The scent of oiled wood and aged leather filled the dimly lit workshop as Han Ye stood before a worn wooden wardrobe. Inside, his hunting gear y neatly arranged—an old but reliable bow, a quiver of arrows fletched with goose feathers, and a hunting knife sharpened to perfection.

  His father’s words still echoed in his mind.

  "We’re going hunting. Get ready."

  Han Ye exhaled slowly, running his fingers over the bow’s polished surface. It wasn’t a weapon of war, nor was it a tool of destruction. It was an instrument of precision, a silent executioner that required patience and understanding to wield properly. Unlike the fshy sword arts praised by sects, a bow did not announce its presence. It struck without warning, without hesitation.

  As he strapped on his quiver, his thoughts drifted back to his past life.

  Why is archery so overlooked in cultivation?

  From what he had read in countless Xianxia novels before his reincarnation, cultivators preferred swords or fists. Archery, when it appeared at all, was always secondary—either an opening move before they abandoned their bow, or a support role for those unwilling to face their foes head-on. It was absurd. A true archer did not need to fight at close range. If they did, they had already failed.

  He pulled on his hunting cloak, a thick garment lined with fur to shield against the morning chill. The fabric smelled of pine and earth, a familiar and grounding scent.

  As he adjusted the strap of his quiver, his mind circled back to something else—his project from the night before.

  The device was still on his worktable, its delicate carvings shimmering faintly with residual Qi. The design was simple in theory, yet groundbreaking in practice. If successful, it could refine and direct Qi with unparalleled efficiency, eliminating the wasteful methods used by most cultivators.

  He wanted to stay and continue his work.

  But his father was waiting.

  Han Ye sighed, giving the project one st gnce before turning away. Another time.

  He stepped out of the workshop, the crisp morning air brushing against his face. The sky had begun to lighten, casting soft gold over the treetops. The scent of damp earth and pine needles filled his lungs as he made his way toward the vilge’s gathering point.

  There, Han Zhe stood waiting.

  His father was already dressed for the hunt—his longbow slung across his back, a hunting spear resting against the ground. He gave Han Ye a once-over, his sharp eyes scrutinizing every detail.

  “You’re slow,” Han Zhe remarked.

  Han Ye merely shrugged. “You’re fast.”

  His father smirked slightly before turning to the others.

  Several hunters had gathered—veterans of the vilge, men who had spent their entire lives tracking beasts through the wild. They greeted Han Ye with nods of recognition, though some still viewed him with mild curiosity. Despite being the son of a renowned hunter, Han Ye had always been… different. Not weak, not incompetent, but something else entirely.

  Detached.

  They had expected him to be like his father—silent, ruthless, efficient. And in some ways, he was. But there was a yer of calcution in his actions that they found strange. He did not hunt with instinct alone. He thought too much, as if analyzing the very nature of the world around him.

  “Heading north today,” one of the hunters grunted. “A stag’s been sighted near the valley.”

  Han Zhe nodded. “We move now. Stay silent.”

  Without another word, the group set off.

  The forest was alive with the quiet hum of nature. Birds flitted through the branches, their songs weaving through the rustling leaves. The air smelled of damp moss and rich soil, a scent that brought a sense of familiarity to Han Ye.

  He moved with practiced ease, stepping lightly over fallen branches, his breath steady. His mind, however, remained active.

  The best shot is always the one your target never sees.

  It was a principle he had learned in his past life—an unspoken truth that transcended mere skill. A true hunter did not fight. He did not chase. He did not struggle.

  He simply waited.

  Patience, precision, and the perfect moment.

  Ahead of them, his father raised a hand, signaling the group to halt. Han Ye’s gaze followed his father’s, scanning the dense undergrowth until he spotted it—a stag, grazing in a clearing.

  A magnificent creature, its antlers rising like a crown, its coat sleek and unmarred.

  The hunters exchanged silent gnces. This was the moment.

  One of the older hunters nocked an arrow, his movements steady. But before he could loose the shot, Han Zhe raised a hand, stopping him.

  He turned to Han Ye.

  “You take the shot.”

  The words were unexpected. The others gnced at him, some with curiosity, others with skepticism.

  Han Ye hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward.

  He drew his bow, his breath slow and controlled. His fingers grazed the arrow’s fletching as he pulled back the string, the tension singing through his limbs.

  His gaze locked onto the stag.

  The world narrowed.

  There was no noise, no distractions, no wasted movement.

  Just him, the bow, and his target.

  He exhaled.

  The arrow flew.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the stag colpsed, the arrow buried precisely where heart met lung.

  A clean kill.

  Silence fell over the group. The hunters exchanged gnces, some nodding in quiet approval.

  Han Zhe simply studied his son.

  Then, with a satisfied nod, he turned back to the others.

  “Let’s move.”

  As they approached the downed stag, Han Ye found himself staring at his own hands.

  Not in shock. Not in disbelief.

  But in understanding.

  Hunting is not just about the kill.

  It was about control.

  Mastering the bow. Mastering the hunt.

  Mastering himself.

  And for the first time in a long while, he realized—

  He was just getting started.