Chapter 17 – Mr. Left

Without a phone, Gu Yiming couldn’t browse social media, couldn’t contact Fang Xiao, and couldn’t even finish asking the questions he had before. This past week had been incredibly tough for him. He bought a new phone online, but there was an issue with the delivery—his package took a detour to Yunnan and wouldn’t arrive for several more days. Out of sheer boredom, Gu Yiming decided to increase his training intensity on his own. Shooting was, without a doubt, the best way to kill time.

At first, Qin Shan was pleased to see this, but after noticing Gu Yiming’s consecutive days of overtraining, he grew wary. He forcibly changed Gu Yiming’s self-added live-fire drills into dry-fire training and sent the team’s psychological counselor to check on him, fearing that Gu Yiming’s mental state might deteriorate again.

The shooting team had a comprehensive psychological training program and a dedicated team for it, with counseling serving only as a supplementary measure—similar to university counseling centers. Initially, psychological counseling for the shooting team was conducted one-on-one by the head coach. Later, as training standards improved, they realized that mental health significantly impacted professional performance and began tightening up in this area.

When it came to psychological counseling, the previous head coach and the current one were polar opposites—one didn’t believe it was useful at all, while the other exaggerated its effectiveness, thinking that talking things out could solve anything. Gu Yiming had been dragged to counseling sessions more than once in the past, so it was only natural for him to resist.

Counselor Liu was well aware of Gu Yiming’s reluctance and didn’t push him too hard. After a brief chat and having Gu Yiming fill out a questionnaire, he let him go, suggesting before he left that Gu Yiming cultivate a hobby outside of shooting.

“Like Xiao Y from the men’s rifle team, who reads a lot, or Xiao H from the men’s pistol team, who’s learning design. Or even like Xiao Z and Xiao L from the women’s pistol team—finding a close friend to confide in would be good too,” Counselor Liu said modestly. “For shooting, diligence is important, but diligence alone isn’t enough. You need something else to anchor you. Too much of anything is counterproductive—as athletes, you should understand this better than I do.”

Gu Yiming didn’t understand. Though he had entered the national team through formal training, that training only taught technical skills and techniques for emotional stability—things that made little difference for athletes at the master level and above. In reality, Gu Yiming was still an intuitive shooter when he stepped onto the firing line.

Air pistol, unlike rifle, didn’t require disassembling and adjusting weights—the importance of technical execution paled in comparison to the elusive “state” of mind. When Gu Yiming shot, he engaged in an introspective process, free from taboos or rigid procedures beyond safety.

A pure heart—this was an excellent trait, but no one could remain pure forever. When Adam became aware of the shame of nakedness, he could no longer live in Eden with the same ease. He had to learn to face the world with an imperfect heart. For intuitive shooters like Gu Yiming, they either sailed smoothly through life or collapsed once and never got back up. The rule changes ensured that this little boat would encounter headwinds—to brave the storm, he had to rebuild his raft and ship from scratch.

That ship had nearly sunk to the bottom, only to be salvaged by Fang Xiao. When Gu Yiming said he liked Fang Xiao, there was some imprinting effect involved.

Since Qin Shan forbade live-fire training, Gu Yiming switched to dry-fire practice. Compared to live-fire¹Firing actual pellets or ammunition., dry-fire²Training the mechanics of a shot (stance, grip, aiming, and trigger squeeze) but without firing a projectile, to build muscle memory and refine trigger control. was far more monotonous. Shooting in good form was exhilarating—both the satisfaction of results and the detachment felt when pulling the trigger. But they weren’t monks or addicts—they were competitive athletes, and such indulgence wasn’t healthy. Shooting with restraint, practicing with thoughtfulness, and taking responsibility for results—rather than chasing momentary thrills—were what distinguished professionals from amateurs.

Gu Yiming held an unloaded air pistol, adjusting his muscle tension while silently reciting the semi-classical essay *The Path of Shooting* he had read as a child.

“Shooting with desire leads to reckless shots; shooting without desire leads to precise shots; shooting without shooting—that is the ultimate shooting.”

Gu Yiming wasn’t highly educated—he didn’t understand many lines, but this one was clear. His previous state resembled “shooting without shooting”—his world had no room for others or other matters. Later, it became “shooting with desire,” where his focus shifted more to results than form, and unsurprisingly, his performance suffered. Then, when he stopped caring, it became “shooting without desire.”

These desires—spoken, thought, or willed—ultimately meant nothing. The body knew best, accumulating truth through shot after shot.

The simplest way to achieve “shooting without desire” was, as Counselor Liu suggested, to find another hobby or anchor to prevent the weight of expectations from affecting performance. This was exactly what Gu Yiming had thought when he left the Shooting Sports Center months ago—he had been seeking change. But Gu Yiming’s psychological fastidiousness was too severe. Changing for the sake of change, hobbies for the sake of hobbies—these deliberate designs couldn’t pass the bar in his heart.

The change he envisioned was a westward journey, but in reality, the only thing that changed him was the one traveling companion.

By the time Gu Yiming finally got his new phone, it was already December. He opened WeChat and was flooded with messages—most of them not from Fang Xiao, but from Tang Shao. The content was mostly casual conversation, interspersed with a few motivational articles that seemed like emotional guidance. The casual parts made Gu Yiming feel like he was reading an old Beijing cookbook.

