Military Calendar: September 15, 2521, 0800 Hours.
Epsilon Eridani system, Reach Military Fortress, Marksmanship Range.
The marksmanship range was a semi-open metal structure.
Its twelve-meter-high ceiling was cut into a grid pattern, allowing the pale gold sunlight of Reach to pour in.
Fifty firing positions were arranged in a fan shape, each constructed from reinforced concrete and recycled steel, built to withstand repeated live-fire shooting without deteriorating.
The air reeked of gun oil, cordite, and metal—a scent Ethan had never smelled before transmigrating, yet felt strangely familiar with right now.
The target system controlled by Deja slid noiselessly along its tracks, standing by at the far end of the range.
Chief Petty Officer Mendez stood in front of the formation, arms crossed over his chest.
His black tactical vest was worn just right, and his goggles were pushed up on his forehead, revealing eyes accustomed to death.
“Today,” he said in a low voice, “is the first time you will handle live ammunition.”
Ethan stood in line alongside Tak, Riley, and Cohen.
Four twelve-year-old Spartan-II candidates in matching gray fatigue uniforms looked remarkably lean in the morning light.
Yet their eyes were already distinct from those of ordinary children their age—they possessed the gaze of those who had seen blood and fire, even if they hadn’t truly witnessed it yet.
Mendez turned and pulled a rifle from the weapon rack behind him.
The barrel gleamed with a matte black luster under the sunlight, and the familiar model designation was etched into the stock.
“MA5B Assault Rifle.” He handed it toward the formation, stock down.
“7.62×51mm caliber, nine hundred rounds per minute, effective range three hundred meters. Fed by a sixty-round magazine.”
Ethan reached out and took the rifle.
The weight of the metal settled in his hands—heavy, far more real than the feel from the games in his memory.
The scent of gun oil drifted into his nostrils, carrying an industrial, slightly bitter tang.
Subconsciously, his thumb traced the anti-slip grooves on the bolt—a sensation both foreign and familiar, like something he had done countless times yet never in reality.
In the world before his transmigration, he had pulled the trigger in video games endless times.
But those were just pixels on a screen, haptic feedback, virtual death.
Now, he held a piece of machinery capable of truly taking a life.
The bitter tang of gun oil.
The chill of the metal.
The click of the safety.
This was real.
Mendez’s voice pulled him back: “Learn every part of it. Feel every pulse it gives. This rifle will become an extension of your body—if you are lucky enough, it will save your life. If you aren’t…” He didn’t finish the thought.
MA5B Assault Rifle
Riley took the MA5B passed from Ethan and immediately flipped through the attached folded manual.
His slender fingers moved rapidly across the pages as he muttered the specs under his breath.
“Muzzle velocity eight hundred ninety meters per second,” he memorized out loud.
“Rifling twist twenty-four centimeters, barrel length five hundred twelve millimeters. Overall length nine hundred thirty-eight millimeters, empty weight three point two kilograms…”
Tak glanced sideways at Riley.
“Do you really need to memorize the specs of every weapon?”
“If you want to survive on the battlefield,” Riley replied without looking up, “you’d better remember these numbers.”
Mendez signaled them to move to their firing positions.
The four children dispersed, each taking a metal stall.
The moment the rifle stock pressed against his shoulder, Ethan felt an electric tremor ripple from his shoulder blade through his entire body—a preview of the recoil, a forewarning of the impending muzzle flash.
“First round: single-shot precision fire,” Mendez’s voice came through the loudspeakers.
“Target distance: fifty meters.”
Ethan aligned the crosshairs of the optical sight with the red ring and drew a deep breath.
His index finger slowly pulled back the trigger.
Fire.
The sound was far louder than he had imagined.
Not a game sound effect, not movie audio—a real, deafening roar capable of making a heart skip a beat.
A shockwave blasted from the muzzle, the stock slammed into his shoulder, and his entire arm went numb for a fraction of a second.
Gunsmoke rose before his eyes.
In the distance, sensors on the target logged the result.
Ethan squinted to read it—the shot grouping was clustered within three centimeters of the bullseye.
Quite an excellent grouping.
But not the most excellent.
He had deliberately controlled his performance.
In his past life’s video games, he had calibrated this rifle’s ballistics countless times, knowing every bit of its recoil pattern and jump.
But here in reality, he was merely a child who had just turned twelve—even if he possessed reaction speeds and hand-eye coordination far beyond normal, he shouldn’t perform like a battle-hardened veteran.
Being excellent was safe.
Being an anomaly was not.
“Continue,” Mendez’s voice barked over the speakers.
Over the next two hours, the four Spartans rotated through various marksmanship drills.
Gunfire echoed endlessly, like an unrelenting storm.
