The windbird stands in the way of the target.

“Winter Plum” still lived at the Zheng family’s residence in Mo Xi. The Han man had even opened up a patch of earth in front of the courtyard, planning to plant fruit trees that would bear in all seasons.

He was busy in the field when a voice rang out behind him, bright with delight, “Uncle Han, I finally know how to sing…”

The Han man hastily intervened, “That scoundrel Zheng Fanren teaches you nothing worthwhile, only those nonsensical songs.”

The princess was not about to yield. She feigned heartbreak, “When you first heard it, you said such a song ought to exist only in heaven.”

The Han man replied mournfully, “A divine melody, listened to a thousand times, would drive a man to descend and become deaf by choice!”

With that, he quickly shifted the conversation, speaking with deliberate seriousness, “That lad has his exams today—aren’t you going to ask your father for help?”

“Winter Plum” responded indifferently, “There’s no way my teacher would fail. If you don’t listen, don’t regret it later!” With those words, she turned and walked back into the house.

…

The examination hall at Tai Xuan Academy.

When Zheng Fanren learned that his results would not count, he showed no reaction. Such things had happened to him many times, in both past and present lives—it was too much to fuss over.

If examinations could ever be fair, then the world would have no need for them at all!

The old black horse lay dying on the ground. Zheng Fanren gently stroked its head, speaking with a hint of sorrow, “Old Black, it’s rough on you, isn’t it? But it doesn’t matter—you died a glorious death.”

The old horse nodded, astonishingly, and Zheng Fanren continued, “I’ve heard it said that a warhorse dying slowly of old age is a bitter fate. At least this way, it’s easier, isn’t it?”

Before finishing its nod, the old black horse died, its head still held high.

Ling Yun was moved as well, calling out from outside the fence, “Fake sympathy! You’re the murderer!”

Zheng Fanren pretended to be gentle, “Would you like me to accompany you to change clothes, Miss Ling Yun?”

The girl blushed furiously, stomped her foot, and ran off. Zheng Fanren laughed heartily—soon they would be classmates, how much hatred could there really be? From his experience, no matter how fierce the quarrels between students, years later, their meetings would still be “warm.”

The riding grounds and archery fields were places where imperial generals sought out talent. Among them was a commander stationed at the border between the Han Empire and the Parthian Empire, the one who had slain thirteen archers—the very leader of those troops!

Wang Li spoke quietly to his attendant, “If he doesn’t make it into the academy this time, enroll him in the army immediately.”

One trusted aide exclaimed in surprise, “General, the archery exam hasn’t even started yet!”

The implication was clear: skill in horsemanship didn’t guarantee skill in archery.

Wang Li replied calmly, “He survived the pursuit of thirteen Parthian bows without harm.”

It was obvious to Wang Li that Zheng Fanren was gifted with the bow—for only an expert archer could understand the mind of an arrow and dodge precisely.

The aide was even more astonished, but quickly grew excited, “It seems we need to keep this quiet. I expect many are watching him.”

The general smiled faintly, “I’m not afraid. We can’t compete with Tai Xuan Academy for talent, but surely we can contend with other idle groups for promising youth?”

Known as the smiling tiger, the aide dared not slacken and quickly replied, “Yes, sir!”

…

With no results from the horsemanship exam, Zheng Fanren knew he had to stand out with archery. He drew his bow and nocked his arrow, aiming at the target a hundred paces away, his mind untroubled. His only demand was that every arrow must strike the bull’s-eye.

If those frail, trembling candidates had known his thoughts, they might have fainted on the spot.

Yet that’s exactly how Zheng Fanren thought, and so he prepared to act accordingly.

Reality, however, was not as he expected. Birds suddenly burst into song near his target, a dozen of them swirling and dancing in the air.

Not far off, Wan Lixing laughed, “Brother Zheng, Parthian wind birds are quite obedient, aren’t they?”

This Parthian prodigy, who had ranked third at his own country’s Cang Mang Academy last year and found it unsatisfying, had come to the inclusive Tai Xuan Academy solely for the glory of first place.

Zheng Fanren was angry, but he smiled brilliantly and called out, “Does no one care?”

Only a few students, sensing something amiss, showed sympathy; no one else paid him any mind. Wan Lixing smiled, “With enough silver, wind birds are free to roam. Brother Zheng, you’re welcome to drive them off—I won’t mind!”

Zheng Fanren cursed inwardly, “You don’t mind at all. If I approach the target, it counts as forfeiting.”

His anger made his smile even brighter. He replied warmly, “I hear wind birds are expensive—and taste delicious!”

He then drew his bow and shot directly. His movements were steady, the bowstring pressed against the hard bone of his finger guard, and without surprise, the arrow struck a wind bird.

A cry of sorrow echoed across the field. Many candidates glared angrily at him, but he only responded with a dazzling smile.

His archery was not fast; there were no miraculous scenes of one arrow splitting another or felling several birds at once. He simply shot steadily, arrow after arrow, gradually creating a rhythm—a hum of the bowstring, as if playing a gentle tune in the air.

The wind birds, indeed obedient, would startle, return, and die, never leaving the target.

As he nocked another arrow, he glanced at Wan Lixing, thinking, “Someday, I must ask him how to train these birds.”

…

His calm demeanor, flawless stance, rhythmic control of the bow, and precise technique caught growing attention as his quiver emptied, arrow by arrow. More and more people gathered behind him—candidates, instructors, even a few confidants of the generals.

Yet they were not examiners; their presence could not change the results.

…

When Zheng Fanren learned he had once again received no score, he regretted his earlier showmanship. Being treated like an actor was unpleasant.

He was an actor without pay—such actors were far more pitiful than extras.

He slowly put down his bow, reluctant, a touch of sorrow in his heart, muttering to himself, “Friends in the Nangong family’s stables, and the bamboo-backed bows under my bed, will you blame me?”

Then he whispered, “Damn you, Tai Xuan Academy!”

Though people no longer looked down on him, Ling Yun could still do nothing. She wanted to say something, but surrounded by the crowd, no matter how determined she was, she couldn’t speak.

For the spectators, the drama of shooting birds was enough; as for what score an unknown youth might earn, that was not their concern.

Yet there were those who recognized talent—the general among them.

His confidant already knew Zheng Fanren’s results in both exams and felt this was the perfect moment.

He approached Zheng Fanren, helping him unstring his bow, taking his time before speaking.

Zheng Fanren was silent for a moment, then asked quietly, “A soldier?”

The confidant replied, “Yes—a soldier! In the army, there are good horses to ride and real enemies to shoot!”

Zheng Fanren understood. He asked, half mocking himself, “Is it that I have no hope of entering Tai Xuan Academy, so joining the army is my best option?”

The confidant looked him straight in the eye and answered solemnly, “Yes.”

After a long silence, Zheng Fanren replied firmly, “I still want to try again.”

With that, he slowly turned and walked away.

He’d long known that many goals could not be reached by charging blindly forward; now, he understood it even more deeply.

Ling Yun watched his retreating figure, and her heart ached inexplicably.