Chapter 8: Which Part Offended You?
Autumn wind rolled yellow sand across the open-air range halfway up the mountain.
The windsock in the distance stretched taut and flat in the gusts.
The rough fabric chafed violently against the wind, rasping out a steady hua-la, hua-la.
Two Type 95 assault rifles, wiped down with gun oil, slammed hard onto the firing line.
The green military moisture-proof mat took two fresh dents.
A muffled thud.
Qian Qiang bit down on a half-lit cigarette, his leather boots planted at the edge of the mat.
Over a hundred new recruits, fresh off a five-kilometer run, stood like a flock of ducks herded onto a rack.
They crowded in a dark mass five meters back from the firing line.
The stench of sweat mixed with dry yellow earth, pungent enough to make men rub their noses.
No one dared breathe loud.
The recruits nudged each other with their elbows, whispering under their breath.
Chen Dabai clutched his own rifle, his thighs still trembling.
He leaned close to the recruit beside him, voice coming out in fits and starts.
"A—a shooting contest? The Company Commander's bullying him, right?"
"Brother Ye's fine at running, but shooting? That's bullshit."
The lanky recruit next to him shook his head.
"Exactly. He's a scalpel guy—does he even know what a front sight is?"
"Sure, he was fast at bandaging, but this gun kicks like a mule."
"One shot and he'll dislocate his shoulder."
Qian Qiang heard the commotion behind him.
He didn't turn around—just kicked a broken stone at his feet.
The stone hit the low wall of the target trench and bounced off into the grass.
The recruit formation went dead silent in an instant.
Only a few uncontrollable dry coughs remained.
Qian Qiang turned and looked at Gu Ye.
Gu Ye stood in place, head down, patting the dust off his camouflage trousers.
He hitched the strap of his medical kit back onto his shoulder.
His fingers scraped the canvas strap, coming away coated in yellow dirt.
"Gu Ye, rules are simple."
Qian Qiang spat out the cigarette butt.
It dropped to the ground and rolled into a mud puddle.
"One hundred meters, chest target, five rounds each."
Qian Qiang raised a hand and pointed at the target paper in the distance, small as a matchbox.
"All you have to do is pass—score thirty rings."
His finger shifted, jabbing at the thirty-jin iron box on Gu Ye's back.
"From now on, on every company march, you run empty-handed. No more hauling this black pot."
Gu Ye stopped patting his trousers.
He looked up.
Honestly, he didn't want to show off at all.
Being an invisible medic in the company, soaking goji berries on schedule every day—
that was the retirement life he wanted.
But the metal corners of that iron box really did dig into his back when running.
If he could avoid carrying it, all the better.
"And if I don't pass?" Gu Ye asked.
"Don't pass?" Qian Qiang let out a short, cold laugh.
The flesh on his face tightened.
"Don't pass, and you strip off that white coat for me."
"Get your ass to a combat squad and be a point man."
Qian Qiang stepped forward, his voice dropping low.
"My company doesn't keep dead weight."
Gu Ye sighed.
A point man?
Rolling around in mud pits every day, going to the very front to eat bullets.
He was a chief surgeon—absolutely not doing that kind of grunt work.
"Fine." Gu Ye nodded. "Let's shoot."
Qian Qiang walked up and dropped to one knee on the moisture-proof mat.
He didn't rush to grab the gun.
Instead he pulled a handful of brass 5.8mm rounds from the ammo crate.
A black polymer magazine slapped into his left hand.
His right thumb pressed down.
Click.
The rounds pressed into the magazine.
Click, click.
Brass casings rubbed against the magazine lips, making a crisp metallic snapping sound.
Five rounds loaded full.
Qian Qiang scooped up the rifle from the mat.
The magazine went up.
Kacha—locked in.
His right hand pulled the charging handle back to the very end.
Released.
The bolt shot forward, the first round chambered.
The motion was clean and sharp, precise as a machine.
The watching recruits stared wide-eyed.
Chen Dabai's mouth hung open, his leg pain forgotten.
Qian Qiang dropped prone, his body fitting perfectly against the mat.
Both elbows braced on the ground.
The stock jammed hard into his right shoulder pocket.
His cheek pressed tight against the edge of the stock, right eye locking the target center through the aperture.
The windsock still whipped wildly.
The crosswind was no joke, blowing yellow dust straight down people's collars.
Qian Qiang didn't fire immediately.
He took a deep breath, the rise and fall of his chest gradually settling.
His index finger found the trigger.
Bang!
The first shot tore through the wind noise on the range.
A short burst of orange flame spat from the muzzle.
Recoil slammed into Qian Qiang's shoulder.
His body only shuddered slightly, the muzzle snapping back into place instantly.