Their performances were as follows:
Tak—dual-wielding M6D semi-automatic pistols while firing on the move.
Moving like the wind, he darted between firing stalls—sidestepping, dodging, and shooting in one fluid motion.
Hit rate: eighty-five percent.
Mendez’s evaluation: *Like a butterfly dancing through a hail of bullets.* Tak grinned, showing a mouth full of teeth that hadn’t all finished growing in.
Riley—MA5B three-round bursts, every shot as precise as a machine.
His eyes barely looked through the sight, focusing instead on the trajectory between muzzle and target.
Hit rate: ninety-five percent.
Mendez offered no verbal evaluation, merely nodding.
But Riley noticed the instructor’s pen paused on the clipboard for a long time.
Cohen—full-automatic spray mode.
Tucking the stock tight against his shoulder, he held the trigger down, pouring sixty rounds out in seven seconds.
Hit rate: seventy percent—but that was because he wasn’t aiming at all; he was simply pouring death in the enemy’s direction.
Mendez raised an eyebrow: *Suppressive fire, not precision marksmanship.
But effective.*
Ethan—M6D precision marksmanship.
Positioned in the rear rank, he didn’t take the most flashy spot, yet he appeared exactly where he was needed most at critical moments.
Whenever the others emptied their magazines and paused to reload, his shots rang out, picking off targets trying to duck behind cover.
Hit rate: eighty-five percent.
*Rear-guard command, landing lethal shots at critical moments.*
Mendez wrote comments in each of their logbooks.
Ethan didn’t know what he looked like in Mendez’s eyes—he only knew he had to keep hiding, to keep acting like a gifted twelve-year-old rather than a transmigrator carrying the soul of an adult.
M6D Semi-Automatic Pistol
In the afternoon, an unexpected figure appeared at the entrance of the firing range.
Dr. Halsey.
Yet her eyes were focused, sharp, and scrutinizing—like a scientist observing a litter of newborns.
“Chief,” she nodded in greeting.
“Doctor,” Mendez returned the gesture.
“An inspection?”
“I came to personally check the fit and performance of the M6D.” Halsey’s gaze swept over the four children, lingering on Ethan for an extra second.
“This pistol was custom-tailored for the Spartans. I need to verify its performance.”
She took a silver-gray M6D semi-automatic pistol from her assistant and displayed it to the children.
The weapon glinted with metallic luster under the sun, slightly different from standard UNSC issue—the grip texture was finer, and the trigger arc fit human ergonomics more naturally.
“12.7×40mm semi-armor-piercing high-explosive rounds,” Halsey said, her voice cold and precise.
“The Spartan custom variant operates at higher chamber pressure, boosting muzzle velocity by twelve percent over the standard model. It can penetrate twenty millimeters of titanium armor within fifty meters.” She looked at the children.
“In other words, if you point this gun at a human chest, the bullet will go straight through.”
Ethan reached out and accepted the M6D.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the grip, a strange sensation welled up in his chest—not unfamiliarity, not familiarity, but something deeper.
The anti-slip pattern on the grip seemed to sink slightly into his palm, as if custom-molded for him.
The weapon’s weight distribution was perfectly balanced, its center of gravity resting right at the web of his hand.
He raised the pistol, aiming at a target fifty meters away.
Crosshairs.
Breath.
Squeeze.
The instant the gunshot rang out, he felt no uncomfortable recoil.
The gun felt like an extension of his arm, the manifestation of his will.
The bullet struck the bullseye dead-center, penetrating the chest zone and impacting the sensor.
[Target System Result: 9 out of 10 hit dead-center in the bullseye, 1 shot off by 2 cm. Headshot rate: 90%]
This score was too good.
Ethan instantly realized the problem.
The M6D was his most frequently used weapon in his past life’s game; he knew its ballistics and recoil patterns inside out.
When he picked up a real M6D, those memories surged forth like muscle memory, impossible to suppress in time.
Next round, he had to dial down his score.
For the second round, Ethan deliberately adjusted his stance, bringing his accuracy down to seventy-five percent.
The muzzle rose slightly during the trigger squeeze—just enough to drift off the bullseye without looking terrible.
[Target System Result: 8 out of 10 hit, 2 shots off the bullseye within 5 cm. Headshot rate: 70%]
Mendez nodded.
Dr. Halsey, however, looked up, a thoughtful gleam entering her eyes as she stared at Ethan.
She didn’t speak, only writing something down on her notepad.
Ethan saw her draw a question mark.
Cold sweat slid down his back.
He knew this feeling—that harmony beyond logical explanation.
The subtle contour of the grip, fitting as if custom-made for his hand.
It was no coincidence, nor simple talent.
It was something deeper, something science could not explain.
He had to control this instinct.
Because being excellent was safe, but being an anomaly was not.