After the marksmanship drill ended, Chief Petty Officer Mendez gathered the four of them in front of a weapons maintenance workbench.
Disassembled parts of an MA5B assault rifle lay scattered across the surface—barrel, bolt, recoil spring, handguard, magwell, and grip plates, all arranged neatly on anti-static matting.
“Field stripping and assembly,” Mendez said, his voice completely flat.
“This is a basic skill every soldier must master. On the battlefield, your weapon might jam at the most critical moment. If you spend more than thirty seconds clearing a malfunction under enemy fire, you’re already dead.”
He tossed a strip of black cloth onto the bench.
“Blindfold on. Complete stripping and reassembly within thirty seconds. Begin.”
All four children closed their eyes simultaneously, their fingers landing on the cold metal components.
Tucker finished first.
Twenty-eight seconds.
A smug grin lit up his face as he opened his eyes, but it faded instantly when he saw Mendez’s expression.
Riley took twenty-five seconds.
Blindfolded, his fingers felt out the position of every part with precise accuracy, like a silent dialogue.
Cohen took thirty-five seconds—five seconds too slow.
When he opened his eyes, he discovered he had installed the recoil spring backward.
Biting his lip, he reinstalled it properly, then looked up at Mendez, bracing for a scolding.
Mendez merely shook his head, then turned his gaze toward Ethan.
Ethan took twenty-three seconds.
His fingers had moved through the dark, every motion executed without a single flaw.
Sliding out the bolt, removing the recoil spring, detaching the handguard—these actions were muscle memory in his mind, flowing as smoothly as breathing even while blindfolded.
Mendez stepped forward, looking down to inspect Ethan’s work.
Every screw was in the correct position; every latch locked into place seamlessly.
After a moment of silence, he spoke:
“Not bad, 007.”
Mendez turned and walked away, leaving behind a brief instruction: “Ten-minute break, then on to the next item.”
M41 Rocket Launcher
The next training module was the M41 recoilless rocket launcher.
It was a thick metal launcher, roughly one point six meters long, capable of firing 102mm high-explosive anti-tank rockets.
Ethan stood beside the firing line, watching Cohen load a rocket into the tube.
“Target distance: fifty meters,” Mendez’s voice called out from behind.
“Use standard iron sights.”
Cohen hoisted the rocket launcher onto his shoulder, aligning the crosshairs in the optic with the distant concrete target.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled the trigger.
*BOOM!*
A tongue of orange-red flame spewed from the muzzle.
The shockwave rattled Ethan’s eardrums with a violent buzz.
A cloud of thick smoke and fire billowed up from the target area in the distance, showering concrete debris everywhere.
When the smoke cleared, a large crater about five meters across was visible at the target location.
Cohen lowered the launcher and turned to Mendez, excitement burning brightly in his eyes.
“One more shot,” he said, his voice trembling slightly from the surge of adrenaline.
Mendez shook his head.
But Ethan noticed a slight twitch at the corner of the Chief’s mouth—it wasn’t anger, nor was it disappointment.
It was something suppressed, held back by professional discipline.
“Your magazine is empty,” Mendez said.
“Today’s quota is spent.”
The smile froze on Cohen’s face.
Only for a second, though; he quickly returned to normal and placed the empty launcher back on the rack.
Ethan watched Cohen’s back.
He knew what the boy was thinking—he wanted another shot too.
Everyone wanted another shot.
The rush of firing a rocket launcher was unmatched by any other weapon: the raw power, the deafening explosion, the overwhelming flash of fire.
But they didn’t get another shot.
Because this was training, not a game.
Ammunition was limited, and limits meant making choices.
Every Spartan had to learn to make optimal decisions under resource constraints. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
That was the first lesson of being a soldier.
SRS99 Sniper Rifle
The final training item was the SRS99 sniper rifle.
When Mendez wheeled the long rifle out from the armory, everyone paused for a brief instant.
The barrel alone was one point three meters long; with the stock and scope, the entire weapon exceeded two meters.
Its stock was reinforced with titanium alloy, built to withstand massive recoil forces.
14.5×114mm armor-piercing discarding sabot rounds.
Ethan mentally recited the specifications of the ammunition: muzzle velocity of eighteen hundred meters per second, effective range of twenty-three hundred meters, recoil strong enough to dislocate an untrained shoulder.
Notable bullet drop, requiring an elevation adjustment of roughly zero point three mils at a thousand meters.
And when Linda reached out to take the sniper rifle—
The entire training range fell into a momentary hush.
She had a slender build and eyes as cold and calm as a bottomless pool of ice.
Her fingers stroked the body of the rifle with gentle motions, as though caressing a sleeping leopard.
Mendez said nothing.
He simply moved the target out to a distance of one thousand meters, then made an inviting gesture.
Linda dropped to a prone position, mounting the sniper rifle onto a specialized shooting bench.
Her breathing was slow and steady, her chest barely rising or falling.
The crosshairs of her scope locked onto the moving target in the distance—a silhouette the size of a fist moving laterally at two meters per second.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
The rifle cracked.
The sound was unlike any of the previous gunshots—deeper, sharper, like a massive hammer slamming against the air itself.
Ethan felt the air wave slap against his back, carrying a rush of heat and the smell of gunpowder.
A thousand meters away, the target was struck.
