Chapter 30: Each One More Monstrous Than the Last

“Bang, bang, bang…”

“Tap, tap, tap…”

On the firing range, the recruits crawled in a line along the shooting trench, their 95-style rifles set to single fire, crisp gunshots echoing as shell casings sprang from the chambers.

This “Founding Regiment,” steeped in history, truly offered a higher caliber of training for new soldiers.

Back when Xing Xiaolong was a recruit in a border defense regiment, the training conditions there couldn’t compare with those of the Iron Fist Regiment. Never mind the privilege of training with tanks—even the live-fire sessions were worlds apart.

In Xing Xiaolong’s previous border defense recruit company, shooting practice consisted of “dry fire.” They would pull the bolt back on an empty chamber, practicing the three-point aiming technique with the rifle, sighting the target and squeezing the trigger until the sharp click signaled the firing pin striking an empty chamber.

That counted as one round of shooting practice.

The training squad leader assessed their performance using a “Z-shaped” auxiliary lens, checking if the recruits achieved the three-point alignment when aiming.

Throughout Xing Xiaolong’s entire recruit camp, he only had two live-fire sessions in total.

The first was at the end of the live-fire training module, under the one-on-one, hands-on guidance of a veteran. He fired ten rounds for the first time in his life.

He was so nervous, he barely remembered how he finished those ten shots.

The second came at the end of recruit training, during the comprehensive evaluation. He fired five rounds, all hitting the target, scoring a total of forty-two rings.

Such a score stunned his fellow recruits; the company commander praised him as a "promising shooter," laying a solid foundation for his upcoming assignment as a guard—watching the gate.

For recruits, hitting the target was already a blessing; no one cared about high scores.

If you hit three out of five, you were deemed qualified. Four meant excellent—even if each shot merely grazed the edge for a single ring.

Xing Xiaolong’s average of over eight rings per shot was truly remarkable.

He’d fantasized about how much more he could achieve if given more live-fire opportunities.

A sharpshooter needs not only talent but also a wealth of bullets. That’s indisputable.

Now, in his second stint as a recruit, his former aspirations had become reality. Not only did he start with live ammunition, but he had all the bullets he needed for target practice.

Xing Xiaolong couldn’t help but marvel…

Same soldier, same recruit—yet the treatment differed so much.

This Iron Fist Regiment was truly extraordinary!

The recruits were absorbed in live-fire training. Old Hei and the squad leaders stood behind the shooting trench, binoculars in hand, watching the chest targets set 150 meters away.

They corrected and adjusted the recruits’ shooting techniques based on the placement of bullet holes.

"Too high, aim lower."

"Too low, keep your trigger pull steady; don’t yank it—that’ll drag the muzzle down."

"You, sometimes left, sometimes right—you’re not controlling your breathing. Remember, take a deep breath, hold it, and fire."

…

The squad leaders were meticulous, constantly correcting the recruits’ mistakes.

As the chief training officer, Old Hei focused especially on the recruits he valued most, stopping behind Xing Xiaolong.

Through his binoculars, he saw the holes on Xing Xiaolong’s target and was surprised: "Impressive, every shot on the target, all within eight rings. For a first attempt, this is a promising sharpshooter."

Most recruits, during their first live-fire, were too excited or nervous—their hearts raced, their breathing was unsteady, and their marksmanship suffered.

After half an hour of shooting, Old Hei had watched the range: few recruits could consistently hit the target, most were firing wildly.

Xing Xiaolong’s excellent score naturally impressed him.

Yet, Xing Xiaolong's average within eight rings was only the warm-up. When Old Hei moved behind Li Erniu and glanced at his target, he was stunned.

Li Erniu’s target was dotted with more than a dozen bullet holes, all concentrated within the nine and ten rings.

"Is this the same clumsy recruit from before?"

The drastic contrast left Old Hei momentarily speechless, and all the more admiring of Gong Jian’s judgment.

"Squad leader, are you okay?" Li Erniu, seeing Old Hei standing frozen beside him, felt uneasy and dared not fire.

"Is this your first time shooting?" Old Hei asked, lowering his binoculars.

"Yes, sir!" Li Erniu answered with a goofy grin.

"Good, you’ve got something. Keep it up."

“Thank you, squad leader!” Li Erniu grinned so wide his mouth nearly split, thrilled to have received praise from the notoriously strict Old Hei, and threw himself back into training.

Old Hei was already impressed by Li Erniu, but before he could recover, Wang Yanbing from the same squad left him even more dumbfounded.

Ten rings!

Every shot, ten rings!

“How is this possible?”

For a recruit’s first time shooting, every bullet hitting ten rings—Old Hei had never seen anything like it in his life. He couldn’t believe his eyes; it was beyond comprehension.

Refusing to believe it, Old Hei raised his binoculars for another look.

Still, every shot, ten rings!

"Wang Yanbing, check your weapon and stand!"

Hearing Old Hei’s sudden command, Wang Yanbing reluctantly set aside his rifle, removed the magazine, pulled the bolt, chambered the round, engaged the safety, and completed the drill before standing and asking, "Squad leader, did I do something wrong?"

Without answering, Old Hei took Wang Yanbing’s rifle and loudly asked, "Who zeroed this weapon?"

Weapon zeroing is a fundamental skill for soldiers—adjusting the sights so the point of aim aligns with the point of impact during single-shot firing, restoring the sights to standard settings.

For recruits who haven’t learned to zero their weapons, veterans usually handle this task.

They set the sights so that at a certain range, the recruit needn’t raise or lower the muzzle, nor adjust the scale—just aim and fire.

Old Hei had barely finished speaking when the sergeant squad leader from the first squad stood at attention and replied, "Reporting, sir! It was me!"

"You have this level of marksmanship? You can’t even hit ten rings yourself."

Old Hei looked at the sergeant skeptically. Embarrassed, the sergeant smiled and said, "I’m not sure—maybe he adjusted it himself."

Wang Yanbing touched his nose, a bit proud of himself.