Chapter 5: Tough? Not Really
"How long do you think he can last?"
During the break, several young men huddled together, whispering.
"Two days, max."
"Two days? I doubt he’ll last one. Didn’t you notice? In under an hour, his right arm could barely lift. Honestly, he’ll probably quit by afternoon."
"Now that you mention it, I remember practicing archery all day once. By night, I couldn’t even hold a bowl—my fingers were raw and peeling."
"Who hasn’t been there? Guns are way easier. If only we had pistols," one chuckled foolishly.
"Keep dreaming. Those greedy merchants have driven firearm prices to the skies. A single bullet this small costs pounds of grain. It’s robbery!"
Their chatter drifted away from Chen Fan, but he was already struggling.
His frail body strained with every full draw of the bow. After a dozen attempts, his right arm trembled uncontrollably, as if detached. The sole consolation was his progress:
[Basic Archery: Lv0 (28%)]
One near-perfect shot, a finger’s width from the bullseye, had jumped him 5%.
Gritting his teeth, Chen Fan raised his numb arm again. This time, the bowstring refused to yield. The arrow limped a pitiful three meters before thudding into dirt.
"You dumb or what? Rest when you’re spent!" barked the limping man.
Chen Fan turned with an awkward smile. "You’re right, Uncle Zhang. I’ll take a break."
He sighed. Haste makes waste, he thought bitterly. His body simply couldn’t keep up with his determination.
"Come here. Let me fix that arm."
Chen Fan froze. So did the nearby youths, their stares screaming, Where was this treatment for us?
"Pah!" Uncle Zhang spat. "You call that archery? More like plucking cotton!"
The group flushed. Sure, they’d slacked sometimes—but only when their arms burned like fire.
"Uncle Zhang, really, it’s fine—"
"Fine? Enjoy pissing yourself later then," the man shrugged.
Chen Fan winced. "Then... thank you."
"Should’ve said yes faster," grumbled Uncle Zhang, hobbling over. Rough words, but the care beneath was unmistakable.
As skilled hands kneaded his arm, relief flooded Chen Fan. Twenty minutes later, his limb felt reclaimed.
"Thank you, Uncle Zhang."
The man waved him off. "Your father’s deeds for this village? This is nothing."
Chen Fan understood. His father fought daily to keep everyone here alive—young, old, all.
"Listen, kid," Uncle Zhang said gravely. "Bullseyes here mean nothing. Out there?" He jerked his chin beyond the walls. "Targets move. Miss, and you starve."
"I know. But quitting now wastes all I’ve done," Chen Fan replied steadily. Thirty percent progress wasn’t something to abandon.
Uncle Zhang nodded. "Keep at it."
As he left, the other youths groaned. Chen Fan watched his retreating back. Crass, but kind. A shame the limp keeps him from helping Father more.
Resuming practice, Chen Fan drew again. To others, it was tedium. To him, each shot whispered promises:
+1%... +2%...
Near the bullseye? +5%!
Fatigue faded beneath growing precision.
"Underestimated you, boy," Uncle Zhang muttered, approving. That relentless polish—rare in the village. Maybe he’d survive.
At noon, Chen Fan gulped watery porridge. His mother, seeing his blistered hands, added an extra scoop.
"Xiao Fan... maybe rest?"
He smiled. "Hard? I’m having fun."
He left her fretting, his brother bewildered.
No choice, Chen Fan thought, checking his stats:
[Basic Archery: Lv0 (52%)]
By dusk, Level 1. Then—changes. Big ones.
This village hung by a thread. Disaster struck in threes; his second life’s memories knew it. He had to grow. Fast.
