Chapter 36: Lying Low Underground, Blame Falls from the Sky

The new recruits' firm replies were nothing more than a matter of habit and instinct; Old Hei’s question was destined to remain unanswered, and he didn’t press further. Instead, he raised his voice and declared, “As soldiers of the Iron Fist Regiment, you should never have a reason to be unhappy. Just like our training motto: If you’re a hero or a tough guy, let’s see who proves it on the training ground.

What’s a bit of wind? What does poor visibility matter? Infantrymen are born to run up and down the hills—what’s a little sandstorm or gloom to us? The fiercer the wind, the more exhilarated you should feel. Give it everything you’ve got for this final test.

Whether you’re a donkey or a thoroughbred, whether you truly have skill in your hands or are all bluff and bluster, will all be decided by this last shot.

The 100-meter fixed-target live ammunition shooting assessment officially begins now. First Squad, you’re up!”

“Yes, sir!”

The First Squad Leader snapped to attention, saluted, and marched to the front of the formation to give the order, “First Squad, all present, onto the firing trench, right rear turn, move out at a run!”

Thud, thud, thud...

Ten recruits from First Squad jogged up to the firing trench, each halting at attention at their shooting position, from the last in line to the first, until all ten stood in place.

“Prone position, prepare to fire!”

The Squad Leader issued another command, and Xing Xiaolong and the others swiftly dropped to the ground, rifles at the ready.

The armorer, accompanied by two seasoned soldiers, walked over and handed each recruit ten rounds. Without further orders, the recruits took up their side-prone positions and moved through the sequence: loading the magazine, inserting it, flicking off the safety, and aiming down the sights.

“Ready!” This time, it was Old Hei giving the order.

Click-click-click...

All ten recruits chambered their rounds in unison, the crisp sounds of bolts sliding and locking echoing in the air.

Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh...

Strong gusts swept across the range, swirling sand and dust up from the ground.

Xing Xiaolong, already in position with his rifle, couldn’t help but squint; sand and tiny pebbles invaded his nose, mouth, and ears, their relentless assault a constant nuisance.

Wang Yanbing, Li Erniu, and He Chenguang suffered the same, their eyes, noses, and mouths tormented by the wind-borne grit, making it extremely difficult to steady their aim.

But now that the assessment had begun, no matter how uncomfortable they were, all they could do was grit their teeth and hold fast to the single thought in their minds: hit the target.

They strained to recall every shooting technique they’d learned. Their left eyes squinted to fix the sightline, right eyes tracing the path from rear notch to front sight to the bull’s-eye a hundred meters out, forming the classic three-point alignment.

Index fingers rested lightly on the trigger, ignoring the dust-laden air, as they began to steady their breathing.

“Fire!”

Old Hei gave the final command.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Ten men, ten rounds each—a hundred shots rang out across the range in rapid succession.

The twilight made visibility poor; the white center ring on the silhouette targets was just a blur, and the flying sand forced them to blink constantly. Breathing was hampered by the dust-filled air—making it hard to maintain composure.

All these adverse conditions severely limited the squad’s marksmanship.

Wang Yanbing, desperate to win this crucial shooting trial, showed remarkable endurance. Sand stung his eyes until tears streamed down his face, yet he didn’t blink once. Each shot was fired with painstaking care, a ten-second pause separating every pull of the trigger—slow and steady, sacrificing speed for accuracy, determined to maximize his perfect bull’s-eye rate.

Li Erniu’s grit and stamina were exceptional, but he struggled under pressure. The dual hardship of the harsh elements and the stress of competition got to him—he blinked several times with every shot, and his trigger finger, tense with nerves, was stiffer than usual. Fortunately, with the shooting techniques He Chenguang had taught him and his own unspoiled vision—untouched by years of screens and gadgets—his eyesight was unnaturally sharp, rivaling He Chenguang’s, who had trained as a sniper since childhood, both likely exceeding a perfect 5.4.

Despite his nerves, every bullet found its way onto the target. In conditions like these, simply hitting the target was achievement enough.

In terms of physical fitness, tactics, and barracks discipline, Xing Xiaolong—having already served one round—had the edge. Yet when it came to shooting, his skills lagged even behind Li Erniu’s.

Still, mindset was everything in competition. The harsher the situation, the more vital a steady mind became. Though Xing Xiaolong’s shooting faltered, his calm allowed him to seize the right moments amid the chaos. Judging by the cluster of bullet holes, his results were slightly better than both Li Erniu and Wang Yanbing.

He Chenguang was the finest marksman among the Four Swordsmen. None of the other recruits, not even the seasoned soldiers, could hold a candle to him. Years of training from childhood, bolstered by a professional sniper’s constant guidance, had given him a decade’s head start.

By rights, even in these adverse conditions, his marksmanship should have been impeccable.

Yet, strangely, He Chenguang lay prone, deep in thought, never firing a single shot. Anyone watching might have thought he was too nervous to squeeze the trigger.

Even when the last shot echoed and faded, He Chenguang still hadn’t fired.

“He Chenguang, what the hell are you doing?” Old Hei’s temper flared.

Startled by his sudden shout, all the recruits turned their attention to He Chenguang. Xing Xiaolong, Wang Yanbing, and Li Erniu watched with obvious concern.

“Chenguang... something’s not right with him,” Xing Xiaolong muttered, his brow furrowed, as if he sensed something but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Just then, gunfire erupted.

And in a flash, nearly as fast as automatic fire.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

In less than fifteen seconds, all ten rounds were fired. Compared to the average one-minute shooting time, He Chenguang’s rapid, single-shot precision was simply astonishing.

Yet, instead of delight, Old Hei stood frozen, every pore on his body radiating disbelief.

Ten shots, but only nine holes.

Through the binoculars, Old Hei saw it clearly. He muttered in shock, “How is this possible? How could he have scored only ninety points?”

“Ninety? Let me see!” Gong Jian rushed over, grabbed Old Hei’s binoculars, and checked for himself.

Sure enough—ninety points!

“He Chenguang, He Chenguang... what am I supposed to say to you? How could you only score ninety? With your shooting skills, how is that even possible?” Gong Jian’s frustration was palpable, his teeth clenched with disappointment.

“Why can’t you just do things right? Instead of learning the nonsense some people spout! If you’d started shooting earlier, with plenty of time, a perfect score would’ve been child’s play!”

As Old Hei scolded He Chenguang, his gaze flicked—intentionally or not—toward a certain someone always fond of showing off.

“What the heck does this have to do with me? Am I lying here on the ground, only to get blamed from out of nowhere?” Xing Xiaolong silently fumed, nearly spitting blood in frustration.