Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunfire echoed relentlessly across the vast shooting range.
Rows of recruits stood rigid, rifles braced against their shoulders. Before each of them, a target flickered under cold artificial light. Above, electronic displays tracked every shot.
Most scores were… mediocre.
Misses were common.
Five rings. Six rings.
Occasionally, someone struck a ten.
When that happened, the screen flashed red for a brief, fleeting moment—before returning to green.
From the elevated platform, Raymond watched in silence.
A sea of green.
Sparse red.
Nothing unexpected.
For first-time shooters, simply hitting the target was already acceptable. Clones had superior physiques—steady hands, focused minds, no hesitation. With a few days of training, they would improve.
Not elites.
But sufficient.
Enough to gun down the hulking green-skinned orcs on the battlefield.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The rhythm of gunfire continued.
Then—
Raymond's gaze sharpened.
Amid the sea of green…
A single red point refused to disappear.
10 rings.
10 rings.
10 rings.
The screen refreshed every second—but the color never changed.
Always red.
Always perfect.
Raymond's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Oh?"
"A natural shooter…"
Interest flickered across his otherwise stern expression.
Cloning technology was efficient—but flawed.
Memories couldn't be too complex, or the mind would fracture.
Genetic enhancements couldn't be too strong, or the body would collapse.
The result?
Mediocre soldiers. Obedient. Replaceable.
Cannon fodder.
But in massive numbers…
There were always anomalies.
Mutations.
Outliers with talent.
Strength. Speed. Perception.
Or—
Something rarer.
Raymond stepped down from the platform and moved toward the source of that unbroken streak of red.
He found him quickly.
A recruit in a black uniform stood motionless between shots. Rifle steady. Posture perfect.
No wasted movement.
No hesitation.
Each pull of the trigger was clean. Precise.
Cold.
Even as Raymond approached, the recruit didn't react.
No tension.
No acknowledgment.
As if the officer didn't exist.
Raymond wasn't offended.
That was the nature of clones.
They didn't flatter. Didn't fear. Didn't think beyond orders.
He glanced at the number on the recruit's chest.
"Recruit 89757. Stop."
Click.
The final shot rang out.
Another perfect ten.
Qin Tian lowered his rifle and turned, face expressionless.
"Bring your weapon. Follow me."
"…Understood."
His voice was dry. Mechanical.
But his eyes—
For just a moment—
They flickered.
The adjacent range was quieter.
Fewer soldiers.
Higher standards.
The moment Raymond entered, the soldiers snapped to attention.
"Officer!"
"At ease. Continue."
Their eyes, however, drifted—curious—toward Qin Tian.
A clone?
Why bring a clone here?
"Stand here," Raymond ordered.
Qin Tian stepped into position.
"In a moment, the targets will move. Random directions. Variable speed."
"Your task—hit the center."
"…Understood."
Test begins.
At one hundred meters, six targets sprang to life.
They slid. Shifted. Changed direction without warning.
Unpredictable.
Qin Tian raised his rifle.
A brief pause—
Then—
Bang!
A hit.
Seven rings.
For a first attempt at a moving target…
Impressive.
Raymond gave a small nod.
But Qin Tian's expression didn't change.
Seven?
Not enough.
Not even close.
A breeze drifted across the range.
Subtle.
Barely noticeable.
Qin Tian's eyes narrowed.
No calculations.
No conscious adjustment.
Just—
Instinct.
A strange, elusive state washed over him.
Focus sharpened.
The world slowed.
Control settled into his bones.
Bang.
Ten rings.
Raymond's eyes lit up.
The second shot—
Perfect.
Then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A steady rhythm.
No hesitation.
No deviation.
10 rings.
10 rings.
10 rings.
Every shot struck dead center.
When the final target fell still, Qin Tian lowered his rifle.
Calm.
Silent.
Unshaken.
Raymond exhaled slowly.
"Good."
A faint smile appeared.
"Very good."
Then his expression hardened again.
"Let's increase the difficulty."
At his signal—
A swarm rose into the sky.
Mechanical birds.
Over twenty of them.
Wings beating, metal bodies glinting under the light as they scattered across the airspace.
They were small.
Fast.
Erratic.
Hard enough to hit—
Let alone…
"Only the eyes count," Raymond said flatly. "Hit the eye, or it doesn't fall."
A near-impossible task.
Even among veteran soldiers, only a handful could accomplish it.
The watching soldiers exchanged glances.
This was excessive.
He's just a clone.
Qin Tian said nothing.
He raised his rifle.
Sight aligned.
Breath steady.
Time stretched.
One second.
Two.
Three—
Bang.
The first shot struck a wing.
The bird faltered—just slightly.
Bang.
Second shot.
Straight through the eye.
Sparks burst.
The machine dropped from the sky.
"…Too slow."
Qin Tian murmured under his breath.
Silence.
Total silence.
The world narrowed to motion and trajectory.
The birds slowed.
Their paths became clear.
Predictable.
Inevitable.
Bang.
Another fell.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
One after another—
They dropped.
Metal corpses raining from the sky.
The soldiers stood frozen.
Mouths slightly open.
Eyes wide.
They couldn't process what they were seeing.
Even Raymond…
Felt a chill.
He turned, studying Qin Tian's profile.
Cold.
Focused.
Unwavering.
For a moment—
He saw someone else.
A shadow from memory.
Huang Xun.
The regiment's finest marksman.
A man whose shots bordered on the supernatural.
Dead.
Killed that very morning—cut down by a Spiritualist.
A loss the Legion had yet to absorb.
And now—
Half a day later—
Another had appeared.
Not the same.
But…
Similar.
Too similar.
The last bird fell.
Silence reclaimed the range.
Qin Tian lowered his rifle.
Unmoved.
As if what he had done…
Was nothing.
Raymond watched him, eyes unreadable.
For a fleeting moment—
He imagined a figure standing behind Qin Tian.
Faint.
Unclear.
A lingering will.
Huang Xun.
Watching.
Approving.
A ghost of a smile on his lips.
And a silent whisper carried on the wind—
For the Empire.