Dawn had not yet fully decided whether it belonged to night or day.
A thin mist lay across the forest edge, clinging to the roots and stones like a reluctant sleeper. Chen Mo tightened the leather strap across his chest and tested the weight of his bow. The familiar tension steadied his breathing. Solo hunting was never announced, never dramatized. It was simply a decision made quietly, like swallowing a bitter herb.
He checked his arrows one by one. Straight shafts. Clean fletching. The knife at his waist sat snug, its handle worn smooth by years of use. No one stood behind him offering advice, no footsteps echoed nearby. That was how he preferred it. The forest listened better when you entered alone.
Chen Mo paused at the edge of the village path, eyes scanning the treeline. Today he would go deeper than usual. Not reckless, not proud. Just… necessary. Hunger did not respect hesitation, and neither did the mountains.
Without looking back, he stepped forward and disappeared into the thinning fog.
Chen Gou did not carry a bow that morning.
Instead, a woven basket hung from his shoulder, light but humiliating in its emptiness. He walked several paces behind the old herb gatherer, who moved with the unhurried patience of someone who had never once needed to prove himself.
This was punishment. Everyone knew it. A mistake during yesterday’s hunt, small but visible, had earned him his father’s sharp silence and a single sentence delivered without anger.
“Follow the herb gatherer tomorrow.”
No shouting. No lecture. Somehow worse.
Chen Gou kicked a pebble off the path and watched it vanish into the grass. His shoulders sagged, pride folded inward like a damp cloak. He told himself this was temporary, that it meant nothing. But the basket scratched against his hip with every step, a steady reminder that today he was not trusted with a weapon.
As they rounded the bend near the eastern trail, Chen Gou’s gaze drifted ahead.
A lone figure stood near the forest line.
Even from a distance, he recognized the posture. The quiet readiness. The way the bow rested not as a burden but as an extension of the arm.
Chen Mo.
Chen Gou slowed without realizing it. The herb gatherer continued on, muttering softly about roots that preferred shade, oblivious to the storm brewing behind him.
Chen Gou watched as Chen Mo adjusted his pack, glanced once toward the mountains, and then stepped into the woods alone.
No escort. No correction. No punishment.
A knot formed in Chen Gou’s chest, sharp and uninvited. It was not jealousy exactly. It was something heavier. The painful awareness of distance, not measured in steps but in trust.
For a moment, Chen Gou imagined calling out. Saying something casual. Anything.
He didn’t.
The mist swallowed Chen Mo’s figure, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves as proof he had ever been there.
The herb gatherer finally noticed the lag and turned, one brow raised. “If you keep staring into the forest,” he said mildly, “you’ll miss the plants beneath your feet.”
Chen Gou forced his eyes down and tightened his grip on the basket.
“Yes,” he muttered.
Dawn had not yet fully decided whether it belonged to night or day.
A thin mist lay across the forest edge, clinging to the roots and stones like a reluctant sleeper. Chen Mo tightened the leather strap across his chest and tested the weight of his bow. The familiar tension steadied his breathing. Solo hunting was never announced, never dramatized. It was simply a decision made quietly, like swallowing a bitter herb.
He checked his arrows one by one. Straight shafts. Clean fletching. The knife at his waist sat snug, its handle worn smooth by years of use. No one stood behind him offering advice, no footsteps echoed nearby. That was how he preferred it. The forest listened better when you entered alone.
Chen Mo paused at the edge of the village path, eyes scanning the treeline. Today he would go deeper than usual. Not reckless, not proud. Just… necessary. Hunger did not respect hesitation, and neither did the mountains.
Without looking back, he stepped forward and disappeared into the thinning fog.
Chen Gou did not carry a bow that morning.
Instead, a woven basket hung from his shoulder, light but humiliating in its emptiness. He walked several paces behind the old herb gatherer, who moved with the unhurried patience of someone who had never once needed to prove himself.
This was punishment. Everyone knew it. A mistake during yesterday’s hunt, small but visible, had earned him his father’s sharp silence and a single sentence delivered without anger.
“Follow the herb gatherer tomorrow.”
No shouting. No lecture. Somehow worse.
Chen Gou kicked a pebble off the path and watched it vanish into the grass. His shoulders sagged, pride folded inward like a damp cloak. He told himself this was temporary, that it meant nothing. But the basket scratched against his hip with every step, a steady reminder that today he was not trusted with a weapon.
As they rounded the bend near the eastern trail, Chen Gou’s gaze drifted ahead.
A lone figure stood near the forest line.
Even from a distance, he recognized the posture. The quiet readiness. The way the bow rested not as a burden but as an extension of the arm.
Chen Mo.
Chen Gou slowed without realizing it. The herb gatherer continued on, muttering softly about roots that preferred shade, oblivious to the storm brewing behind him.
Chen Gou watched as Chen Mo adjusted his pack, glanced once toward the mountains, and then stepped into the woods alone.
No escort. No correction. No punishment.
A knot formed in Chen Gou’s chest, sharp and uninvited. It was not jealousy exactly. It was something heavier. The painful awareness of distance, not measured in steps but in trust.
For a moment, Chen Gou imagined calling out. Saying something casual. Anything.
He didn’t.
Chen Gou walked for another half li before an idea truly took shape.
The herb gatherer was bent over a patch of low shrubs, muttering about leaf veins and soil moisture, his back turned for longer than usual. Chen Gou slowed his steps, then slower still, until the distance between them stretched thin and fragile.
