Chapter 31: Drawing a Circle with Bullets

Wang Yanbing did indeed adjust his sights; he was no stranger to shooting and understood a great deal about marksmanship. Otherwise, he wouldn't have run a balloon-shooting stall before joining the army. It was a means of livelihood, but more importantly, it was driven by his dreams.

Old Hei noticed that before he could even begin to praise, Wang Yanbing’s tail was already wagging. His face turned cold, and he left behind a dry comment, “Not bad,” before moving over to the only remaining challenger among the Four Musketeers, the “All-Rounder” He Chenguang.

Wang Yanbing remembered the boastful words exchanged among the four last night. He didn’t rush to resume shooting but stood waiting for Old Hei to announce the results.

Both Xing Xiaolong and Li Erniu’s live-fire scores were less impressive than Wang Yanbing’s.

For Wang Yanbing, who considered himself the best shot, only one final challenger remained: He Chenguang, descendant of a military family. As long as He Chenguang’s performance wasn’t superior, Wang Yanbing would win, fair and square.

This was crucial to him!

Since joining as a recruit, the brightest stars had always been either Xing Xiaolong or He Chenguang. Wang Yanbing had been striving to catch up, but could only barely keep pace, never once truly claiming first place.

Though their relationships had grown strong and Wang Yanbing never voiced his frustrations, a yearning burned within him—a longing to win, just once.

But fate rarely aligns with desire.

Now, encountering a subject at which he excelled and confident he could take first in live-fire shooting, Wang Yanbing was struck down once more.

Old Hei approached He Chenguang, holding his binoculars aloft and standing motionless, as if petrified.

“This…”

Previously, Old Hei had been merely shocked. This time, it was as if lightning had struck—his mind thundered, and words failed him entirely.

“All present, cease fire and check your weapons—stand up!”

“What’s going on?”

Training was abruptly interrupted by Old Hei, leaving the recruits baffled. Even the veteran squad leaders, puzzled, organized the new soldiers to stop shooting and secure their rifles.

“Could it be that Chenguang had a problem during training? But that shouldn’t be possible, given his military lineage.” Xing Xiaolong couldn’t understand.

Wang Yanbing, who had been watching Old Hei’s expressions closely, suddenly felt uneasy, his brows knitting together.

“Squad Leader, go retrieve the target!”

He Chenguang’s results were so extraordinary that Old Hei began doubting the reliability of his binoculars, desperately wanting to see the target with his own eyes.

“Yes, sir!”

The squad leader strode briskly toward the range.

When the squad leader returned, carrying the target, everyone—new and veteran alike—was stunned.

They rubbed their eyes, yet remained dumbfounded.

In the center of He Chenguang’s target, within a fist-sized ten-ring zone, a ring of bullet holes, each the size of a cigarette, formed a perfect circle.

Old Hei measured the circle with his fingers; the spacing between each hole was almost identical.

Now—

Old Hei’s eyes were nearly popping out.

Wang Yanbing was struck speechless.

Xing Xiaolong couldn’t believe his eyes, his mind reeling in astonishment—he finally understood what it meant to be a sharpshooter.

Li Erniu, slow-witted and straightforward, wasn’t stunned but simply thought it was incredible. He was the first to clap and cheer.

Spurred on by Li Erniu’s applause, the recruits erupted in thunderous cheers.

Even the typically arrogant veterans who looked down on the new soldiers couldn’t help but give He Chenguang a thumbs-up for his achievement.

To shoot a perfect circle on a target—this was extraordinary, almost excessive.

At that moment, only He Chenguang remained calm, a faint smile on his lips, seemingly unmoved.

In truth, this marksmanship was merely basic operation for He Chenguang. After all, his grandfather had been a sniper on the Korean battlefield, his father an ace sniper in the special forces; sniper genetics flowed in his veins.

Moreover, from a young age he had been immersed in professional sniper training, aided by his grandfather’s position as a military district commander. He had spent countless hours on the range, firing real bullets.

Talent, effort, and favorable conditions combined to create this breathtaking scene.

...

Evening descended.

After an exhilarating and mentally exhausting day of live-fire training, the recruits finished dinner. Before their scheduled online political class, they finally had two hours of free rest.

Wang Yanbing sat alone on the slope behind the camp, gazing at the distant live-fire range, his eyes filled with disappointment.

To have his strongest skill crushed so ruthlessly—anyone would find it hard to accept.

“Hey, Old Wang, that’s not cool! Why pick such a peaceful spot to enjoy alone and not invite us?”

Xing Xiaolong strode over, grinning, followed by Li Erniu and He Chenguang.

Since He Chenguang’s stunning performance that morning, Xing Xiaolong had noticed that Wang Yanbing, usually the most talkative and sharp-tongued, had grown silent, especially after dinner when he left alone.

Piecing the events together, Xing Xiaolong guessed the reason and felt compelled to act.

He called the equally concerned He Chenguang and Li Erniu, and together they searched the camp, finally finding Wang Yanbing on the back slope.

Wang Yanbing glanced at the trio as they approached, then turned away, expressionless.

Li Erniu, straightforward as ever, crouched beside him and said bluntly, “Hey, come on, is it really worth it?”

“I lost.”

Wang Yanbing replied dejectedly, head hanging low.

“What’s this talk of losing?” Xing Xiaolong laughed, playfully punching Wang Yanbing. “It’s only your first live-fire session, doesn’t even count as a real score. Besides, look, I shot worse than Erniu, but I’m still smiling. Why so hung up?”

“You don’t understand. You and I are different. What I lost was my lifelong confidence. I can never beat Chenguang again.” Wang Yanbing was stuck in a rut, impervious to comfort.

“It started with me, so let me handle it.”

He Chenguang, who hadn’t spoken yet, came forward and sat beside Wang Yanbing, speaking calmly, “There’s no winner or loser between us. We both scored perfect rings—it’s a tie, at most.”

“But you used ten bullets to make a circle in the center. Now you tell me you didn’t win?” Wang Yanbing’s meaning was clear: He Chenguang could control his shots within a fist-sized bullseye at 150 meters as if it were second nature, suggesting he still had much more to give—he might even hit the bullseye at 300 meters with iron sights.

That was something Wang Yanbing could never do.