Deja’s tracking system sounded a chime: *Hit accuracy: ninety-eight percent.* Almost unbelievable.
Tucker’s eyes went wide, his mouth forming an O.
Riley scribbled furiously in his notebook, his pen barely keeping pace with his thoughts.
Cohen stood frozen, his expression a mix of shock and admiration.
Ethan just stood there silently, watching Linda set down the sniper rifle, stand up, and wipe the dust off the scope with her sleeve.
Her actions were so calm, as if that shot had been mere routine rather than a feat virtually impossible for human eyes to perform.
“Is she cheating?” Tucker whispered to Riley, though his voice wasn’t particularly quiet.
Riley didn’t answer.
He just quickly wrote down a string of numbers in his notebook and drew a question mark next to them.
Mendez turned his eyes to Ethan.
“Want to give it a try?”
Ethan nodded.
He walked over to the bench and picked up the sniper rifle.
It was heavy in his hands, the recoil pad cold and hard.
As he pressed the buttstock against his shoulder, a wave of pressure vibrated from his shoulder blade through his entire body.
The target a thousand meters away was moving.
Ethan adjusted the focal length of the scope, bringing the tiny figure into the center of the crosshairs.
His brain automatically began making calculations: wind speed, humidity, temperature, bullet drop—the data pulled up as if from an invisible database, precise to two decimal places.
*Wind speed: 3.2 meters per second, left to right.
Humidity: 45%.
Air temperature: 18 degrees Celsius.
Trajectory correction: 0.32 mils up.*
He pulled the trigger.
The blast was deafening, the recoil slamming into his shoulder like a heavy hammer.
A sharp ringing echoed in his ears, but his eyes never left the scope.
Hit.
Deja announced: *Hit accuracy: ninety percent.
Outstanding performance.*
Ethan lowered the sniper rifle and turned to look at Linda.
There was no emotional fluctuation in those icy-blue eyes, only pure, professional scrutiny.
“How did you do that?” she asked.
Ethan was silent for a second.
That was a question he couldn’t truly answer.
“Calculations,” he said.
Linda tilted her head, seemingly contemplating his answer.
A moment later, she spoke:
“I don’t calculate,” she said, her voice as calm as if stating a plain fact.
“I just know.”
Ethan smiled faintly.
That was Linda.
That was the greatest sniper in canon history—the name that had appeared countless times in Halo games and novels.
Her talent was not acquired through training; it was an innate instinct that transcended the normal limits of human cognition.
And he was merely a transmigrator, someone relying on memories of a past life and leftover knowledge to disguise himself.
He could calculate, he could reason, he could use logic to bridge the gap in talent—but he could never merge with a firearm the way Linda did.
That was his limitation, but it was also his clarity.
At the same time, it was his advantage.
Because being clear-headed meant he wouldn’t be blinded by talent or perform actions that defied common sense.
Clarity meant safety, meant concealment, meant surviving longer in this cruel game.
Mendez blew his whistle.
“Training complete for today. Tomorrow at the same time: tactical coordination drills.”
As he left the range, Ethan looked back at the semi-open metal structure.
The setting sun cast a pale gold light across the firing positions, bathing the metal stalls in a warm hue.
The smell of gun oil and cordite still lingered on his clothes, refusing to dissipate.
This was his first weapons training session as a Spartan candidate.
He had learned a lot: precise recoil control with the MA5B, the natural ergonomics of the M6D, suppressing fire with the M41, and trajectory calculations with the SRS99.
Every weapon was like a door leading to death, and a Spartan’s job was to hand death back to the enemy before that door opened.
More importantly, he had learned how to control himself.
Throughout the entire training session, he had maintained a performance level that was excellent, but not anomalous.
MA5B precision fire: a three-centimeter grouping—excellent, but not top tier.
M6D second round: deliberately dropped to seventy-five percent—just right.
Weapon field strip: twenty-three seconds—the fastest, but only two seconds ahead of Riley.
SRS99 sniper drill: ninety percent—still short of Linda’s ninety-eight percent.
The only exception was the M6D—that sense of connection that transcended logic.
That feeling as though the gun had been custom-made for him.
The very thing that had caused Dr. Halsey to draw a question mark in her notebook.
He had to suppress that instinct.
Because excellence was safe.
Training records would show he was a talented candidate worthy of continued investment.
Mendez would give him good evaluations without showering him with excessive focus.
Dr. Halsey would record his data without singling him out for intense observation.
Anomalies were different.
Anomalies invited attention.
Anomalies brought scrutiny.
Anomalies made smart people start asking questions—like why a twelve-year-old child hitting ninety percent accuracy on his first try with a sniper rifle, or why his fingers naturally rested on the exact right grip placement of an M6D.
A transmigrator’s golden finger was not omnipotent.
Sometimes, the greatest advantage was actually the biggest vulnerability.
Ethan walked toward the barracks area, his shadow stretching long under the setting sun.
In the distance, Mendez was cleaning up the training ground, returning the still-warm weapons to their racks one by one.
The target systems controlled by Deja emitted a faint humming sound in standby mode, like a pack of sleeping metal hounds.
Tomorrow was tactical coordination training.
And he would continue playing the role of an excellent, but completely unexceptional, twelve-year-old child.
That was his strategy for survival.
At least until he found a better way.