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He glanced around.
No one watched him.
The forest here was familiar. Too familiar. Paths he had walked since childhood crisscrossed the undergrowth in subtle ways, invisible to outsiders but obvious to someone who knew where to look. Chen Gou shifted the basket on his shoulder and, without a word, slipped sideways between two trees, letting the brush swallow him.
His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from excitement.
Chen Mo had gone this way.
The signs were faint, but they were there. A blade of grass pressed flat in the wrong direction. A stone nudged aside with a heel instead of a toe. Chen Gou followed them easily, pride stirring despite himself. Archery was not his strength, but tracking… tracking was something he had always been praised for.
Before long, he found the first trap.
A snare hidden beneath fallen leaves, clever and clean. Chen Gou crouched, studying it with narrowed eyes. He did not cut the rope. That would be too obvious. Instead, he loosened the knot just enough that it would slip under strain. To anyone glancing over it, the trap looked untouched.
A thrill ran through him.
He moved on.
The second trap was a trigger snare tied to a sapling. Chen Gou shifted the stone slightly, altering the balance so it would fall too early and fail to catch anything. Again, subtle. Again, neat.
By the third trap, his movements had grown more confident.
He removed the bait entirely, rubbing it against a nearby tree trunk before tossing it aside. Any animal drawn by the scent would circle, confused, then leave. Chen Gou straightened, brushing dirt from his hands, satisfaction warming his chest.
That should do it.
He imagined Chen Mo returning later, empty-handed, puzzled. The image eased something tight inside him. Just a little. Just enough.
Chen Gou did not notice the eyes watching from farther downslope.
Chen Mo noticed immediately.
Not the first failure. That could happen. Not the second either. But by the third, he stopped moving altogether.
He crouched beside the disturbed leaves, fingers brushing the loosened knot. Human hands. Careless hands pretending to be careful.
Someone had touched his work.
Chen Mo’s expression did not change. He reset the traps calmly, deliberately leaving them looking the same as before. Then, a short distance away, where the undergrowth thickened and the ground dipped just enough to hide movement, he laid another snare.
This one was different.
The rope was anchored higher. The trigger was reversed. It was not meant for prey.
Chen Mo withdrew and waited.
Chen Gou returned when the forest had settled again.
He approached cautiously, eyes bright, convinced of his own cleverness. When he reached the trap he had loosened earlier and saw it still standing, his lips curved upward.
He stepped closer.
The ground shifted.
Before he could react, the snare tightened around his ankle. His body was yanked upward in a violent arc, the world flipping end over end. Chen Gou cried out as blood rushed to his head, his basket tumbling uselessly to the ground.
He hung there, upside down, heart hammering, limbs flailing uselessly in empty air.
The forest was silent.
Then footsteps approached, slow and unhurried.
Chen Gou’s breath caught as a familiar figure emerged from between the trees.
Chen Mo stopped a few paces away and looked up at him.
No anger. No surprise.
Only calm.
Chen Gou’s struggles slowed, fear finally seeping in as he realized what had happened — and who had laid the trap.
The world spun upside down.
Blood rushed violently to Chen Gou’s head as he thrashed, one leg bound tight, his body hanging from the low branch like a gutted hare. Bark scraped his back. Leaves shook above him. Panic came late but arrived fully formed, squeezing his chest until each breath burned.
He clawed at the rope with shaking fingers. Too tight. Too clean. Whoever set this had no intention of letting the prey escape easily.
Then—
Thwip.
Something hot kissed his calf.
A sharp sting bloomed, shallow but sudden, and warm liquid slid down his skin. Chen Gou froze for half a heartbeat before the pain registered. His scream tore out of him raw and uncontrolled, echoing into the trees.
“AH—!”
His eyes darted wildly through the forest.
Footsteps answered him. Slow. Unhurried.
Chen Mo stepped out from behind a cedar, bow already lowered, another arrow resting calmly between his fingers. His gaze swept over the hanging body, lingering on the rope, the struggling limbs, the blood seeping from the grazed flesh.
A pause.
“…Big catch today,” Chen Mo said mildly.
He approached without haste, boots crunching softly on fallen needles. Up close, his expression was unreadable, eyes flat as still water. He reached for the dagger at his waist and drew it free, turning it slightly as if judging the edge.
“Struggles a lot,” he continued, tone almost thoughtful. “Skinning something alive is always troublesome. Slitting the throat first saves effort.”
Chen Gou’s face drained of color.
“You—!” His voice cracked, terror shredding his earlier bravado. “Chen Mo! You bastard! Cut me loose!”
The dagger tilted, catching a pale glint of light.
Chen Mo stepped closer, close enough that Chen Gou could smell leather and cold iron. Then, without warning, the blade flashed—not toward his throat, but upward.
The rope snapped.
Chen Gou hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He curled instinctively, coughing, hands scrambling against dirt and leaves. Pain flared through his leg, his back, his pride all at once.
Above him, Chen Mo looked down.
No anger. No satisfaction.
Just disinterest.
“Get lost,” he said.
Then he turned away, already scanning the forest again, as if the incident had been no more than a delayed snare needing reset. Within moments, his footsteps faded, swallowed by the trees.
Chen Gou lay there shaking, the forest suddenly vast and hostile, the rope fibers still burned into his skin.
For the first time, he understood something clearly.
He had never been a rival.
He had been prey.
