Chapter Thirty-Six: Shooting the Eagle

“Could it be that Young Master Yi is reluctant to part with his belongings?”

“Hmph, how could I, the son of the Zhuang family, be concerned with such trivial possessions?” Zhuang Yi was a man who cared deeply about his reputation and would never go back on his word.

The steward's eyes flickered. He leaned in and whispered something into Zhuang Yi’s ear, causing Zhuang Yi’s eyes to light up. With a wave, he dismissed his attendants and turned to Meng Di. “There must be one more contest.”

“Oh? The customs of Wu are certainly numerous.”

Zhuang Yi’s face flushed, but he pretended not to hear and continued, “This time, we will compete in archery.”

At his words, someone brought forth a large, unremarkable black bow. “If you can draw this bow, you win. If not, you must return those goods.”

“What shall Young Master wager as a prize?”

“This bow itself, how about that?” Fearing Meng Di might not recognize its value, he hurried to boast of it.

In truth, the bow was extraordinary—its body forged from hundred-folded steel by Gan Jiang, its string crafted from the sinews of a thousand-year water dragon of Lake Tai. It had taken several master craftsmen over a decade to complete. It was said that when the bow was finished, thunder crashed from the heavens and the sun and moon hid their light.

Whether the legend was true was impossible to verify, but the bow was eventually presented to the King of Wu, who was overjoyed and richly rewarded the one who delivered it. Only later did the king realize he'd been deceived—the bow was immensely heavy, its body unyieldingly rigid, and the dragon sinew string fierce and taut. An ordinary man could not even move it, let alone draw it.

Archery is a skill demanding both technique and strength, not brute force alone. Several generals at court, proud of their archery, attempted to draw the bow by force—only to end up injuring their arms or suffering internal injuries from the shock.

In a fit of rage, the King of Wu ordered the bow locked away, and on some pretext, executed the one who had presented it.

When He Lü ascended the throne, grateful for the merit of Zhuang Zhu, he cared for his son Zhuang Yi, knowing him to be neither literary nor martial, but fond of hunting and riding. Thus, he bestowed the bow upon him.

To Zhuang Yi and his companions, the bow was little more than a prop—it was all they could do to lift it, let alone draw it, and so it served merely as a symbol of status.

Though Zhuang Yi could only handle a light, flexible bow, he always brought this iron bow on outings, boasting of it to all he met. Over time, even he found the charade tedious, but he happened to have the bow with him that day, and it seemed the perfect tool to trouble Meng Di.

So, it was the legendary iron-banded bow! Meng Di’s eyes glimmered with intrigue. In his previous life, the famed General Li Guang, grandfather of Li Ling, had used such a bow and passed down the secret of drawing it.

Without special training, an iron-banded bow could not be used. But its range was tremendous, and with iron-tipped arrows, it was nearly unstoppable.

It was said that Li Guang, during a night patrol, once mistook a boulder for a crouching tiger and shot an arrow at it—embedding the shaft deep into the stone.

Zhuang Yi, seeing Meng Di lost in thought, grew uneasy and began to regret his earlier boasting, worrying that Meng Di would refuse the challenge.

To his surprise, Meng Di agreed at once, reaching out to take the iron bow. The bow’s surface was dull and unpolished, but up close, it exuded a sense of weight and gravity.

He gently stroked the string, memories of his childhood training flooding back. In a deep voice, he called, “Bring me an arrow.”

Seeing his prey had taken the bait, Zhuang Yi was overjoyed. He paid no mind to Meng Di’s sudden change in demeanor after grasping the bow and quickly had a quiver of arrows, made specifically for the iron bow, brought forth.

With his left hand gripping the bow and his right hand poised on the string, Meng Di lifted his head to gaze into the sky.

It was spring in the southlands—the season when eagles hunted and mated. Dark specks circled and swooped in the air, their cries sharp and clear.

Meng Di stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the sky.

The crowd, unsure what he was doing, also craned their necks to look up, until their necks ached, but saw nothing amiss.

Certain of victory, Zhuang Yi cleared his throat, preparing to make a jest—when suddenly, Meng Di drew a deep breath, raised the bow skyward, right leg stepping back, left bent in a solid stance. He drew the string, smooth and steady, until the bow was arched like a full moon.

A piercing whistle split the air. Far above, a shrill cry sounded, and a dark shape plummeted from the sky.

An eagle!

As the bird crashed to the ground, the spectators gasped inwardly—no one dared utter a word.

At this moment, the question of whether the bow could be drawn had become a joke. Eagles were common in the south, but no one had ever heard of one being shot down. It was simple—the range of ordinary bows wasn’t nearly enough.

Zhuang Yi’s mouth turned bitter. He opened his lips but could find no words. After a moment’s hesitation, he offered a stiff salute and led his followers away.

This was unlike his usual style—he would at least have uttered a few perfunctory lines. But today, he was truly frightened, afraid Meng Di might turn on him.

His party—never mind escaping the bamboo switches of the maidservant—they could never dodge an arrow from that iron bow.

“Wait,” Meng Di called out, handing the bow to Xiang Lie for safekeeping.

Zhuang Yi stopped at once, laboriously turning around, his tone bitter. “What orders does the hero have?”

His followers were trembling as well; there was no escape—not when an eagle could not outpace the arrow.

“Since Young Master Yi has been so generous, gifting both goods and a precious bow upon our first meeting, I must not be remiss in courtesy. Why not sit down and share a drink together?”

“No need, no need. There are urgent matters at home. I shall host a proper banquet for you another day.”

“Oh?” Meng Di reached for the bow.

“Ah—well, on second thought, matters at home are not so pressing. It is more important to drink with our hero first.” Zhuang Yi quickly changed his tune and ordered his attendants to prepare a banquet.

The grilled fish was ready, and Zhuang Yi’s group had brought fine wine. Once they were seated again, Meng Di smiled and asked, “Shall I have my maid serve the drinks?”

“I wouldn’t dare trouble your maid. Allow me to pour for you myself.” Zhuang Yi was nothing if not adaptable.

“I’m unworthy of your address, Young Master,” Su’er replied coolly.

“That’s enough, you may all withdraw,” Meng Di said with a smile. Su’er was always like this, even toward him—there was no chance she’d be moved by Zhuang Yi’s words.

In truth, Meng Di found Zhuang Yi not unlikable. Though young and somewhat arrogant, he was straightforward and, above all, perceptive.

Now only the two of them remained in the bamboo pavilion, and Zhuang Yi gradually relaxed. His father, Zhuang Zhu, had always been a bold and fierce man, making many friends in the martial world. Zhuang Yi had inherited some of that spirit, and after a few rounds of wine, he began to call Meng Di “Brother Meng” with great warmth.

Their conversation eventually turned to the city of Gusu. Zhuang Yi, growing troubled, laid down his chopsticks and revealed a piece of news that greatly astonished Meng Di.

Fu Gai had declared himself king.

While King He Lü of Wu and the nation’s elite forces were away fighting Chu, Fu Gai had secretly returned to Gusu with several thousand followers and proclaimed himself king.

Fu Gai was capable enough in battle, but completely ignorant of governance and had no capable ministers. Upon entering Gusu, he took over the palace and devoted himself to pleasure.

That was why Meng Di had heard nothing of this along his journey—outside the city, few knew the king of Wu had been replaced.

Zhuang Yi, a loyal supporter of He Lü, knew that if Fu Gai wanted to make an example of anyone, he himself would be the prime candidate. On his steward’s advice, he had slipped out of the city to wait out the storm.

Meng Di was left speechless. With Fu Gai so reckless, by the time He Lü returned with his army, Fu Gai would not even know the shape of death.