This was completely unlike Tang Shao’s style. Gu Yiming called him, and Tang Shao replied breezily, “Fang Xiao asked me to send these—said you needed some cheering up.”

Gu Yiming was skeptical. “The cookbook too?”

“Nah, that was my own addition,” Tang Shao said. “I thought sending Fang Xiao’s stuff straight up would be too abrupt—like a homeroom teacher meddling in a student’s love life. Hey, what’s going on with you? Did you get dumped? When did you even start dating?”

“I didn’t…” Gu Yiming was vague, not intentionally hiding things from Tang Shao but worried Fang Xiao hadn’t come out to him yet. “I was in a bad mood… Thanks.”

Tang Shao laughed. “No need, no need. Master Gu, when aren’t you in a bad mood? You always have that ‘all life is suffering’ monk face.”

“……”

Gu Yiming wanted to hang up. But since Tang Shao was Fang Xiao’s friend, and Gu Yiming still needed his help, he stumbled through his next words: “Before… the person I liked… was a lot like Fang Xiao… They comforted me…”

“They comforted you through someone? Who did you like? Someone like Fang Xiao?” Tang Shao fired off guesses, his gossip radar startlingly accurate. “Don’t tell me you fell for Fang Xiao himself?”

“……”

“Wait, seriously?” Tang Shao clicked his tongue. “Master Gu, with those thick eyebrows and big eyes, who’d have thought you were gay too.”

Gu Yiming was conflicted. He didn’t like girls, and he liked Fang Xiao—so he guessed that made him gay. Hearing Tang Shao speak so casually, he asked, “Are you too?”

“Don’t go spreading rumors,” Tang Shao quickly denied. “I just know a few, that’s all. In our circle, there are plenty of gay guys.”

“Then… has Fang Xiao dated before? That Xing Zongkai—were they… that kind of relationship?”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re guessing.” Tang Shao suddenly understood and said offhandedly, “Yeah, they had a thing before, but it ended. Xing Zongkai’s a lunatic—Fang Xiao avoids him like the plague. It’s honestly tragic—”

Tang Shao abruptly changed the subject. “Did you confess to Fang Xiao? What did he say?”

“…He rejected me.”

Gu Yiming distinctly heard Tang Shao snort.

“That’s normal,” Tang Shao said, mustering some sympathy. “Master Gu, it’s not that you’re not good enough—it’s just that you two aren’t a good match. No offense, but you’re kinda far from Fang Xiao’s type.”

“…What does he like?”

“Someone older than him, with a more dominant personality,” Tang Shao mused before summarizing.

“……”

“Fang Tiantian’s great at everything, except judging people—he’s into those domineering CEO types who can manipulate others effortlessly,” Tang Shao added. The implication was clear: Gu Yiming was nearly ten years younger than Fang Xiao and basically treated like a son—no chance.

“Is there anything about me that fits his taste?” Gu Yiming refused to give up.

“Fits his taste?” Tang Shao cleared his throat. “I’d guess… probably just your young, fresh meat.”

Tang Shao claimed he was being euphemistic, but Gu Yiming suspected Tang Shao had skipped too many classes to understand what “euphemistic” meant. Feeling somewhat defeated, he sent Tang Shao a voice message red packet filled with a dozen obscure characters.

Tang Shao, thinking it was payment for emotional counseling, painstakingly searched and recited them aloud, only to open it and find a single cent. He was so annoyed he laughed, sending Gu Yiming a voice message: “Master Gu, with those thick eyebrows and big eyes, you’re pulling this trick?”

Gu Yiming slowly typed back: [“Manipulate others effortlessly”]—lesson learned.

That said, Gu Yiming knew this was even more immature. It was Sunday—no training—so he leaned against the corridor windowsill, lost in thought. The outdoor shooting range had natural grass, now yellowed in winter. Gu Yiming rested his chin on his arms, watching clusters of sparrows hopping among the dry grass stems.

How nice it would be to be a sparrow—if you liked someone, you could just snuggle up for warmth, two little fluffballs merging into one, indistinguishable and equally round and cozy.

But Fang Xiao didn’t want that. Fang Xiao had said “I like you” so many times, but in reality, he’d never truly meant it. He preached “peaceful years, free from worldly strife” over and over, yet what he genuinely liked were domineering CEOs. What a liar.

When Gu Yiming was little, he used to eat at his teacher’s house. A group of kids would crowd around the TV with their bowls, watching the *Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber* adaptation starring Alec Su. Yin Susu told Zhang Wuji, “The more beautiful a woman is, the better she lies.” Now, Gu Yiming thought the same applied to men.

Gu Yiming remembered the question he’d asked Fang Xiao before. The answer was obvious—Fang Xiao had already rejected him through Tang Shao’s words. But until Fang Xiao said it to his face, Gu Yiming wouldn’t accept it.

Even if Fang Xiao did say it outright, Gu Yiming wasn’t inclined to accept it now—after all, Fang Xiao was such a liar.

Gu Yiming reopened the unanswered question in WeChat and sent it again. For a fleeting second, he worried he’d see the red exclamation mark of a blocked message, but it went through.

Fang Xiao didn’t reply immediately. Gu Yiming buried his face in his arms, leaving only his eyes exposed, watching the sparrows pecking at grass seeds in the courtyard.

• 1
  Firing actual pellets or ammunition.
• 2
  Training the mechanics of a shot (stance, grip, aiming, and trigger squeeze) but without firing a projectile, to build muscle memory and refine trigger control.