The modified bow and arrows created by Mo Wen, thanks to the addition of several pulleys, require very little strength to draw, but bestow immense power upon the arrows.
The middle-aged hunter stared at the modified bow as if he were gazing at his dream lover. He murmured, "Little Miracle Doctor, is this really your first time shooting an arrow?"
The girl turned around and flashed a radiant smile,"Uncle, how could you forget? You just taught me the technique. But my heart tells me not to aim with my eyes, but to let the arrow go where it needs to be by instinct."
The middle-aged hunter smiled wryly,"Oh heavens, that kind of instinct usually comes after thousands of practices!"
The bandits scattered like sparrows, but they were too slow. At first, some were hit in the chest and stomach, and some horses were shot. But soon, the arrows were striking heads, necks, and other vital spots. It was as if a reaper's enchanted arrows were pointing and hitting with unerring precision, impossible to evade. The presence of a sniper immediately shattered the enemy's morale.
In an instant, more than twenty bodies were strewn across the ground, and over ten others were writhing in pain from severe injuries. Those who were lightly injured or quick enough had long since fled far away.
All the villagers stood frozen, thinking the end had come. But after just two swift rounds of shooting, how could the battlefield be cleared? The excited young men raised their arms and cheered until their voices were hoarse, still unwilling to stop.
The bandits fled, and a few unclaimed horses roamed the grounds. The old village chief's eyes lit up,"Quick, quick, quick, Little Six, go get those horses back for me!"
Before Mo Wen understood what the chief meant, Little Six and a few other young men dashed out of the village and returned each with two unclaimed horses. The old village chief's eyes squinted into a line, his mustache curling up in delight. Mo Wen couldn't help but reflect that no wonder he never got promoted at work, his reaction was too slow.
Soon, the girl entered the village wall, fondling her new toy lovingly. The middle-aged hunter awkwardly followed, making countless excuses along the way, trying to get his bow back. The girl pretended to be angry,"How dare you ask for your bow back? Why didn't you dare to shoot the bandits when you were up on the village wall?"
"Ouch, I've got old folks to care for and youngsters to look after, where do I have the guts to offend the bandits? My courage has been worn out by the daily grind!" the middle-aged hunter explained with a pained expression.
Sora ignored him and skipped back up the village wall.
The old village chief laughed more today than he had in the past few days. He held the girl's hand, chattering away like she was his most successful granddaughter, filled with pride. Hearing from Sora that the weapons were made by her two new friends, the old village chief turned and pulled Mo Wen and Little Hong over, scrutinizing them as if he had found treasure. Both of them were a bit nervous, unsure of what the chief wanted.
The old village chief said kindly,"Young men, not bad, not bad. You look sharp and you've got brains. Good, good, good! Tonight, you'll stay at my place!" The two finally breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that staying in the village wouldn't be a problem.
"Can I take a look at your bow?"
The old village chief glared at Sora, and the girl reluctantly let go of the bow. The old man examined the strangely shaped bow closely,"Oh, Sora, this bow is too powerful to be wasted in a girl's hand. Let me keep it for you. Heh heh, come find me next time you really need it!"
---
The following days were as lively as a New Year celebration in the village. The elders were exceptionally generous, rewarding all the villagers who took up arms in the fight.
However, Mo Wen and Little Hong were specially arranged to stay in the inner village, becoming esteemed guests at the old village chief's home. This special treatment left many young villagers feeling uneasy and secretly envious.
Despite the circumstances, Little Hong couldn't feel happy. He sat gloomily inside, berating himself for his poor performance in the battle: unable to shoot arrows, afraid to kill enemies, and in the end, only threw a few stones haphazardly, not even grazing an enemy.
In contrast, Mo Wen was treated almost like an old friend by the village chief, receiving considerable attention. Whenever the village chief invited people for drinks, he always brought Mo Wen and Little Hong along. The more embarrassed Little Hong felt, the more the village chief would pull him along, so much so that Little Hong would now avoid the chief whenever possible.
