19: Chapter 19: Shooting Practice, a Classic of Violent Aesthetics

"Mr. Lin, welcome to GK. Starting today, I will be your personal coach."

In the semi-open-air training ground in the morning, the vast space contained nothing but a large variety of firearms and ballistic targets, occupied by only three people: Lin Fang, Zhou Hui, and a White man with brown stubble.

"My name is Sam McKinley, and I formerly served in the U.S. Special Forces, the Green Berets."

"Hello,"

Lin Fang shook his hand.

McKinley then turned his gaze toward the burly man following behind Lin Fang. Seeing the latter's posture and hands, a look of curiosity flashed across his face. "Was this gentleman a soldier?"

Zhou Hui twitched the corner of his mouth. "I spent two years cooking in a small unit; not as famous as you Green Berets."

After the two men shook hands, their eyes met, and it seemed as though a confrontation was brewing.

"I greatly admire Central Continent soldiers; they are the best soldiers I have ever seen." McKinley laughed heartily and let go of his hand. "Their tenacious will is amazing."

"So you foreigner can actually speak Chinese." Zhou Hui found him much more agreeable now.

"Mr. Lin, pick a gun you like, and I will give you a demonstration." McKinley led Lin Fang to the weapon rack,

"Any gun will do."

With two walls of weapons and hundreds of various firearms laid out before you for the choosing, Lin Fang felt certain strange factors within him being stirred up; powerful Fire is always exceptionally reassuring.

Zhou Hui, standing behind him, also stared intently; he hadn't touched a gun in far too long.

Lin Fang saw a familiar brown pistol and couldn't help but reach out. His fingertips lightly brushed over it, then landed on the black pistol next to it.

This one looked good too.

Lin Fang picked it up; the matte black surface felt very comfortable, faintly reflecting a low-key and restrained luster.

"You have a great eye, Mr. Lin. This Glock 17 is a classic among pistols." McKinley reached out to take the Glock 17, skillfully checking the chamber and magazine. "It has extremely high reliability, uses caliber ammunition, and has a considerable magazine capacity. The standard configuration is 17 rounds, which can provide sustained firepower in close-quarters combat."

"It is a favorite of many The Collectors."

As he spoke, McKinley walked to the shooting area, where there was a humanoid target 20 meters away. "Mr. Lin, watch closely!"

McKinley raised his hand and pulled the trigger.

Bang—

"10 rings."

In an instant, the monitoring broadcast nearby gave the score.

McKinley handed the Glock 17 to Lin Fang. "Mr. Lin, you give it a try. Today we are mainly just playing."

"Play to your heart's content!"

Lin Fang took the gun and stood in the same posture as McKinley. Looking from here, it really was just a tiny dot. I have to say, the other party's marksmanship is truly top-notch; he is a talent.

Just hitting it will do, Lin Fang set a goal for himself.

Bang—

The same crisp gunshot rang out. He waited for a moment, but no broadcast sounded.

It was a miss again...

Then, Lin Fang emptied the magazine at the humanoid target.

"1 ring."

"2 rings."

"10 rings."

Three intermittent broadcasts sounded inside the semi-open-air training ground.

"GOOD! GOOD!" McKinley clapped his hands and exclaimed, "Mr. Lin is the most talented person I have ever seen."

Lin Fang smiled; naturally, he didn't take it seriously.

Flattery will get you everywhere; this saying applies abroad as well.

McKinley brought out another black pistol and encouraged him, "Mr. Lin, try this Desert Eagle Mark VII. It is a classic of violent aesthetics."

"And this NP22 is also not bad..."

Gunshots rang out constantly at the scene.

As McKinley said, Lin Fang was mainly just playing now, playing with various guns, playing however he wanted, feeling their different power and charm.

Throughout the morning, casings scattered all over the ground in astonishing numbers; this was the constant consumption of dollars.

After lunch, the group returned to the training ground. Sure enough, a good shooter needs to be fed with bullets. Half a day had passed, and Lin Fang could steadily hit the target six or seven times out of ten.

During the break, Zhou Hui finally couldn't help but ask, "Boss, can I play too?"

Hearing this, Lin Fang looked at McKinley.

"No problem,"

The latter agreed straightforwardly. Zhou Hui was overjoyed and took a big guy directly from the rack.

The M82A1 sniper rifle; this rifle is hailed as the king of large-caliber heavy sniper rifles and is the favorite of super marksmen.

"Not bad,"

Zhou Hui weighed it in his hands. His gaze shifted to another direction, where there was also a target on the grass 200 meters away.

Seeing this, a hint of playfulness appeared in McKinley's eyes. "I look forward to Mr. Zhou's performance."

The latter did not respond, but skillfully lay down in front of the sandbags. He adjusted his posture to let his body fit more closely to the ground. Sensing the gaze of the two people behind him, Zhou Hui's palms sweated slightly, and his gaze sharpened. He couldn't embarrass himself.

After adjusting the focus, Zhou Hui concentrated and then pulled the trigger!

Boom—

The M82A1 emitted a deafening gunshot. Relying on his strong muscular strength, Zhou Hui steadily controlled the gun body.

"10 rings."

Before the broadcast sound stopped, there were four consecutive gunshots.

Boom, boom, boom, boom! The powerful recoil shook the surrounding soil into the air.

"10 rings."

"10 rings."

"9 rings."

"10 rings."

McKinley was shocked by his strength, even forgetting his expression management. "Mr. Zhou, you absolutely cannot be a cook."

Zhou Hui began to reload and said indifferently, "What's the big deal? The ones who cook on my side can all do this."

A few more shots went down, each hitting the bullseye. The humanoid target made of unknown black metal kept wailing. Zhou Hui looked at a farther target, 300 meters away.

Seeing this scene, McKinley's hands itched, and he had the thought of competing with him. It was hard to find an expert; he was sick of these rookies coming to play with guns.

...

...

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—

Beside him, Lin Fang fired a magazine. Whether it hit or not was one thing, but the momentum was not sloppy at all.

Putting the AK47 in his hand back on the rack, Lin Fang was just about to change to the next one when the phone on the chair rang. It was Lin Tianxiong.

"Kid, you must be tired from studying. Come out quickly, I'll take you to eat something good to nourish your body."

Lin Fang picked up another rifle, heavy and quite substantial. "Dad, I'm busy, you go by yourself."

"No matter how busy you are, you have to have time to eat."

"Not going, I have things to do," Lin Fang said with a slightly heavier tone.

Boom—

One shot after another, Zhou Hui and McKinley were firing heatedly.

"What is that sound?" Lin Tianxiong asked on the other side of the phone, no longer mentioning the meal. When his son got serious, he really couldn't be persuaded, just like when he was a little brat and didn't believe that pile was dog poop, insisting on bringing it home. A stubborn one.

"My roommate is playing CS."

Lin Fang found an excuse; he couldn't tell his dad that he had asked for leave from school and was shooting guns in the Philippines. After dealing with him in a few sentences, Lin Fang put down the phone and sighed, looking into the distance. There was too little time; asking for 2 months off didn't seem enough, and he didn't have a second dad who was seriously ill in the hospital, it couldn't be him... Forget it, he couldn't ask for many more days, and he was still a filial son. Not to mention the crucial and absolutely unexposed exploration of the Other World. Lin Fang suddenly had the idea of dropping out of school.