Mùróng Zhuó gently nudged his horse's flanks with his legs. The magnificent steed let out a long neigh, reared its hooves, and sprang forward into a gallop.
Yet he remained firmly seated in the saddle, his eyes as sharp as a falcon's, locked relentlessly onto the apple atop my head.
As the horse raced forward, he swiftly nocked an arrow and pulled the bowstring back. The bowstring snapped taut, and with a sharp whistle, the first arrow grazed the very edge of the apple. The apple wobbled slightly, but did not fall.
Chapter 33