Xiao Yan did not obey his father's order to return quietly to his room. His heart pounded wildly, and Hai Bodong's seemingly kindly words kept echoing in his mind, along with the image of his father Xiao Zhan's back, taut as a bowstring.
Just wait like this and do nothing? He could not. As though drawn by some unseen force, his feet turned in another direction-toward the courtyard of that annoying fellow, Xiao Yi.
The moment he stepped through the gate, a familiar air of chaos hit him. Xiao Yi's courtyard looked like a scrapyard. A heap of rusty gears and iron pipes lay to the east, while unidentifiable herbs and the dregs of failed medicine batches occupied the west. Several broken wooden swords and hollow iron pipes leaned against a corner of the wall.
To most people, it was nothing but rubbish strewn everywhere, but Xiao Yan knew exactly what Xiao Yi had made. Although he had never used any of it himself, he had seen such things plenty of times on television in his previous life and understood them to some extent.
He plunged into the pile of odds and ends and began rummaging frantically. His goal was clear: he needed something, something that would give him even a sliver of power to defend himself.
Dust showered down, and his hands soon turned pitch-black with grime. At last, beneath a worn sheet of oilcloth, he felt a hard wooden box.
The box was rather heavy and had no lock. Xiao Yan forced its lid open. A layer of straw lined the inside, and a metal pistol of old-fashioned design lay quietly in the center. Beside it was a small leather pouch containing three matching bullets.
Xiao Yan picked up the pistol. It felt cold and heavy in his