Chapter 6 – My Main Event

The convoy traveled a long distance the next day. When they stopped at a highway service area, no one had the energy to go out and explore. Everyone holed up in their hotel rooms to rest and recuperate. Tang Shao scrambled to share a room with the magician expert, saying he wanted to exchange tips on close-up card tricks. As a result, Fang Xiao ended up sharing a room with Gu Yiming.

Fang Xiao hadn’t touched his phone since the journey began. Now, he was curled up with a Kindle, seemingly reading, but every now and then, his gaze would flicker over to Gu Yiming. Gu Yiming felt a little awkward under the scrutiny. After some thought, he picked up his phone and searched: “Why does someone keep looking at you?”

The first reply on the forum post was: “They like you.” The second reply: “They hate you.”

Gu Yiming thought, Oh, I see. He closed the search page, opened WeChat, and started scrolling through his Moments feed. His WeChat had a long list of contacts—teammates, classmates, journalists, delivery guys, takeout couriers… all sorts of people. Gu Yiming barely exchanged a word on WeChat in a month, but he browsed Moments daily, especially enjoying updates from his teammates.

Gu Yiming focused on scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed as Fang Xiao’s gaze kept drifting back to him.

Around nine o’clock, Tang Shao knocked on their door. Apparently, the magician had to call his girlfriend and had no time for him, and the talent show Tang Shao had planned to watch had been postponed unexpectedly. Now, he was bored out of his mind and desperately needed entertainment. Fang Xiao chuckled. “Go watch your Korean dramas,” he said.

Tang Shao pouted. “No way, I’m saving those for tomorrow’s car ride. Besides, I think the three of us need to bond a little more!”

Tang Shao said he’d watch whatever—he’d defer to his new friends’ preferences. Gu Yiming had no opinion. Fang Xiao glanced at the date and casually remarked, “I think the World Cup Final is happening these days. How about we watch the ISSF World Cup shooting competition?”

A sharp pang shot up Gu Yiming’s spine. Fang Xiao obviously meant no harm—he might even have been trying to be considerate. Gu Yiming did his best to suppress his emotions and stayed silent.

Tang Shao didn’t notice Gu Yiming’s discomfort, but Fang Xiao did. His gaze flicked over, making Gu Yiming even more uneasy. He couldn’t help but start imagining how Fang Xiao perceived him, conjuring up a thousand interpretations for Fang Xiao’s actions afterward—*No*, Gu Yiming told himself. He shifted his gaze to Tang Shao’s tablet and regained control.

Tang Shao had never been particularly interested in sports—he was more of an armchair military enthusiast, the gaming kind—so he wasn’t too keen on competitive shooting. As he hooked up the tablet to the hotel TV, he complained, “Shooting competitions are just *biubiubiu*, right? And it’s all static—zero entertainment value.”

Fang Xiao: “…That’s why the ISSF changed the rules. I think you’ll like it.”

“?”

Team China had always been competitive in niche sports that didn’t require massive funding, and shooting was no exception. Traditional powerhouses in precision pistol shooting were concentrated in Asia and Europe. In the 50m pistol event, two Chinese shooters had made it to the finals. The younger one was named Li Yeqing, while the thirty-six-year-old veteran was Xie Qingyun.

Tang Shao, whether chasing talent shows or watching competitions, had a knack for immersing himself. Naturally, he prioritized rooting for Team China, though he waffled between which of the two shooters to support. He asked Gu Yiming, “Do you know them? Who’s better? I mean, the older guy’s probably more skilled, but the younger one’s got stamina on his side… Even in chess, it’s all about the young guns these days.”

The men’s air pistol division of the national shooting team had barely over a dozen athletes—Gu Yiming couldn’t not know them. He replied, “Li Yeqing’s my roommate—he just joined the team this year. Xie Qingyun’s a veteran from the Bayi team. Li Yeqing’s had great results this year, but Senior Xie’s world ranking is higher.”

Only then did Tang Shao notice the world ranking numbers next to their ages. He grinned. “I thought only ball sports had world rankings.”

Gu Yiming turned to him, puzzled.

“That’s because Tang Shao only watches badminton—he thinks Lin Dan’s hot,” Fang Xiao ruthlessly exposed the truth.

The video opened with a flashy special effects sequence before cutting to the venue. The framing felt oddly cramped—unlike other indoor sports arenas, shooting ranges didn’t usually have high ceilings and were relatively narrow, but they stretched out over 50 meters in depth, creating an oppressive atmosphere.

During the three-minute sighting period, the commentator began explaining the new rules. Under the revised format, precision shooting events no longer carried qualification scores into the finals. The finals started with two three-shot series, followed by elimination rounds where the lowest-ranked shooter was cut every two shots—all to heighten tension and spectator appeal.

For the first three-shot scoring series, the top-left corner of the screen displayed a 150-second countdown. Shooters controlled their own pacing during scoring shots—the gap between the first and last shooter to finish could exceed a minute. Tang Shao kept his eyes glued to the two Chinese shooters’ targets. When everyone else had already posted three scores, Li Yeqing and Xie Qingyun’s targets each showed only one bullet hole, nearly driving him mad with impatience. Fang Xiao, familiar with his habits, explained, “Their team’s rhythm is like this—last to load, last to raise their guns. Don’t worry, they’ll finish in time.”

Sure enough, Li Yeqing waited until the last dozen seconds to wrap up, while Xie Qingyun squeezed in his final shot just before the 150-second mark. His cumulative score for the first round was 30.4, putting him in first place.

