Chapter 12 – The One Who Pretends to Be the Sun

Gu Yiming dragged his suitcase back to the Shooting Sports Center.

This year’s winter training was held in Beijing. The electronic shooting range at the training base hadn’t opened yet, so Gu Yiming got an introduction letter from Qin Shan, retrieved his gun ahead of time, and went to the public shooting range. They used paper targets there—one box of pellets matched exactly five target sheets. Before Gu Yiming could finish one box of pellets, Qin Shan arrived and told him to seriously try a round to get a feel for it.

Gu Yiming hadn’t held a gun in over a month, nor had he given much thought to shooting. After warming up, he scored an amateurish 87 points in ten shots. Qin Shan snatched the target sheet before he could, pointed at the stray nine-point hits, and asked, “Where were you before this? This kind of performance isn’t acceptable.”

“Tibet.” He glanced at his target sheet again and added, “87 points—I think it’s alright.”

Qin Shan was so amused by Gu Yiming’s rare backtalk that he laughed. “This is ‘alright’? You might as well go back and compete in the winter training selection trials.”

The selection trials were already over—Gu Yiming had gotten his winter training spot directly from Qin Shan as a wildcard entry. Qin Shan’s words were just venting frustration. Gu Yiming didn’t know how to respond, so he silently changed targets and kept shooting. Qin Shan stood beside him, waited until he finished, and immediately took the target sheet again. This time, the shot holes clustered around the 10-ring—roughly 95 points. Not outstanding, but not terrible either.

Gu Yiming assured, “Coach Qin, I’ll train hard.”

Qin Shan sighed while holding the target sheet and left.

Gu Yiming thought Qin Shan might still be unhappy, but he couldn’t offer any more assurances. He loaded another target sheet and began practicing. This time, he shot very slowly—sometimes raising his arm and holding the position for several minutes without pulling the trigger, focusing entirely on adjusting his posture and trigger pressure.

Competition pistols don’t have stabilizers—the human body is the gun’s foundation. Actions that improve accuracy don’t guarantee hits, and an eagerness to win often pushes shots outside the ten-point ring, jokingly referred to as “metaphysics” by some.

Gu Yiming didn’t believe in metaphysics. All he could do was stabilize himself further, doing everything within his power.

He didn’t return to the dorm until the shooting range closed. Li Yeqing hadn’t come back yet, so the room was empty. Gu Yiming left the beef jerky he’d brought from Tibet in the common room, sat alone in his room spacing out for a while, then started scrolling through his friends’ updates.

A certain Y-surnamed air rifle prodigy posted a photo holding a guitar, looking even more entranced than when holding a rifle; a certain H-surnamed Chinese rifle ace lamented the lack of popularity of shooting sports as usual, vowing to start a shooting-themed fashion brand; a certain Z-surnamed Olympic champion air pistol shooter was showing off food and selfies, making one worry she’d have to increase her cardio training again…

Gu Yiming kept scrolling and saw a photo Fang Xiao had posted that morning, captioned “Yamdrok Lake”—a landslide-dammed lake. A body of water born from disaster, yet stunningly beautiful. The morning light and shadows were distinct, with jagged peaks rising abruptly in a corner of the frame, creating a striking composition—precisely the kind of pretentious, internet-famous framing technique Gu Yiming had taught him.

Gu Yiming tapped Fang Xiao’s chat window. Ever since learning about Fang Xiao’s many misunderstandings about him, Gu Yiming’s feelings had become rather complicated. On the bright side, Fang Xiao just lacked communication with him; on the downside… Fang Xiao didn’t understand him at all. Talking about privilege—what kind of privilege was he even talking about? Just empty words.

Yet Gu Yiming couldn’t bear to let go of those empty words.

Inspirational quotes are like a placebo—if you take them, they’re nourishment; if you don’t, they’re just passing noise; but if you drink them and then complain they’re toxic… well, that’s awkward. Gu Yiming thought to himself—he really was a utilitarian and cynical person. He didn’t even believe in Fang Xiao, yet couldn’t bear to let him go, chattering away endlessly.

What could he do? Once this kind of exchange started, it was impossible to stop. Addictive.

Gu Yiming originally intended to praise Fang Xiao’s photography skills, but after doing so, he couldn’t resist adding, “I’m joining winter training.” The line felt deliberate—Gu Yiming stared at the text box for a long time, unwilling to delete it, and sent it anyway.

Fang Xiao replied instantly.

He sent Gu Yiming over a dozen animated stickers. As the bouncing hearts flooded his screen one after another, Gu Yiming felt an illusion—as if his own heartbeat had sped up too. He pursed his lips, slowly organizing his reply. Just as he finished typing but before hitting send, another message arrived—a fifty-second voice note of Fang Xiao’s incoherent encouragement. The flustered tone was amusing, but Gu Yiming didn’t feel like laughing—he just missed Fang Xiao even more. He decided to call him directly.