No pause.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The remaining four rounds fired in succession.
Brass casings leaped from the ejection port, tumbling through the air.
They hit the yellow earth, trailing thin wisps of white smoke.
A sharp smell of gunpowder filled the air.
Done.
Qian Qiang's index finger left the trigger guard.
He pressed the catch, dropped the empty magazine.
Pulled the bolt, glanced at the empty chamber.
Weapon cleared, he pushed off the ground with one hand and stood.
The recruits all rose on their toes, craning their necks to look a hundred meters out.
Too far—the naked eye couldn't make out the target paper at all.
They could only wait for the scorer in the target trench.
Ten seconds later.
Above the distant trench, a long wooden pole rose up.
A red-and-white circular marker was tied to the top.
The marker bobbed up and down four times at the bullseye.
Then it stopped at the edge of the eight-ring and tapped firmly.
Four tens, one eight.
"Forty-eight rings!"
A wave of barely suppressed commotion erupted from the recruits.
Someone gasped.
In this godforsaken crosswind, forty-eight rings with five shots—
that was an absolutely top-tier score even among veterans.
Qian Qiang patted the dirt off the knees of his camouflage trousers.
He ignored the recruits' exclamations.
He turned, carrying the rifle that still radiated heat.
Walked straight up to Gu Ye.
He tossed the gun body twice in his hands.
With a flick, he threw the rifle straight at Gu Ye's chest.
Hard.
He wanted to see Gu Ye's reaction.
Gu Ye didn't dodge.
His right hand came up and caught the handguard.
His left hand caught the stock steady.
The gun body didn't touch his clothes at all.
Warmth radiated from the handguard.
The residual heat of the barrel after consecutive shots.
"Magazine's on the mat. Load it yourself."
Qian Qiang stepped back.
Arms crossed over his chest, waiting to watch Gu Ye make a fool of himself.
Gu Ye glanced down at the gun in his hands.
The barrel was coated in a layer of maintenance oil, slick to the touch.
He frowned in distaste.
Rubbed his thumb hard against his trouser leg twice.
To the recruits behind him, that gesture was ironclad proof of nerves.
Someone in the formation couldn't hold it in and snorted.
"See? The doctor thinks the gun's dirty."
"He's used to holding tweezers—can he even steady that iron lump?"
"Did you see his soul nearly fly out when the Company Commander fired?"
Chen Dabai stamped his feet in anxiety.
"Brother Ye, just forfeit if you have to. Being a point man beats missing the target and losing face."
Gu Ye ignored the noise behind him.
He walked to the moisture-proof mat.
He didn't drop to one knee like Qian Qiang.
He just bent over, grabbed the empty magazine and five brass rounds.
His movements weren't clumsy.
[Eagle-Eye Dynamic Vision] hadn't just reshaped his eyesight.
It had pushed his hand-eye coordination to an absurd level.
One push of the thumb.
The rounds slid into the magazine smooth as a knife through butter.
Five loaded full in under two seconds.
He didn't lie down.
He just stood there, ramrod straight.
His right foot slid back half a step, his body angling sideways.
The magazine went into the well, locked tight.
His left hand came around under the barrel and pulled the charging handle.
Released.
Round chambered.
The whole sequence flowed without a single wasted pause.
Qian Qiang's crossed arms came down.
His brow knotted into a hard frown.
Gu Ye leveled the rifle.
The stock pressed into his shoulder pocket.
He didn't rush to put his eye to the aperture.
He just raised his head and looked at the target a hundred meters out with his naked eyes.
Under the enhancement of [Eagle Eye],
the hundred-meter distance was like being forcibly dragged to half a meter in front of him.
He could even clearly see—
the curled yellow paper fibers at the edge of the bullet hole Qian Qiang had punched through the center of the bullseye.
The fluttering of the windsock became traceable airflow patterns in his vision.
He could directly "see" the wind.
But the recruits had no idea how ridiculous those eyes of his were.
Watching Gu Ye stand straight up in the offhand position.
Not even bothering to set up a proper aiming stance.
Another undisguised laugh came from the crowd.
"It's over. Offhand, unsupported. He probably doesn't even know what sight alignment is."
"This doctor holding a gun—his hands must be shaking like sifting chaff. If he even hits the target, I'll eat a shell casing."
Gu Ye listened to the mockery behind him.
Felt the hard texture of the stock against his shoulder.
He sighed.
His expression carried the helplessness of a man whose health regimen had been interrupted.
He didn't bother aiming carefully for long.
His right index finger rested lightly on the cold trigger.
He tilted his head, half his face against the stock.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried flat and calm into everyone's ears.
"A scalpel guy like me..."