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He was training his aim.
Years of martial arts training had given him steady hands, but after shooting a few arrows, he found his accuracy to be absolutely dismal. Twice, he even missed the target completely.
It turned out that that one miraculous throw in the Panlong Desert—the flying dagger that had saved his father—had really been dumb luck. No, it was not he who was lucky, but He Chunhua. The father had been truly lucky to have not been killed outright by his son’s dagger.
Yet He Lingchuan was undaunted. He recalled Hu Min’s arrows, precise and effortless as if guided by thought. That kind of skill could not have been honed overnight.
After fifty draws of the bow, his shoulders and arms were sore. He set it aside, smoothed out his breath with a cycle of true qi, and turned to saber training, something he had long itched to do since waking up.
Closing his eyes, he replayed in his mind every clash of steel...
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