Chapter 8. Blacklisted and Approved

Yesterday turned into a full blown survival marathon. Mr. Parker drove me across the shooting range until deep into the night, as if trying to squeeze every last drop out of me or find even the tiniest crack in my technique. I fired at targets point blank, shifted to mid range, then pushed out to long distance. It felt like he had repositioned the full height silhouettes into every conceivable and inconceivable angle, changing the lighting, forcing me to shoot from awkward stances, all just to prove one thing to himself: I was not just getting lucky.

However, [Trainer] automatically corrected every single movement, embedding them into muscle memory.

Unable to catch me in either deception or gaps, he still issued me a certificate, almost audibly grinding his teeth in the process. After just one day of training. The document itself looked impressive though: bright, refined, with an embossed logo and a unique identification number that could be verified at any time on the official website. I turned it over in my hands, feeling a cold sense of satisfaction spreading inside me. Another step toward the goal. While ordinary teenagers try to pump up their biceps for summer to look good on the beach, at thirty two I was methodically turning myself into a killing machine. With age, priorities tend to gain a very different kind of weight.

Back home, before sleep, I spent a long time scrolling through pages online, greedily absorbing information. Videos about rare calibers, disassembly schemes of old pistols, ballistic tables of ammunition, everything flashed before my eyes. Then I caught a strange sensation: just from watching, my internal skill was growing. There were no system notifications, yet I could literally feel it through my skin. If someone handed me a heavy German Mauser from World War One right now, I would handle it no worse than a Glock. I could not find a logical explanation for it yet, but I made a mental note: this needed to be tested in practice. My brain now worked like a sponge, soaking up lethal knowledge.

Morning started according to the already established routine.

Breakfast number one: an entire bucket of tuna with chicken. Food no longer brought pleasure, it was just biological fuel.

Workout: an exhausting cycle for every muscle group at the gym near my house. I could feel the fibers tearing and rebuilding, becoming denser.

Breakfast number two: another portion of protein madness.

Unfortunately, the coveted stat increase window did not appear. Still, I did not allow myself to slack off, there was plenty of time before conscription, and my body was already operating at the limit of human capability.

By lunchtime, I parked at the shooting club again. The receptionist greeted me with an icy stare. The smiles I was supposedly paying good money for had vanished completely. Apparently, after yesterday’s arguments about the cost of every single piece of paper, she had firmly placed me into the category of hopeless cheapskates. Fine by me. I did not need her grin, as long as the certificates were issued without delays.

Mr. Parker showed up shortly after I arrived. His face carried a mix of irritation and some deeper kind of disgust. Yesterday, during our introduction, he still tried to maintain professional neutrality, but today he greeted me through clenched teeth. It felt like I had personally killed his beloved dog, dishonored his only daughter, and then topped it off by sacrilegiously relieving myself on his family carpet. My rapid progress had clearly bruised his veteran ego.

We stepped onto the firing line again. The air was thick with the smell of burnt powder and heated metal.

“So, Mr. Ross, yesterday we concluded the basic shooting course,” he grimaced as if from a toothache. “Today we move on to rapid fire. I see you purchased and are wearing a tactical holster from our shop. A reasonable decision.”

I gave a faint, almost sympathetic smile. That holster had cost me fifty dollars, even though every forum says a piece of stiff leather for five holds a gun just as well. But the club rules were uncompromising: either you buy their branded gear or you are not allowed into training under the pretext of safety. Another clean little scam, but I needed their flashy diploma, so I swallowed the insult.

“Listen and watch carefully, Ross. I will not repeat myself.”

Parker began the lecture. He talked about shifting the center of gravity, about how you need to drive your feet into the ground to create an unshakable base and efficiently absorb recoil. He explained at what angle to lock the elbow so the joint would not give out after a rapid series of shots.

Then he demonstrated.

The movement was almost invisible to the eye. Like a seasoned cowboy straight out of a western, he yanked the pistol from the holster. Three dry, sharp cracks merged into what sounded like a single continuous shot. Three targets at different distances gained neat holes precisely in the center of the bullseye.

It was damn impressive. In that moment, I felt a pure, primal thrill. I wanted that power. I wanted to be able to neutralize three opponents in a single second, leaving them no chance. Not to become some maniac, no. Just that every normal man wants to know that if a threat appears, he can protect himself and those he cares about before the enemy even has time to blink.

“Care to try, Mr. Ross?” Parker forced the words out as if he were being made to drink vinegar.

“Of course.”

The moment my fingers touched the grip, the world shifted again. Invisible threads, as if extending from my brain, gently pulled at my muscles, correcting my stance into an absolute, mathematically precise ideal.

[Attention! Specific physical activity of the familiar detected]

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[Trainer presence adjusting micromovements for peak efficiency]

I did not think. I simply let it happen. A snap. My hand found the grip on its own, my finger settled on the trigger at the exact fraction of a second when the front sight aligned with the target.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The three casings had not even hit the concrete floor yet, and the pistol had already slipped back into the holster with a quiet click. Three targets. Three bullseyes. My pulse was steady, my breathing calm, as if I had not just performed a small ballistic miracle, but merely moved a cup across a table.

Parker froze, slowly lowering the hand holding the stopwatch.

“So, what do you say, Mr. Parker?” I turned to him, still feeling the pleasant tingling in my fingers from the recoil and unable to suppress a triumphant smile. The euphoria of my own power surged through my blood like pure adrenaline. “I would say today’s quota is more than covered. Is that enough to settle the certificate in a single day?”

But instead of the expected approval, reluctant or not, I ran into a wall of pure, concentrated fury. Parker’s face flushed dark red, a vein bulged on his neck, and his eyes narrowed into icy slits.

“You know what I will say, Mr. Ross?” he spat the words, stepping toward me. “I will say that you are a petty fraud and a pathological liar. You told me to my face that you had never held a real firearm before, yet you handle it like a top tier shooting instructor. You clearly spent years in brutal training, and now you are mocking me with this cheap performance about some unbelievable talent.”