A Hunting Trip
Tough Guy and Zhang Heng were both highly efficient. A quarter of an hour later, they were already carrying Hunting Rifles into the woods.
As Tough Guy crouched down to examine the animal tracks on the ground, Zhang Heng asked, "Why me? Was it because I chose Popular Fiction?"
"I don't care one bit about that boring stuff." Tough Guy shook his head. "I picked you because you don't look like the bookworms inside. You probably know how to use a gun, and hunting requires a gun."
Zhang Heng found that reasoning hard to refute, but after a pause, he still said, "The pilot who went up first should know how to use a gun too. Why not ask him?"
"Him? I don't like him, just like I can tell he doesn't like me. More precisely, he doesn't much like any adults. And don't let those warm stories of his fool you—there's something seriously wrong with his head." Tough Guy pointed at his own head.
"Of course, if he hadn't been plagued by depression all along, he probably couldn't have written words capable of healing people's hearts. Talent can be a kind of torment sometimes, especially for people in our line of work. Most of us have some kind of mental problem or another. I'm no exception. If I stayed with him too long, I'm afraid I'd just blow my own head off with this Hunting Rifle."
Tough Guy pulled his boot free from the mud and continued, "Besides, you're a newcomer who just arrived here. I figured you'd accept my invitation."
What Tough Guy meant was that anyone who had stayed at the manor long enough would never agree to go hunting with him.
But that was understandable. What kind of lunatic went hunting in