Cleansing the Mind of Stubbornness and Narrowness

"Contestants, please step forward for the arrow toss."

"Oh? Could it be stage fright?"

"Come now, a young man shouldn't be so timid."

The host's teasing remarks drew laughter from both the audience and participants, clearly poking fun at Su Cheng's nervous hesitation.

"President, I'm going up."

After Ji Qingyi descended from the stage, Su Cheng gave her a nod and slowly rose to his feet, bracing his knees.

"You've got this!" Li Guanqi cheered, though she quickly retracted her encouraging fist under Ji Qingyi's icy gaze, pretending nonchalance.

Ji Qingyi acknowledged him with a slight nod, offering no further words. She had said enough—the rest was up to Su Cheng.

As Su Cheng walked toward the competition area, Ji Qingyi and Li Guanqi exchanged a knowing glance.

"Junior, you seem quite confident in my fiancé?" Ji Qingyi suddenly remarked, her tone frosty and detached, freezing the air around them.

Her words starkly contrasted the audience's mockery of Su Cheng, as if challenging Li Guanqi: When no one else believes in him, what makes you so sure?

"President Ji's fiancé is naturally exceptional, worthy of trust," Li Guanqi replied evenly, her gaze unwavering.

Ji Qingyi arched a brow. "And your reasoning?"

Li Guanqi lowered her eyes. "True heroes grow through adversity. Against all odds, they create miracles. I believe Su Cheng embodies that."

Her words echoed a line from The Basic Laws of Web Novel Protagonists.

Ji Qingyi fell silent for a moment before responding, "Thank you for your earlier assistance. I won’t forget it."

She was referring to Li Guanqi helping administer medicine earlier.

"No need for thanks. I was merely doing what anyone would."

Their brief exchange ended as both turned their attention back to Su Cheng, now the center of hushed ridicule.

Despite his efforts to appear composed, his stiff posture and flustered expression betrayed his anxiety.

"Your friend’s nerves are quite fragile," Zhao Lin sighed from the audience. "It’s just a casual competition, yet he’s this rattled."

Nearby, Zhao Yan watched Su Cheng with growing concern, regretting her decision to let him compete in her stead. The stark contrast between him and Wang Yu had drawn scorn, with spectators whispering about "a flower stuck in mud."

"Go! Go!!"

Only Xuan Ying’s cheers cut through the murmurs, her high-pitched voice a valiant but futile attempt to drown out the laughter. Frustrated, she stomped her foot and fell silent.

On the contestant bench, the former Archery Club president comforted his sulking girlfriend. "Relax, that kid’s barely been in the club two weeks—no calluses, no experience. He’s no match for us."

His girlfriend’s glare softened slightly, but she snapped, "Why did you show off? Flashy moves are for performances, not a ritual like this!"

Arrow tossing originated from ceremonial archery, where "ritual propriety" held utmost importance. Flaunting skill deviated from tradition, prioritizing spectacle over respect—a breach that would cost points regardless of accuracy.

She’d only landed four arrows, same as Ji Qingyi’s deliberate score. The obvious mockery stung, fueling her resentment.

"How was I supposed to know you’d slip up?" her boyfriend grumbled, having expected dual perfect scores to outshine even their theatrics.

"Are you blaming me?" she hissed.

He backtracked hastily. "I scouted the competition earlier. Aside from that masked girl, the rest are amateurs."

Pacified, she turned to watch Su Cheng’s impending humiliation.

"How did that girl end up with him?"

"They’re completely mismatched."

"He’s so... ordinary."

"Earlier, seeing them hold hands was like watching someone drag around a trash bag—just wrong."

"Rich kid with zero class, probably."

"What a waste of a pretty girl..."

"Flower in mud, honestly."

The whispers grew venomous, each word a knife twisting in Su Cheng’s chest.

As an orphan, ridicule had shadowed him since birth. But this was different—a fresh torment.

He couldn’t bear it.

That’s why he’d hidden their relationship.

Now, the tidal wave of scorn drowned what little pride he had left, leaving him numb and gasping.

"Begin the toss," the host interjected, noting Su Cheng’s distress.

Su Cheng raised his hand, accepting the arrow. Yet the moment his fingers touched it, his hope shattered.

His supposed archery talent failed him.

No divine guidance, no instinctive mastery—just his usual clumsy self, frozen mid-motion.

Of course. His gift responded to bows, not arrows.

And this wasn’t archery.

Today, he’d have no rebuttal for his critics.

Worse, he’d publicly showcase the chasm between him and his president.

Clutching the arrow, Su Cheng shut his eyes.

"Losing isn’t the end. Win once, and you win everything."

"Don’t overthink it. Succeed? Celebrate. Fail? Try again until you conquer all."

Ji Qingyi’s advice echoed in his mind. His lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"Guess I’ll lose."