Mo Wen's efforts over the past few days had not been in vain. Under his guidance, the village's ranged weapons saw significant improvements. The modified crossbows had a longer range, were easier to operate, fired faster, and were harder to dodge, becoming powerful weapons in the villagers' hands. After a few drinks, Mo Wen's"curiosity" got the better of him, and he managed to coax many little-known secrets from the old village chief.
The village chief's father was an old carpenter. As a child, the chief's family followed the army, experiencing the hardships of military life early on. When he grew older, he began assisting his father.
During an enemy raid, his father threw himself on top of him to save his life, using his own body to shield him. The village chief still remembered, his father was struck by multiple arrows, his clothes soaked in blood, but he gritted his teeth and remained motionless, pressing down on him until rescue arrived and he succumbed. His father's sacrifice led to the village chief inheriting the military position, gradually growing from a young carpenter into an experienced old craftsman on the battlefield.
Time had not spared him. His forehead and hands were etched with the marks of time, much like the wood in his hands, weathered by years of work. He didn't care for noise; his greatest joy was working with wood, crafting tools, taking a sip of wine after work, and losing himself in tranquility. His skills were exceptional, and he had trained many apprentices, but he didn't like being called"Master." Whoever needed help, as long as they asked, he would always put aside his work and generously share his knowledge. Yet, in his leisure time, he was a man of few words, more like a silent elder who preferred listening to speaking.
Despite several requests from the armory for him to take on a managerial role, the old carpenter always refused. He preferred staying at his workbench, seeking inner peace rather than dealing with complex personnel management. He understood that what he wanted was not glory, but the serenity found in wood.
Soon, one of his apprentices became the manager. Initially, the new manager Jamie often sought advice from the old carpenter, who helped without hesitation. However, over time, Jamie felt increasingly insecure about frequently seeking the old carpenter's help, thinking it made him seem incompetent. He began targeting the old carpenter—perhaps to assert his authority or warn others not to underestimate him.
One day, the old carpenter was bent over his workbench, carving a piece of wood. Sunlight streamed through the workshop window, illuminating his greying temples. He focused on the curve of the chisel as it moved across the wood, seemingly oblivious to the approaching footsteps outside.
Suddenly, the door was flung open, bringing a gust of wind that scattered wood shavings onto the floor. Jamie strode in, his brows furrowed, radiating barely suppressed anger.
"Old carpenter, what's your game?" he slammed the table, his tone a mix of reproach and a hint of hidden fear.
The old carpenter set down his chisel and slowly raised his head, his voice calm,"What are you talking about?"
Jamie sneered, pointing to a corner of the workshop,"Someone complained that you don't follow orders and you favor those apprentices. Do you still think you run this place?"
The old carpenter didn't respond immediately. Instead, he slowly wiped his hands, moving so deliberately that it made Jamie's anger boil over. It seemed like he was contemplating or simply didn't care about the commotion.
"Those kids aren't lazy," his voice was low and measured, each word like a chisel piercing Jamie's heart,"They just lack experience. I was merely showing them the way. You were like that once too,Jamie."
Jamie's face turned from red to white. He glared at the old carpenter, feeling exposed but still trying to maintain his composure.
"Old carpenter, you better get this straight," his voice was icy and carried an undeniable threat,"The rules are different now. You're an armory craftsman, not their ancestor! You don't decide what they should do!"
The old carpenter's eyes rested lightly on Jamie's face, his tone still unhurried,"Rules? Rules are meant to make life better, not to break people's spirits."
This sentence was like a needle, pricking Jamie, his face alternating between green and white. He clenched his fists, chest heaving, wanting to say something but unable to utter a word.
Days passed, the work pressure mounted, and the manager's discontent grew. Finally, he burst into the old carpenter's workshop once more, this time saying coldly,"Old carpenter, someone has filed a complaint against you. Come with me to the military court!"