Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Old Rick picked up the smoothbore pistol issued from the range and slowly ran his thumb along the barrel.

Cold and stiff, like holding a piece of iron.

It's nothing compared to his usual old gun.

He had kept that gun for six years; sweat had seeped into the grain of the wooden handle, making it feel like it was an extension of his hand when he held it.

But, to win against these guys?

enough.

Old Rick sat on the bench, his eyes scanning the entire firing range.

The rest area at the back was as noisy as a night market, with coolies, sailors, and veterans huddled together, clutching bottles of liquor and coins, whistling and banging on the tables at the target positions.

Most of these people were just there to watch the show.

Old Rick squinted and picked out a dozen or so eager gunmen from the crowd.

The stance, hand position, and way of looking at the target—experts can tell the difference at a glance.

He knew two of them.

Short and stout Sean, the night shift guard at the dock warehouse, holds his pistol with a steady hand and can hit eight rings on a fixed target.

Bridge, a tall and thin retired artilleryman, has strong wrists, but he habitually flicks his gun when tracking targets, resulting in insufficient accuracy.

They've been buddies for a long time, practicing shooting and drinking together regularly, and I know them inside and out.

Old Rick slowly and deliberately loaded the training rounds into the magazine, a leisurely smile playing on his lips.

Tonight's prize pool belongs to him.

"Next!"

The red-haired woman shouted from behind the scoreboard.

Sean was the first to go up.

The rest area immediately erupted in cheers. Several acquaintances from the docks raised their bottles to cheer him on, and banged coins on the table, the sounds echoing against the corrugated iron walls of the shooting range.

Sean raised his chin at the crowd, took the training gun, and stood behind the firing line.

"Fire at the target!"

With a click, the mechanical device on the wire track launched the first wooden target shaped like an eagle from the left.

The target is small, not much wider than an adult's palm, and is long and narrow, mimicking the swooping posture of an eagle.

It was quite fast, and the trajectory was curved, with varying heights and irregular spacing.

The advantage is that it's not far away, within an eight or nine-step radius.

First shot.

boom.

hit.

The crowd cheered.

The second shot, the third shot.

Bang, bang.

One win, one loss.

When they reached the fifth target, the wooden eagle plummeted from a high point on the right. Sean's gun fired half a beat ahead, and the lead bullet grazed the edge of the target without even scattering a splinter.

Old Rick licked his cheek with his tongue and shook his head slightly.

The target tracking was too slow.

After firing all ten bullets, Sean was hit six times.

It's not bad, but that's about it.

Sean put down his gun, shrugged, and returned to the crowd. Someone handed him a drink, which he took and gulped down, his expression relatively calm.

Bridge then took his turn, serving five.

One less than Sean. Sure enough, it's his old problem of flicking the gun. He can't keep his aim down when the target moves fast.

Several more people joined later.

The highest number of shots fired was only seven.

Old Rick sat on the bench, slowly wiping the gun with a gray cloth, wiping it in circles, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

The surrounding sounds gradually quieted down.

More and more attention is being drawn to him.

Those familiar faces at the shooting range all know Old Rick's marksmanship; he can get at least seven shots off a moving target, and sometimes eight when he's in good form.

"Rick, isn't it your turn?"

Sean walked over with a wine glass in his hand, his tone conveying a sense of resignation.

Old Rick folded the gray cloth neatly, put it in his pocket, and slowly stood up.

My knee cracked.

As you get older, your bones become less resilient.

But his hands are steady and his eyes are sharp, and that's enough.

He smiled at Sean and was about to step towards the firing line—

The shooting range gate was pushed open from the outside.

A cold wind blew in, carrying snowflakes and dampness.

The crowd instinctively parted to make way.

A young man squeezed in.

A coarse cloth shirt, a dark trench coat, with the collar turned up high, covering half of his face.

He was not old, only in his early twenties, with a lean build but broad shoulders, and he walked quickly and steadily.

He walked straight to the firing line, picked up a training rifle from the platform, pulled back the cylinder to check the rifling, and his movements were swift and decisive.

Then he turned around and patted old Rick on the shoulder.

"Uncle, please move aside, I'm in a hurry to finish my match."

Old Rick was stunned.

Several people around who knew Rick were also stunned.

The shooting range was quiet for a moment, then quiet chuckles broke out.

Old Rick frowned and looked the young man up and down.

look unfamiliar.

I've never seen him at the shooting range, never seen him at the dock area, and he doesn't even match up on the list of regular customers at the training ground.

"Kid."

Old Rick's voice wasn't loud, but it was very deep.

You don't recognize me?

The young man was stuffing training rounds into the pod without even looking up, and casually replied.

Should I know you?

Old Rick's lips were pursed into a thin line.

This feeling is strange, like punching cotton, unable to exert any force, and unable to find a reason to get angry.

They really don't know him.

It wasn't provocation, it wasn't rudeness, it was just pure—indifference.

Old Rick opened his mouth, wanting to say something, like "I'm the undisputed champion of this shooting range," but then he realized it wouldn't make sense.

Registering with a young person is beneath me.

The young man had already loaded ten bullets, snapped the magazine shut, and squeezed to stand in front of the firing line.

Old Rick was half-pushed and half-shoved aside, unsure whether to stand or sit.

Sean's suppressed laughter came from behind him.

"Hey kid, do you know who you just pushed away—"

The young man didn't even turn his head.

Old Rick gave a soft hum and crossed his arms over his chest.

A reckless young man who disrespects the elderly can't possibly be a good shot.

The wire track clicked, and the first eagle target popped out from the left.

The narrow, elongated wooden target glides along an arc at a considerable speed.

The young man raised his gun, aimed for a moment, and concentrated intently.

boom!

A cluster of debris exploded in the center of the wooden target.

hit.

Old Rick blinked.

Luckily.

The second target popped out from a high position on the right, at a more tricky angle than the first, and its trajectory plummeted.

boom!

Debris.

hit.

The third one.

boom!

hit.

Old Rick lowered his arm from his chest.

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth.

boom! boom! boom!

all hit.

The laughter and chatter in the shooting range disappeared at some point.

The bottle was held to their lips, the coins were clutched in their palms, and everyone's heads were turned toward the line of fire, their eyes wide as saucers.

The seventh target eagle was launched from the bottom and skimmed across the lowest point of the track, much faster than the previous ones.

The young man's gun followed.

Without hesitation or pause, the movement of the gun muzzle was as if it were glued to the target.

boom!

in.

The eighth one.

boom!

in.

Old Rick's Adam's apple bobbed.

The moment the ninth eagle target was launched, he subconsciously took half a step forward, staring at the young man's wrists, shoulders, and posture.

The wrist didn't move.

It's not about flicking the gun to chase the target; it's about slightly rotating the entire upper body around the waist and hips, keeping the gun muzzle locked in the direction of the target's movement.

boom!

The ninth shot hit.

There wasn't even a sound of breathing in the arena.

The last eagle target.

Launching vertically from directly above results in the fastest speed and the most challenging angle.

The young man raised his gun.

Old Rick stared at the gun barrel, his pupils involuntarily contracting.

boom.

The sawdust exploded in mid-air, and fragments fell in a flurry.

Ten shots.

Tenth Middle School.

Xilun slowly exhaled, raising his free left hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

He put the training gun back on the table and turned around.

"alright!"

Old Rick was standing three steps behind him.

The two looked at each other for a moment.

Xilen's eyes were calm, showing neither pride nor boastfulness, as if he had just done something utterly ordinary.

It's just like eating and drinking.