MW CH8

Chapter 8: A Calm Heart Steadies the Hand

With plenty of people still waiting behind me, I didn’t linger long and moved forward.

Entry and exit were separate—front gate in, back door out. Beyond the exit stretched a winding path downhill, shaded by sprawling tree canopies. Morning frost clung to the branches in the winter chill, glinting like crystal under the sunlight, turning the trail into a shimmering ribbon.

Sipping porridge, I strolled down slowly. Every few meters, a big trash bag sat roadside for litter—thoughtful touch.

Once I’d eaten my fill, I pulled out my phone and called Yan Chuwen to ask where they were.

He and Guo Shu had already headed down and were now at the village’s west clearing, watching an archery match.

“…Hold on, let me check…” The background was a chaotic buzz—he muttered to someone, then suddenly asked, “Hey, Bai Yin, didn’t you join the archery club in college?”

I blinked. “I did, for a bit…”

Strictly speaking, one semester.

“Here’s the deal—there’s a team event starting soon, but one of Pengge’s players hurt their hand moving gear and can’t compete. Could you come sub in?”

“Sub…”

Before I could respond, the phone switched hands.

“Little Bro, help us out, please!” Nie Peng’s voice crackled with urgency. “I’m out of options. We don’t care about ranking—just fill in, and I’ll treat you to dinner later!”

With the village head begging me personally, how could I say no?

“Alright, hang on—I’m coming.”

I hung up and jogged through the crowd, cutting the twenty-minute walk in half.

Before I could catch my breath, Nie Peng bustled over, slung a garland of blue fake flowers around my neck, clapped my shoulder, and shoved me onto the field with three other young guys.

It was a big annual festival, sure, but hardly pro-level. The setup was basic—no stands, just folks forming a loose semicircle around the contestants.

White lines chalked the ground, targets thirty meters out—a decent mid-range distance.

I’d arrived just in time. The other villages’ teams had finished their first round—next up was Pengge.

The other three went first while I stayed back, getting a feel for the bow.

In college, it wasn’t an “archery club”—it was a “hunting bow society.”

Modern TV archery uses recurve bows—metal frames, sights, arrow rests, three-finger draws. Traditional hunting bows, though, are wood—maple or mulberry—no sights, no rests, thumb-drawn.

I tested the string. Good flex, well-maintained—felt cared for.

Yan Chuwen lucked out with that guess. I’d learned hunting bow—if I’d trained recurve, I’d be screwed today.

“Go, go, don’t stress!”

“Yin哥, you’ve got this—believe in yourself!”

Yan Chuwen and Guo Shu cheered from the sidelines, looking more nervous than me.

Each team got eight arrows—two per person. First team shot four, then the next, cycling through all teams for one round. Two rounds total—highest score won.

Soon, Pengge’s other three finished their shots. My turn.

“Hey, Nie Peng, you’re putting a Xia guy up? Pengge run out of people?”

A dark-skinned guy with a toothpick in his mouth ribbed Nie Peng in thick-accented Xia, half-joking, half-serious.

“Xia or not, we’re one family! This is my brother!” Nie Peng crossed his arms, unfazed.

Mind games on the field—didn’t expect that at a village event.

I stepped to the line, pushed the bow forward, drew the string, aimed. Accuracy aside, I had to look the part.

Blocking out the noise, I slowed my breath. The moment my fingers released, the arrow streaked like a meteor—straight for the target.

Too rusty, though—no practice. It veered, hitting six rings. I frowned, annoyed.

“Nice, nice!” Even so, Yan Chuwen and Guo Shu erupted in wild applause.

“Solid, Little Bro—keep it up!” Nie Peng slung an arm around me, pulling me to the rest area. “Stick to this pace, and we’ve got a shot at the top!”

Round two rolled in, and I noticed a small black target behind the thirty-meter one.

“What’s that?” I asked Nie Peng.

He glanced over. “Ghost Head Target—20 points if you hit it.”

Center ring was 10 points—Ghost Head was 20?

But it was tiny and farther out. Miss it, and you’d get nothing—high risk, low reward.

That’s the point, I figured. Go big or play safe—your call.

While the first team went again, I took my bow to the practice area, brushing up quietly.

By nature, I wouldn’t join college clubs—especially a sport I knew zilch about.

I owed my hunting bow stint to my ex at the time.

Freshman year, the society’s seniors hit up every department, recruiting. Babyface got roped in—wanted to join but not solo—so he dragged me along.

I barely showed. Maybe three or four times in two months, all coerced by his whining. Soon after, he dumped me, saying I had the looks but no heart—he couldn’t feel my affection. If I didn’t want love, why’d I say yes?

He’d pushed for it, but when it flopped, it was somehow my fault.

“Because I was bored,” I blurted, unfiltered.

Slap!

Deservedly, he hit me. I was a jerk—I had it coming—so I wasn’t mad.

“Don’t let me see you again!” Face livid, he stormed off, leaving me in the grove.

I rubbed my stinging jaw, lingered, then exited the other side.

That patch near the library shed leaves in fall—bugs everywhere, dim streetlights. Past eight p.m., it was a ghost town. So when Mochuan and I crossed paths under a faint lamp, we both froze.