Tang Shao exhaled in relief. “Damn, that’s some next-level play,” he marveled. He turned to Gu Yiming. “Isn’t that stressful for you guys?”

“Not really,” Gu Yiming answered honestly. “You get used to it.”

Even if Gu Yiming hadn’t adapted that well, he had gotten used to it. Minimizing distractions was one of the keys to shooting in competition. Calmly calculating—150 seconds was enough for six gun raises. There was no need to rush shots when your heart rate hadn’t stabilized yet. On the shooting range, time was never your enemy.

After two scoring series, the video moved into the elimination rounds, where the new rules’ impact finally became apparent. The moment the referee called “start,” a pulse-pounding drumbeat kicked in, followed by a fiery samba track blasting through the venue. The shooters raised their guns amidst the music, their focus so intense it was like eight Buddhist monks chanting the Lotus Sutra in the middle of a lively square dance.

Tang Shao stared, dumbfounded, completely floored by the sheer dissonance. “Shooting competitions are this loud now?” he sputtered. “The Olympics weren’t like this two years ago!”

“After the rule changes, they stopped recommending silence in the arena,” Fang Xiao said, spreading his hands. “During the medal rounds, the whole audience does variable-speed clapping.”

“…” Tang Shao turned to Gu Yiming. “Xiao Gu, you’re a legend.”

Gu Yiming didn’t respond. If he were a legend, his competition results wouldn’t have plummeted the moment the rules changed. He’d been trying to forget all this, but now he was watching the World Cup Final he hadn’t qualified for. Gu Yiming glanced at Fang Xiao and received a timely smile in return. Fang Xiao was paying attention to him. Gu Yiming looked back at the TV. He felt a little helpless, but it was still within bearable limits—nothing panic-inducing.

The 50m pistol had more variables than the 10m air pistol. Xie Qingyun entered the first elimination round in first place, but his first shot was a 7.9, instantly dropping him to seventh. Tang Shao hissed and stopped watching him, switching his focus to Li Yeqing. Just then, the camera cut to Li Yeqing steadily landing another 9.8—nothing flashy, just enough to keep him in third.

The second shot was an elimination shot—after this, the lowest-ranked shooter would be cut. The camera zoomed in on seventh-place Xie Qingyun and eighth-place Ukrainian shooter. Xie Qingyun, as usual, was the last to raise his gun. By the time he lifted his pistol, the Ukrainian’s score was already displayed on his screen: 10.3, the only ten of the round so far.

The camera settled on Xie Qingyun. Tang Shao stared unblinking at the screen, even holding his breath. Fang Xiao watched intently too. Then, after aiming for about ten seconds, Xie Qingyun suddenly lowered his gun again.

“…”

“That’s normal,” Fang Xiao reassured him. “I’ve seen shooters pause mid-match to do tai chi during qualifiers.”

More than one, in fact—many of them blond, blue-eyed foreigners. Fang Xiao had found it fascinating—after over a century of psychology research, the best on-the-spot stress-relief method was still tai chi.

On screen, Xie Qingyun raised his pistol again in the final twenty seconds. He fired—another 10.3.

Tang Shao whistled. “Damn, that’s badass!”

Fang Xiao grinned. “Looks like you’re becoming a Xie Qingyun fan.”

Tang Shao clicked his tongue. “What’s wrong with that? He’s handsome. You’re allowed to stan your little idol, aren’t you?”

Fang Xiao waved a hand as if drawing a line. “Nope, not me. What I like is Xiao Gu’s attitude toward shooting—it suits my taste.”

Gu Yiming glanced up sharply at that.

Tang Shao scoffed. “Yeah, right. You just like how cool he looks with one hand in his pocket when he shoots.”

Fang Xiao laughed.

Gu Yiming raised an eyebrow, “Is that true?”

Fang Xiao deadpanned, “Of course not, don’t listen to him. Tang Shao doesn’t get it. Your stance, your emotions, your control—they’re all top-notch.”

Then he leaned in close to Gu Yiming’s ear and whispered, “And the one-hand-in-pocket pose *is* the coolest.”

Tang Shao didn’t hear that last part. Gu Yiming touched his ear and murmured, “Oh.” He thought he’d be annoyed, but he wasn’t. He turned his head to look at Fang Xiao, who was chatting with Tang Shao, and thought, This guy’s weird. So this is what fans are like…

No wonder so many people wanted to be celebrities.

In the end, they peacefully finished watching the match. Li Yeqing placed sixth, while Xie Qingyun took bronze in the final. World Cup videos were released in batches on the same day—next up was a 10m air pistol event. Tang Shao, fired up by the medal round’s variable-speed clapping, was eager to keep watching. He even declared that watching shooting competitions gave him the same thrill as gacha pulls in idle clicker games: no effort required, just data to obsess over.

Fang Xiao didn’t answer directly. Instead, he turned to Gu Yiming for his opinion. His body language was deliberate—standing close enough to convey support but avoiding physical contact.

Fang Xiao asked, “Xiao Gu, what do you think? I think there was a 10m air rifle finals video released yesterday too—we could watch that instead.”

Fang Xiao had reframed an unbalanced true-or-false question into an equivalent multiple-choice one, giving Gu Yiming room to refuse. Tang Shao, oblivious, urged Gu Yiming to hurry up and decide. Gu Yiming looked at Fang Xiao, his gaze settling on the light gray tips of his hair, and said, “Let’s watch the air pistol.”

As the words left his mouth, Gu Yiming’s facial muscles tensed. He noticed the reaction but couldn’t control it. Clenching his fists, he spoke as calmly as possible: “It’s my main event.”