Feng Xin

The air was still trembling from the battle. The ground around was strewn with arrows—those that had whistled past and stopped at various angles. Feng Xin stood over Mu Qing, his bow lowered, the string humming. In his right hand, he held the last arrow, its tip aimed at his chest. The figure's shadow covered the fallen general. “Are you completely crazy?” his voice cracked. “I could have shot you. Deadly. Do you understand?” Mu Qing didn't remove his palms from his face, his gaze cold, and a deep sigh escaped his chest.

"Feng Xin. You've aimed at me six times. There are more arrows around right now than in the South Sea arsenal. And not a single one hit. Not even by accident."

He removed his hand and opened one eye: "It was so pathetic that I don't know what to do. Should I write a report about how the Chief Archer of Heaven is cross-eyed?" Feng Xin jerked, the tip descending towards his throat: — I didn't miss! I was knocking the support out from under you! "And I fell," Mu Qing retorted, covering his face again. "Not from the arrow, but from your scream in my ear. You screamed as if I'd stolen your favorite bow."

Feng Xin froze. He looked down at the man, who, instead of begging for mercy, was busy criticizing his marksmanship. Something warm trembled in his chest. He abruptly lowered his bow, plucked an enemy arrow from the ground next to Mu Qing's head, broke it with his knee, and hurled the fragments. "If I hadn't covered you," he said more quietly, "you'd look like a porcupine right now. There were three hundred archers. And you stood with your back to them because you thought I'd keep an eye on you."

Mu Qing pulled his hand away. Something warm flashed in his eyes. "You can't shoot straight, Feng Xin. But you always shoot in a way that doesn't hit me. It's even touching."

Feng Xin froze. His face flushed from neck to ears. —Shut up! I'll shoot you now! Point blank!

Feng Xin still stood over him. He hadn't taken a step back. He slowly lowered the arrow—the last one—point-first into the ground, so as not to accidentally injure the one who, even at bowpoint, wasn't afraid to look him in the eye. And then, almost silently, he exhaled:

• fool...