“Small world,” I said, awkward.

He wore a thin, ink-green sweater, clutching a notebook and two books—fresh from the study room, probably.

His eyes flicked to the grove I’d emerged from, then to my face—my still-hot left cheek—but he asked nothing, said nothing, like he hadn’t noticed. A slight nod, and he brushed past.

Not here for chit-chat.

Fair enough—can’t expect everyone to embrace my orientation. But maybe the slap had me on edge; his distance lit a fire in me.

“Wait!” Teeth gritted, I called out.

Hands in pockets, I turned, facing him across the lamp. “Ever hear of ‘reverse projection’ in psychology?”

He paused, half-turning, his face a sickening mask of detachment.

“Not really.”

I sneered. “It’s when inner feelings clash with what you show. Fear isn’t disgust—it’s anxiety over your own desires. Some hate gays not out of bias, but to bury their own urges.”

He nodded, all “thanks for the lesson.” “I see.”

His bland reaction was a punch into cotton—stifling, dull.

Coward.

Snorting, I walked off without another word.

Figured avoiding Yan Chuwen’s place meant no more run-ins. Then, days later, he showed up at the bow society.

It started with a senior calling—asked if I’d join a night event. Recruitment was tanking; without turnout, the club might fold next year.

She sighed, all gloom—I caved.

That night, I showed, half-dreading Babyface. Turns out he’d quit days ago.

“You didn’t know? Thought you two were tight—he’d tell you,” she said, shocked.

Tightening my arm guard, I shrugged. “We broke up.”

She didn’t expect that candor. A beat of silence, then visible awkwardness.

Ignoring her, I grabbed a bow and practiced.

After half an hour, clapping cut through. “Hey, pause—look over here.”

I lowered my bow, turning.

“Introducing a new member…” Beside the senior stood a tall, poised figure, chatting with another guy. Black sweater, pale skin—paler than her—ears red from the cold, lapis stud gleaming.

No way. As I thought it, he faced me, locking eyes through the crowd.

“This is Mochuan, folklore major, Cenglu. Don’t let his freshman status fool you—he’s trained in traditional archery since childhood, better than me or the VP. Treat him like our coach—ask him anything.”

Murmurs rippled around.

“Wow, he’s gorgeous—mixed vibes.”

“Minority perk—genetic edge…”

“This year’s freshmen are unreal. Didn’t we get another hot guy—classy one?”

“Oh, him? Art major—doesn’t like girls…”

“Shh, he’s right behind you!”

Mochuan glanced at me once, then looked away. Center stage, he fielded eager questions and over-the-top praise like a pro.

Phony.

Snorting inwardly, I returned to my spot, resuming practice.

Newbie targets were just ten meters, but form didn’t care about distance. After three sets, my arms ached. I’d hit eight rings consistently—now, stamina fading, accuracy slipped. Missed the center, even the target sometimes.

Teeth clenched, I loosed another arrow. It veered, and the string snapped back, smacking my elbow—red welt blooming.

Lips tight, defiance kicked in. I nocked another.

Mid-aim, someone gripped my bow arm from behind, light but firm.

“Wrong form. Straighten your arm, turn the elbow.” A faint sandalwood scent—temple-like—hit my nose.

I tensed, glancing back. Mochuan focused on my hand, not my face.

He adjusted me—straightened my elbow into a clean line, gripped my wrist, guided the draw.

“Elbow up, no shrugging. Aim, then release.”

Up close, I clocked his height—188, maybe 189, taller than me.

Heat radiated from behind—awkward, but a stubborn itch not to lose flared up.

Chill out, act normal. If a homophobe didn’t care, why should I?

“Shoot,” he said coolly by my ear. My fingers obeyed, arrow flying true—dead-center hit.

I stared, stunned. By the time I snapped back, he’d stepped away.

Filing those pointers away, I kept practice light—saving strength for the match—and rejoined the team.

Pengge’s other three were tallying scores. To win, we needed forty points—ten rings each.

Impossible.

“No biggie—participation counts! Next year, we’ll get ‘em!” Nie Peng clapped my shoulder, urging me on, no pressure.

The team chimed in.

“Yeah, just being here’s great—first or not.”

“Next year, we train up and crush it!”

“Crush it!”

Maybe their chill vibe loosened me up—a sharp edge kicked in. We didn’t all hit ten, but the others scored three arrows for twenty-seven in round two—solid.

Last shot, even a ten wouldn’t win it for Pengge.

Why not swing big, then?

Eyes on the distant target, I shut them, calming my pulse. Crowd noise faded, breeze brushed my skin, a faint temple incense tinged the air.

“A calm heart steadies the hand,” a soft voice rippled through me.

Eyes easing open, I nocked, raised the bow—fifty meters out, Ghost Head locked in my sight.

“Once you aim, don’t waver,” that voice drilled into my brain, steering me.

“Shoot.”

Draw, aim, release synced with that word. A beat later, sound rushed back—thunderous cheers erupted.

That arrow nailed the Ghost Head. Round two: Pengge scored forty-seven—a flawless comeback.