Chapter 9: Javelin Throw

Through the gestures of a militiaman, Leo gained a rough understanding of the measurement system in this world. The area the villagers referred to as an acre was roughly the same size as an acre from his previous life—about half the size of a soccer field.

Though the farming techniques here were extremely primitive, and land clearing didn’t require the thoroughness of his former world—in fact, it could be called downright rudimentary—even so, to open up nearly three hundred acres of wasteland within three months, with only their small group of mostly elderly and weak three hundred people, and without any mechanical equipment, was still beyond Leo’s imagination.

Breaking new ground and cultivating already tilled fields were two entirely different matters. From burning off the wild grass, turning the soil, clearing stones and shrubs, to leveling the land, building ridges, digging irrigation channels, then finally sowing, tending, and harvesting—the amount of labor required for a single acre of wasteland was more than ten times that of a cultivated field.

The only reason Urien had any confidence was thanks to the large patches of grassland and lakes on the Riverbend Peninsula, where the terrain was flat, the soil fertile, and water abundant—ideal conditions for reclamation.

Further from the river, or across it on the vast plains, were primeval forests dense with coniferous giants, land and vegetation utterly unconquerable for a mere band of refugees like themselves.

Having grown up in a modern rural village, Leo subconsciously believed that if there were no taxes, each person could easily feed themselves by farming just two mu of land.

However, this was the remote northern frontier, where their agricultural knowledge was backward even by this world’s standards, and their grains were no high-yield, genetically improved crops.

In his original village, they could only harvest one crop of rye a year. From an acre of land, after sowing two hundred pounds of seed, they would only reap eight hundred pounds of grain.

When you subtract the seed for the next season, and with no taxes, a single acre could barely keep one person from starving.

With these calculations, the three hundred acres Urien demanded wasn’t much at all. Even if they achieved the goal, they’d still be far from having enough to eat.

Three hundred acres—over eighteen hundred mu in modern terms—even if he had a tractor, Leo doubted he could finish it all.

But Leo was not one for reasoning. Knowing all this only made him more anxious and irritable.

He barked, “I don’t care—start training! Anyone who wants to leave gets a beating!”

The militiamen exchanged uncertain glances, but none dared speak. Many didn’t truly respect Leo, so young, but all feared his fists.

Moreover, having only days before suffered a deadly javelin volley from the kobolds, the power of the weapon left a deep impression on the militia.

That rain of javelins had claimed the lives of more than ten men; several more still lay bedridden in the camp’s tents.

It was the deadliest ranged attack the militia had suffered on their migration, second only to the beast warriors’ flying axes and the trolls’ hunter spears.

So, with javelins, spears, and wooden clubs in hand, they gathered on an empty field outside the camp.

Leo quickly assessed the distance, then changed the rules on the spot. He drew a line at his feet and pointed toward a small hillside more than twenty meters away. “Practice your throws from here. Hitting a tree trunk is a valid throw.”

Scattered across the small hill were a few spindly trees. Hitting a trunk from over twenty meters away was no simple feat.

An eager militiaman stepped up, grabbed a handy javelin, and heaved it with all his might.

The javelin wobbled through the air and landed several meters short of the trees.

The others burst out laughing and confidently took their turns.

In the end, only a few javelins even made it into the grove, and only one stuck into the base of a tree trunk by sheer luck.

The results were dismal.

Yet Leo wasn’t disappointed. Having been an athlete in his previous life, he knew that for the untrained—without a run-up and with such poor-quality javelins—this level was already respectable.

He’d seen plenty of javelins fly sideways, spin, or skip along the ground.

The javelins the militia had collected were only javelins in form. Aside from those captured from the kobolds, the rest were just long sticks of varying thickness, with a few hayforks mixed in, weighing anywhere from half a kilo to three kilos. The feel of throwing them was worlds apart from a proper javelin.

Anyone who managed to throw one twenty meters on their first try had real athletic talent.

“Again!” Leo let the militiamen throw two more rounds. Only after gathering the javelins did he begin to patiently demonstrate the throwing technique.

He showed them how to grip the javelin, how to channel their strength, the difference between throws with and without a run-up, and the right angle for a toss.

As he spoke, he backed up, leveled the javelin over his shoulder, took a slow-motion run-up, and hurled it.

The javelin traced a graceful, steady arc through the air, sailing over twenty meters and piercing a tree trunk, the tip jutting out the other side.

A perfect throw.

Years of athletic training in his past life, combined with the robust body he now possessed, had made him a master of the javelin.

And this, even with injuries that should have kept him from strenuous movement.

Now, Leo was the very embodiment of an athlete—not only in javelin throwing, but with his raw strength and talent, a little training in his previous world would surely have made him a champion in multiple events, if not a decathlon gold medalist.

The militiamen were stunned by his display, whispering among themselves.

Who threw the best javelin?

Answer one: Leo, who’d never tried it before.

Answer two: The kobold chief, bitten to death.

The real answer: “He’s possessed!”

After about an hour of training, Urien hurried from the camp.

By then, the militiamen had begun to show promise. Once they’d mastered the basics, the stronger among them could toss a javelin thirty meters even without a run-up, though their aim left much to be desired.

Improving accuracy would take long practice and standardized weapons. That could only come with time.

Watching the men rub their sore arms but beam with excitement, Leo shouted, “That’s the end of morning training. You barely pass. From now on, you’ll train at least an hour every morning!”

Urien, having watched for a while, clapped Leo on the shoulder in delight. “Well, well, boy! I never would’ve guessed you had this skill!”

“Ow, ow, ow!” Leo hunched his shoulders, dodging Urien’s heavy hand as he explained, “I picked it up hunting, back in the day.”

“Excellent! Now we stand a better chance of wiping out those kobolds.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself—just watch. I’ve got plenty more tricks,” Leo boasted, eyebrows dancing.

“Heh! I know exactly how much you’ve got in you,” Urien said, raising a foot as if to kick him. “So cheerful—are you healed already? If so, get out to the fields and work!”