Ji Ping had barely finished speaking.
The Ten Thousand Martial Guards rushed forward, vying to be the first to disassemble their guns.
CLICK-CLACK. CLICK-CLACK.
The crisp sounds were incessant.
Only Chen Yang, unhurried, picked up a gun. He toyed with it for a moment, then smiled and said, "There's a slight issue with this gun's firing pin, but it's nothing major."
Ji Ping was stunned. The gun isn't even disassembled, he only worked the bolt, and he can tell there's a problem with the firing pin? Besides, the others are almost done disassembling their guns. Why hasn't he even started?
These men had been meticulously chosen by Ji Ping; each one was the cream of the crop.
Just then, Chen Yang began.
SWISH, SWISH, SWISH.
The receiver, stock, barrel, springs, firing pin, and trigger—each part slid from his hands to land neatly on the table before him.
Ji Ping, who had just been worried Chen Yang might lose due to carelessness, could only stare with wide eyes.
