Chapter 7: We’re Here to Say Goodbye
As the limping man had predicted, even after nightfall, the young men still hadn’t returned.
Not long ago, the camp had been heavy with despair. Now, laughter and the rich aroma of cooked meat drifted through the air.
Gurgle.
Chen Fan’s stomach growled. He’d been hungry for hours, but the sight of his [Basic Archery] progress bar inching forward had driven him to keep drawing his bow.
After reaching Level 1, he found it easier to pull the bowstring taut. He could now fire ten arrows in a row before his arms began to ache—and even then, he still had energy to spare.
The downside? Each shot now added less than 0.5% proficiency. Even a bullseye barely gave him 1%. At this rate, he’d need to land a hundred perfect shots to reach Level 2. The difficulty had tripled.
No rush, he told himself. A day or two, maybe even less if I practice through the night…
“Kid, you’re so obsessed you didn’t even notice the sun’s gone down,” the limping man called out.
“Uncle Zhang!” Chen Fan snapped to attention, turning sheepishly.
The man studied him, his earlier boredom replaced by awe. He’d spent the afternoon watching Chen Fan’s progress—and what a spectacle it had been.
That morning, Chen Fan had fumbled like a novice. By afternoon, his form was flawless, landing bullseyes every three or four shots. The other trainees needed days to luck into a single perfect hit. Yet here was this kid, improving faster than anyone he’d ever seen.
“It’s late,” Uncle Zhang said, masking his astonishment. “I’ll check the gates. You head home and come back tomorrow.”
The meaty scent taunted his empty stomach. Even scraps would beat another hungry night.
“Right, Uncle Zhang.” Chen Fan hesitated. “But… could I light a torch and keep practicing?”
The man gaped. “Tonight?”
He’d met diligent archers before—but this bordered on madness.
“Can’t sleep anyway,” Chen Fan shrugged. “Unless it’s a problem?”
“No problem at all.” Uncle Zhang waved a hand. “I’ll set up a torch. Practice as long as you want.”
“Thank you!”
By tomorrow night, [Basic Archery] would hit Level 2.
Footsteps interrupted their conversation. A middle-aged man approached, clutching a meaty cut.
“Dad!”
“Guodong!”
Chen Guodong’s stern face softened into a rare smile. He offered the two-pound hindquarter to Uncle Zhang.
“Ah Ren, this is yours.”
The limping man’s eyes glistened. “Guodong, why give me the prime cut?”
“You train our youth. The village’s future rests on you.” Chen Guodong pushed the meat into his hands. “No one disputes your share.”
“Good hunt today?”
“Two desert rabbits. The larger weighed nearly fifty pounds—still forty after dressing. Every household gets a pound, with extra for contributors.”
“May every day bring such luck,” Uncle Zhang murmured.
Chen Guodong nodded, then turned to his son. “Xiao Fan, let’s eat. The stew’s waiting.”
They walked home in silence, boots crunching on rough soil.
“Your mother says you practiced all day,” Chen Guodong finally said. “Even after lunch?”
“Yes.”
The awkwardness of father-son solitude hung between them.
“And?”
“It’s… going well?”
“Good.” Chen Guodong cleared his throat. “When the Wei brothers have time, I’ll ask them to coach you. Today’s success was their doing.”
Chen Fan nodded. Uncle Zhang had mentioned the Weis’ legendary 100-pound draws. Their guidance would be invaluable.
The house came into view—and with it, trouble. Three strangers loomed in the doorway beside Chen Fan’s mother and brother.
Celebrating? he wondered, though dread prickled his neck.
“Tiangong! Tianyuan!” Chen Guodong quickened his pace. “Perfect timing—join us for dinner!”
His wife forced a smile. “Yes, it’s all ready!”
The Wei brothers’ archery had made today’s feast possible. Without them, no one could outrun desert rabbits on foot.
Yet the visitors exchanged uneasy glances. Wei Tiangong, the balding eldest brother, stepped forward.
“Guodong.” His voice tightened. “We came to say goodbye.”
