Fingertips brushed over the rough bowstring, as if touching the pulse of a nomadic people for thousands of years. The snow capped mountains in the distance are the widest bullseye, and the grasslands beneath your feet rise and fall with your breath. When the arrows burst out of the air, the wind makes way for you - not to hit anything, but to let this arrow, with your heartbeat, pierce into the gap between heaven and earth.
The bow trembled slightly, shaking off the hustle and bustle of the city. The true freedom is to let the arrowhead split open the path of the wind, let the gaze cross the folds of the grassland, and reach straight to the sky where the skylark flies.
Here, every arrow is not a competition, but a dialogue with this land. When the arrow feather fell into the sea of flowers, even Gesanghua knew that you had shot your thoughts into the wilderness of Karajun.