But he refused. Not this time—not when partnered with her. Yet fate had other plans.

Arm raised, he hesitated. No force behind the throw. He already knew.

He couldn’t make it.

However, since defeat was inevitable, he would lose with the most earnest attitude possible!

With this thought, he closed his eyes.

Because if he took this seriously, the intensity of his gaze might affect everyone present.

The consequences would be severe—panic, chaos, even riots. So, he had no choice but to shut his eyes.

But how could he aim with his eyes closed?

So, he lowered his head to adjust his position and began estimating the required force in his mind.

This was a calculation he had made earlier while observing the match. Though he might not land a perfect shot, he could at least get the arrow closer to the pot’s opening.

The rules stated that missed arrows would be scored based on their proximity to the pot.

Even in defeat, he refused to lose disgracefully.

Just as he raised his right hand to throw, he suddenly remembered the club president’s words—

"Free yourself from thoughts and emotions."

So, the moment he released the arrow, he focused on regulating his breath.

He resolved to block out all external distractions.

Inhale, exhale. As he concentrated on his breathing, the surrounding noise gradually blurred, fading into the distant hum of waves—a sound so familiar it became background noise.

Then, he felt enveloped in an impenetrable silence, his awareness narrowing to nothing but his own breath.

Breath in, breath out.

Yet, this state lasted only a fleeting moment.

Soon, he began slipping out of it, and the clamor around him rushed back into his consciousness.

"What’s the holdup?"

"Just throw already, stop pretending!"

"Closing your eyes?"

"Playing blind man’s pot-toss now?"

The fragile tranquility vanished in an instant, and emotions, sensations, desires, worries, and thoughts surged back.

But in that moment, all he could do was cling to his breath, forcing himself to ignore it all.

Slowly, a sense of weariness washed over him, yet it carried an odd serenity—like drifting into a dream.

In this dream, he was still on the competition floor, but the noise around him faded, and the scene itself began dissolving. Eventually, everything turned into an endless expanse of white, stretching infinitely in all directions.

Only he and the pot three meters away remained, frozen in their positions. Just as he struggled to make sense of it—

His spirit suddenly sharpened!

His body tensed involuntarily, his right hand tightening before effortlessly launching the arrow.

Then, to his astonishment, he saw his arrow strike true—

landing squarely in the pot’s opening.

Afterward, all he felt was an inexplicable lightness and certainty—this shot had been destined to hit.

Yet reason told him it was impossible.

Because he hadn’t even aimed deliberately.

It had to be an illusion. He didn’t dare open his eyes, afraid that doing so would reveal the arrow lying outside the pot.

And that delicate feeling would shatter instantly.

So, he kept his eyes shut, blocking out reality, deceiving himself until all five arrows had been thrown.

Outside.

No one noticed the shift within Su Cheng. They only saw him holding the arrow for an unnaturally long time, hesitating to throw.

Just as impatience spread and the crowd began heckling, Su Cheng’s demeanor and posture abruptly transformed.

With solemn grace, he slowly raised his right arm, aligned his shot, and upon releasing, the arrow flew straight into the pot’s center.

The room fell dead silent.

The shock wasn’t just about the perfect shot—it was the change in Su Cheng’s aura and movement. He had executed the throw with textbook elegance, every motion steeped in ritualistic precision.

Most striking was the shift in his presence—serene, detached, composed, tranquil—radiating an influence so profound it altered the mood of everyone present. Those who experienced it would never forget: it was utterly unique, deeply moving!

It was as if Su Cheng’s soul had been laid bare, allowing others to glimpse that transcendent state of mind.

In that moment, the entire room was immersed in that beautiful stillness, reluctant to let it end.

...

"No way, man?" The former president of the Archery Club rose from his seat, staring at Su Cheng. All traces of earlier amusement and mockery had vanished from his face.

Because Su Cheng’s current state unmistakably represented the pinnacle of archery—"the unity of mind and arrow." While mastery of this state varied, only those who achieved it deserved the title of "grandmaster."

He himself could reach it, but Su Cheng was like Usain Bolt racing against toddlers.

And he was dead serious about it.

Was this necessary?

Beside him, the former vice-president’s expression darkened instantly. As an ex-leader of the Archery Club, she recognized this phenomenon all too well. She could see what Su Cheng had just displayed.

Though she couldn’t replicate it, she had witnessed prodigies who could. Those capable of this were geniuses among geniuses—one in a million.

Her boyfriend could enter this state too, but never sustain it, his longest streak being just three arrows.

"Relax," the former president said, suppressing his awe. "He probably stumbled into it by chance. I guarantee he won’t maintain it next time."

Yet, as fate would have it, the rebuttal came swiftly.

Before the former president could finish, Su Cheng took another arrow, threw again—and scored another perfect hit!!

The former president’s face froze mid-expression.

The former vice-president’s turned ashen.

