his hips and arching forward, sending a second lead bullet flying off with what Eric suspected was even more force than the first. His target this time had been a large gong Eric had two more revenants holding at two hundred yards out, and his frown made it clear that the tinny ring he had heard had not been a sure thing. He then turned back to Eric, looking relieved it had actually hit. As if he had actually been afraid of the consequences, if it hadn’t.

“The longer braided ropes were for slingers bombarding enemy troops at range. Hundreds of yards out. Far beyond what any bow could match, especially in the era of the Roman Legions. It was more artilleryish, in that the goal was to hit the enemy army as a whole, not any specific combatant. Like those moronic musketeers firing in volleys. Because individual targets beyond a hundred yards ain’t happening with those massively oversized flintlocks that are as much spear as proper gun. But they can still be volley shot against enemy formations at triple that range.”

Eric had nodded. “Short sling for straight line sniping. Shouldn’t require too much twirling if you know what the fuck you’re doing, and I clearly don’t. Longer rope for super fast, super powerful, not necessarily super accurate bombardments of distant enemy formations. Got it.”

Nick gave a relieved nod, before pointing back to Eric’s own custom made sling, one currently sporting a pocket capable of holding a 17 pound cannon ball. “You’re sling is, um, something of a compromise design. Seeing as you’re firing both the almond shaped lead bullets I made for you, 17 pound fucking cannon balls, which is absurd, and tightly bound bundles of, well, cannon shot.” He winced, as if pained by the very thought, before beaming with a crafter’s pride. “Well I think I made a sweet, sweet sling, despite the extreme demands you’re putting on that thing. It will allow for accurate straight line firing, once you get a good feel for it, and with your fucking gloriously absurd Strength and Quickness, you might just hit cannonball speeds. Ha! One day.”

Nick had then shaken his head at the sheer absurdity of the idea as he finished his lecture in the damp mist then soaking them both to the bone.

“Point is, it’s going to need a twirl or two. Extra couple of seconds invested. At least until you’re really, really good. And that’s also why I gave it a thick three finger loop, one that takes advantage of the strength of your grip as a whole. Because, again, you’re firing cannon balls designed for stationary 24-pounder long guns. Not your typical sling stone that weighs about as much as an orc musket ball.”

Eric smiled in memory of the lessons he had learned from a good-natured boy who had been thrown into really rough circumstances. He was once more glad that he hadn’t killed the goofball, no matter how blinding his fury had been after nearly getting his skull cracked by a Classer’s gifts.

Eric could only hope that Nick and his very pregnant girlfriend were doing alright, and, with any luck, they and their friends would prosper as innkeeper, caretakers, and cooks, once they properly renovated that orcish fort as the first step in transforming Ashland into the massive and extremely wealthy adventuring and manufacturing mecca Eric could so clearly visualize it becoming, once adventurers discovered what an absolute gem that carefully curated territory truly was.

He then shook his head free of all extraneous thoughts. Feeling the weight of the massive lead ball in the pocket of his sling as he sighted his target in the distance.

A gentle twirl as he strove to become one with his weapon. And then release!

You have successfully struck your target!

You have successfully struck your target!

You have critically struck: Boulder!

Eric’s smile faded, gazing with a critical eye at the mounds of exploded turf a good hundred yards away, marching in a lopsided line ending only at a boulder that had shattered on impact a split second after he had snapped his hips and released his prize.

It had taken a good four seconds from the time he willed his rune-marked cannon ball into the pocket of his soul-bound sling and released for each of his casts. And over half that time twirling till the moment it felt right.

He then tried it a couple times the way Nick had, not twirling at all or waiting for what felt like the perfect moment. Just a single sharp swing and release. Over and over again. Oversized cannon balls lobbing through the air at a fraction of the power he was otherwise capable of.

Cannon balls that couldn’t hit shit.

He gave a frustrated shake of his head, before summoning the lead ball that had somehow ended up five feet behind him and, this time, spent the seconds needed to twirl it properly, releasing only when it felt right.

You have critically struck your target! Experience earned!

He flashed a wry smile when the head of the shadow puma his infravision had sensed through the grass a good hundred and twenty yards out exploded in crimson mist. Not surprisingly, he sensed no other predators in the area. And although a part of him admired even the fiercest wild life, thoughts of his beautiful if overly endowed girls back in Dairlyand falling prey to those things lit an almost fatherly rage in his heart.

Fortunately, he had sensed zero predators larger than mundane field snakes in Dairyland, in the time it had taken him to surrender his territory. He could only hope that Annika would remain true to her commitment and keep those girls safe.

With his sling at the ready, Eric did his best to clear his mind of all distractions before heading back in the direction of the massive flood of reds he now sensed was only minutes away from overrunning the Silvergrove’s keep, defended by only 70 of his own revenants, and, much to his alarm, Annika’s father.

It had been a risk, spending a good fifteen minutes working on his technique. His timing. Accepting the fact that he couldn’t shave any more time from his windup than he already had.

Four seconds between casts. That’s what he had to work with.

Even if that meant facing off against a lightning wielding level 50 shaman and 500 musketeers that would do everything they could to see him dead.