Feng Xin

The air was still trembling after the battle. The ground around them was littered with arrows—those that had whistled past and stuck at various angles. Feng Xin stood over Mu Qing. His bow was lowered, the string humming. In his right hand was the last arrow, its tip pointed at the chest. The shadow of his figure loomed over the defeated general.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" his voice broke into a rasp. "I could have shot you. Dead. Do you understand?"
Mu Qing didn't move his palms from his face. His gaze was cold, a deep sigh escaping his chest.

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

He moved his hand and opened one eye:
"It was so pathetic that I don't know what to do. Should I write a report stating that the Heavens' chief archer suffers from strabismus?"
Feng Xin flinched, the tip lowering toward the throat:
"I didn't miss! I was knocking the ground out from under you!"
"And I fell," Mu Qing countered, covering his face again. "Only not because of an arrow, but because of your screaming in my ear. You were yelling as if I'd stolen your favorite bow."

Feng Xin froze. He looked down at this man who, instead of begging for mercy, was critiquing his marksmanship. Something warm flickered in his chest. He abruptly lowered the bow, ripped an enemy arrow from the ground near Mu Qing's head, snapped it with his knee, and threw the fragments aside.
"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 watch your back."

Mu Qing removed his hand. Something warm flashed in his eyes:
"You can't shoot straight, Feng Xin. But you always shoot in a way that avoids hitting me. It's almost touching."

Feng Xin froze. A flush flooded his face—from his neck to his ears:
"Shut up! I'll shoot you right now! Point blank!"

Feng Xin was still standing over him. He didn't take a single step back. The arrow—the last one—he slowly lowered, tip-first into the ground, so as not to accidentally hurt the one who, even under the threat of a bow, isn't afraid to look him in the eye. And then, almost inaudibly, he exhaled:
"Idiot..."