"Next time, definitely—" This time, he didn’t even complete the sentence before Su Cheng launched again. Another bullseye. And as if driven by momentum, Su Cheng fired arrow after arrow without pause, leaving no room for doubt or recovery.

"..." The former president’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He simply fixed his dark eyes on Su Cheng, filled with shock and disbelief.

The former vice-president had already shut her eyes, her face a portrait of bitter resignation. Because they had lost.

And lost spectacularly!

Slowly, they turned to scan the audience.

The stands were silent, many gazing at Su Cheng with a mix of reverence and bewilderment.

When their eyes landed on Zhao Lin, shame forced them to look away.

They didn’t know how to face her.

They couldn’t fathom how Su Cheng, with no apparent dedication to archery, had mastered its deepest principles so flawlessly.

If he ever truly pursued it, wouldn’t he become a monster?!

With this thought, they lifted their heads once more, watching the boy bathed in the golden-red glow of the setting sun.

………

Of course, the most overwhelmed was Zhao Yan.

This was the proudest, most exhilarating moment of her life.

As she stared at Su Cheng, tears welled in her eyes, shimmering crimson in the sunset’s light.

She couldn’t describe what she felt, only that the tears wouldn’t stop.

In that instant, crying felt like the only way to release the joy and excitement surging inside her.

She was happy—truly, deeply happy! Though the results weren’t officially announced yet, she already knew.

Su Cheng had won.

Because what Su Cheng had just demonstrated was a crushing dominance over the other competitors. If one had to describe it aptly—

Earlier, the former Archery Club president that Zhao Lin had invited dazzled the audience and judges with his flashy techniques, leaving them awestruck.

But what Su Cheng displayed was an entirely different scene. He made people feel a sense of inner peace, free from desire, exuding a quiet clarity and serenity.

The game of touhu (pitch-pot) originated from the Book of Rites, derived from ceremonial archery.

Thus, the essence of touhu lies not only in technical mastery but also in the ritual, the attitude, the tranquility of the mind, and the process of self-cultivation.

The contrast between the two was stark, and the difference was immediately apparent.

"A hundred years is too long." Zhao Yan wiped away her tears, countering her sister for the first time. She smiled at Zhao Lin and said, "Don’t you think so, Sister?"

"It seems you’ve truly made a wonderful friend." Zhao Lin showed no trace of anger or resentment. On the contrary, she nodded with a bright smile. "I’ve lost. Congratulations on finding such an amazing friend. Now I can rest easy."

Beside them, Xuan Ying clutched the wooden railing of the pavilion, her eyes fixed on Su Cheng’s retreating figure. She paid no attention to the sisters’ conversation, still staring at Su Cheng in a daze—her gaze a mix of fascination and bewilderment.

When Su Cheng landed the fifth arrow, the nearby host remained frozen in shock for a long time.

Being so close, he could feel it more viscerally—every arrow Su Cheng threw carried an extraordinary resonance.

It left him deeply moved, standing solemnly in reverence.

Only when cheers and applause erupted from the distant audience seats did he snap out of it. He walked toward the pot, his legs suddenly weak, nearly causing him to stumble. He barely caught himself by grabbing a pillar.

Bending slightly at the waist, he began counting the arrows in the pot. The more he counted, the greater his awe grew, his mind growing increasingly dazed, overwhelmed by exhilaration.

Raising one hand to the sky and gripping the microphone with the other, he shouted in a voice that reverberated through the pavilion, stunning the audience—

"All five arrows—perfect hits!!!"

Su Cheng remained oblivious to the outside world.

At this moment, he was locked in an intense internal struggle, hesitating whether to open his eyes.

His intuition told him all five arrows had hit, but his reason argued—how could that be possible?

It simply defied logic.

It was like a dream—once you wake up, everything vanishes except the urge to relieve yourself.

If he opened his eyes now, all that awaited him would be mockery and ridicule.

He had no idea what state he had entered. It felt like the hazy twilight before sleep—his consciousness blurred and muddled, yet unnervingly clear. Everything around him seemed infinitely small, while he alone stood towering and immense.

This sensation comforted him, lulling him into ease.

He even found himself enjoying it.

But he knew, regardless of the outcome, he had to open his eyes. Because this was reality—inescapable.

He had to face it.

Since that was the case, then open them.

With that thought, the once-silent surroundings suddenly erupted into noise. He heard screams, applause, murmurs, a cacophony of voices.

"Applause?"

Su Cheng clenched his fists, his heartbeat accelerating. Holding his breath, he finally opened his eyes—and froze.

Inside the pot, five arrows lay quietly.

All around, cheers and applause roared without end.

Su Cheng stood on the throwing line, bewildered and at a loss as he took in the lively scene surrounding him.

The audience’s fervor contrasted sharply with Su Cheng’s dazed demeanor, intensifying the atmosphere even further.

And thus, art was born.