Fan Xian lay safely and comfortably on the bed. His face was pale, and he looked like a young man with a hangover. There was a copper basin next to the bed. It was very clean, because the vomit had long since been cleaned up.
Ruoruo had already been driven to bed by him, and another servant girl was attending to him. Fan Xian's pale face was not faked, and his vomiting was not caused by medicine. The force on Yan Xiaoyi's arrow had truly injured his internal organs. His chest felt a wave of irritation. He would probably need to rest for a few days before he could recover.
Thinking of that soul-devouring arrow, Fan Xian could not help but feel afraid. If he had not exploded with zhenqi at the moment of life and death, he feared that he really would have been killed by that arrow. It was hard to imagine that the arrow still had such power from so far away. It seemed that the commander was already at the upper ninth-level, and could step into the pinnacle of the human world at any time.
Actually, when he had used both hands to smash the arrow, Fan Xian's hands had not been as fast as the arrow, so he had only smashed into the shaft. It was very dangerous, but fortunately, there were no wounds on his hands. Otherwise, if someone had seen it, he would not know how to explain it.
At the time, he had taken the risk to go to Guangxin Palace to see if he could find anything. He also didn't want the people in the palace to think of the key in Hanguang Palace because Eunuch Hong had been lured away by Wu Zhu. That was the most important thing.
His fingers gently rested on his waist, slowly stroking that hard thing. His heart was filled with happiness. His luck was really good, but would his luck really be good forever? He decided that he would never hide things in the secret compartment under his bed again, and he would never go to the palace to play again.
In the few days that he had been pretending to be drunk, Fan Xian's "immortal performance" in the palace had long since spread throughout the capital. Countless scholars and nobles had come to visit, but Fan Jian had coldly blocked them outside, saying that his son had exhausted himself that day and needed to rest.
But the level of the people who came was getting higher and higher. Even the descendants of some of the founding fathers and high-ranking military officers had come. Just as Fan Jian was having a headache, Fan Xian used the mouths of people in the manor to announce a decision that everyone was puzzled and regretful.
Fan Xian would no longer write poetry!
Many people thought that Master Fan was just spouting nonsense and did not take it seriously. Only Prince Jing's Ren and Xin, who understood Fan Xian's temperament a little, knew that this matter was probably true. But in any case, it was still in the aftermath, so they could slowly discuss it later.
The summer heat in the capital had gradually disappeared, and an autumn rain slowly floated down.
In reality, there were only three days until he entered the Palace, but Fan Xian felt that these three days were the longest of his two lives. The box was under his bed, and the key was in his hand. There was no greater temptation than this, but Fan Xian still endured it for three days. He was like a child who stole a snack from the kitchen that his mother did not allow him to eat, and then carefully hid it in the wardrobe. Then, knowing that the snack was there, he went to sleep, satisfied. Every day before he went to sleep, he glanced at the wardrobe, but he did not really want to eat it, until the snack finally went bad.
The box would not go bad, but Fan Xian still decided to eat it tonight.
Outside the window, the autumn rain fell in a pitter-patter, landing in the backyard of Fan Manor and on the flowers and plants that were about to go through autumn frost. Fan Xian did not light a lamp inside the window. He knew that his eyes could see clearly in the dark. The box was placed on the table, and he steadily inserted the key into the brass keyhole.
With a click, the plywood in front of the box sprang open, revealing a small black board. There were some strange little squares on the board. With a light press, the squares would sink down. Each square had a unique pattern, and no one in this world could recognize these patterns.
Fan Xian smiled, but this smile was a little bitter, a little understanding, and a little consolation that had finally been confirmed after a long time of guessing.
He closed his eyes and couldn't help but laugh again. He felt that this world was really too crazy. So, with trembling fingers, he lit a pot of the good local tobacco that Teng Zijing had given him to calm his mood.
This was the first time he had smoked in the world of the Kingdom of Qing. The smell of smoke was very good. White smoke rose in spirals in the dark room, and the autumn rain slowly fell in the lonely courtyard.
Fan Xian felt that he would never be lonely again.
— — —
The people of this world would not know what these little black squares were, nor would they know what the strange patterns on the squares were. But Fan Xian knew.