Even across thousands of kilometers, Fang Xiao’s voice carried unmistakable joy. Gu Yiming asked, “…You’re happy?”

“Very,” Fang Xiao cleared his throat, trying to contain his excitement. “Very happy. Xiao Gu, I want to keep watching your matches until you’re forty, fifty, sixty—until you can’t lift a gun anymore.”

…That’s tough.

Gu Yiming thought. Fang Xiao was nine years older than him—by the time Fang Xiao was sixty, Gu Yiming would be fifty-one. Shooting careers were already relatively long compared to other sports—competing at forty-one wouldn’t be unusual, but fifty-one… At that point, he’d probably have to reach the level of a certain Wang-surnamed head coach or Japan’s Matsuda to have a chance. But if Fang Xiao wanted to see it…

He’d keep training.

Li Yeqing returned to the team three days early.

Half a year younger than Gu Yiming, he had joined the team after winning the Youth Championships. Rumor had it he’d been a gaming addict as a kid and nearly joined an esports team. Most slow-fire pistol shooters trained in both the 10m air pistol and 50m pistol events, but Gu Yiming and Li Yeqing each specialized in one, so their training schedules often didn’t overlap—except for cardio sessions, which they did together.

After finishing three sets of core exercises, Li Yeqing squatted on a balance pad watching absentmindedly as Gu Yiming worked on endurance. After a while, he broke the silence, “Ming, the 50m pistol event is getting scrapped.”

Gu Yiming had just finished a set. He meticulously put the dumbbells back in place and turned to look at him.

Li Yeqing said, “It’ll be gone by the next Olympics, replaced with mixed team events.”

Gu Yiming saw he wasn’t joking and frowned. “What about you?”

“Make the most of it while it lasts,” Li Yeqing shrugged. “Once the team stops supporting me, I’ll have to switch events.”

That was how the national sports system worked—event selections and training revolved entirely around the Olympics, especially for niche sports with little commercial appeal. Even rigid, inwardly-focused disciplines like shooting were dictated by rules that decided life or death. The same went for elimination rounds—and now, event cancellations.

Gu Yiming couldn’t think of anything comforting to say, so he walked over and raised his hand. Li Yeqing paused, then quickly understood and high-fived him.

Gu Yiming encouraged, “Do your best.”

Li Yeqing grinned. “Watch me take you all down.”

When winter training officially began, Qin Shan announced the cancellation of the 50m pistol event as expected. The replacement was the 10m air pistol mixed team event, using a first-to-seven-points format. He also announced reforms to the individual air pistol event: the scoring series before the elimination round was expanded from two rounds of three shots (six total) to two rounds of five shots (ten total).

Qin Shan said, “A person’s destiny depends not only on their own efforts but also on the course of history.”

He spoke gravely, but he was clearly frustrated. Li Yeqing, like Gu Yiming, was a promising newcomer Qin Shan had handpicked after careful consideration. Li Yeqing had only been shooting for less than four years—who could’ve predicted the wheels of history would turn and throw him off the wagon?

They weren’t the first to be thrown off by the times, nor would they be the last. A certain Y-surnamed air rifle prodigy-slash-literary type posted a screenshot on social media—an excerpt from Hemingway’s epigraph: “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.” Gu Yiming refreshed and saw the shooter’s own comment: “At least they didn’t change the trigger weight.” The usual sarcasm in his words felt weak, as if he were still shaken.

Li Yeqing, for whom the bell tolled, dutifully began training for the 10m air pistol. Gu Yiming had initially thought only the Olympic event was being scrapped—that Li Yeqing would still train for 50m pistol in World Cups. Later, he learned the Shooting Sports Center hadn’t even registered for 50m pistol in next year’s World Cup legs, meaning the event was being abandoned entirely.

The winter training roster had been finalized before the cancellation—those who didn’t want to be sent home had to switch events. Qin Shan gave them a break—they wouldn’t have to compete in the first month’s selection trials, instead being ranked based on the second round’s results to avoid being eliminated before adjusting to their new events. As a result, Gu Yiming once again became the most likely to be cut.

Li Yeqing, being closer to Gu Yiming, felt somewhat guilty, but Gu Yiming didn’t mind. Thinking of Fang Xiao’s words, he suddenly felt like he had a goal—and confidence. Even if he got demoted all the way back to the city team, dreaming of becoming a legend like Matsuda wasn’t impossible. Thinking of Fang Xiao was like remembering that sliver of sunlight pinched between two fingers on the road to Dunhuang.

Fang Xiao wasn’t the sun—he was someone pretending to be the sun. He had his own burdens, only putting on a cheerful front for Gu Yiming. Even so, someone willing to become the sun for you—that alone was something worth singing praises for.