Because after the lock on the box was opened, what was revealed was a keyboard. It was a very familiar keyboard from his previous life. The strange patterns on it were actually 26 English letters, as well as the numeric keys and the F5 that Fan Xian was most familiar with.
After seeing this, the matter that Fan Xian had secretly guessed for a long time had finally been confirmed. The mother of his physical body, the woman called Ye Qingmei, had come from the same place as him. At this moment, he did not think of the Tianmai being mentioned in the conversation between Zhuang Mohan and the Eldest Princess in Guangxin Palace.
The dimly lit tobacco pot flickered in the dark room. Fan Xian's face had already recovered its calm. His hands gently placed on the keyboard, and he began to guess what the password was.
"It's the name." Wu Zhu, who had come to his side at some point, stood in the corner of the room. Although his eyes were covered by a black cloth, his face, facing the box, revealed an emotion that people would call sorrow. "I only remember the name. The Lady said there were only five strokes."
Fan Xian nodded calmly and began to type. After all, it had been 16 years since he had come into contact with this kind of thing. At first, it felt strange, but after many tries, that familiar feeling returned to his body and his hands. His fingers danced across the keyboard.
But after many tries, he suddenly smiled bitterly and raised his head. "There is no name in this world that requires only five strokes."
As soon as he said this, he knew what the problem was. He took two more puffs of his tobacco, looked at the box in front of him, and shook his head. He sighed. "Mother, you really are messing around. But the problem is, did you teach Wu Zhu the five strokes before?"
The five strokes were not five strokes, but a five-stroke input method.
"kfhlcanhd." Fan Xian entered the first name, Ye Qingmei. There was no response. He entered the five strokes of his own name with some uncertainty. "Aibusi."
There was still no response from the box. He smiled bitterly, thinking that his name had been chosen many years later. How could Ye Qingmei have known? Suddenly, he had a thought. He looked at Wu Zhu, who was in the corner of the room, with a faint smile.
Wu Zhu seemed to feel his strange gaze. He tilted his head slightly. "What are you doing?"
Fan Xian did not answer him. Instead, he entered Wu Zhu's name. "ggttgh."
The box made a soft sound, and then opened. Fan Xian looked at Wu Zhu again and smiled. "Uncle, I now suspect that there is some indecent secret between you and mother."
— — —
Fan Xian had brought the box from Danzhou to the capital. Of course, he knew the weight of the box, so he was not worried that there was a hydrogen bomb hidden inside. But when he saw the contents of the box, he could not help but shake his head as he walked out of the room and foolishly into the rainy night. He thought to himself that his mother really did not have much creativity.
…
…
The box was divided into three layers. Due to its limited shape, the items that could be placed in each layer had to be long and narrow. The first layer had metal tools that were divided into three parts. Some were tubular, and some seemed to be suitable for holding. Fan Xian furrowed his brows as he looked at the metal tubes. Although he was also from Earth, he did not immediately understand what they were. It was not until he stuck his finger into one of the metal tubes that he began to understand.
He raised a part of it to his eyes and looked at it carefully. He found that there was a line of letters: M82A1.
"Ah, Mother, Father." Fan Xian's finger trembled slightly. Although he was not a military enthusiast in his previous life, he knew what this line of letters represented.
This was a sniper rifle. This was the best sniper rifle in that world. If it was equipped with armor-piercing bullets, it could pierce through a thick wall from a kilometer away.
Fan Xian's right hand grabbed the barrel of the gun. His hand could not help but tremble. He understood that in a society like the Kingdom of Qing, which was still in the age of cold weapons, if he had a sniper rifle in his hand, it would mean something.
It meant that from now on, he would have the ability to kill anyone from a few kilometers away without fear of being discovered.
It meant that regardless of whether it was the commander who had shocked the heavens with his arrow or Yun Zhilan from the Dongyi diplomatic mission, as long as he wanted to, he could kill them countless times over. But he did not know if it would be effective against a grandmaster.
Fan Xian nervously placed the three parts of the sniper rifle on the table. He had long since put the smoking pot to one side. He placed both hands on the table and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. It seemed that he already had all the necessary requirements to become a demon of the night.
Of course, the prerequisite was that he had bullets.
Fan Xian looked at the second layer, dumbfounded. Aside from a letter, there was nothing else. There were no more than ten bullets, as he had expected.
Without bullets, this sniper rifle was no better than a fire stick.
…
…
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