The following day, the mountain air felt even sharper. Sergeant Gunter led us to a firing range overlooking a steep cliff. Before us, wooden targets were mounted at distances of 100, 300, and 500 meters.
Lined up neatly on a long wooden table was the standard-issue firearm of the Arcania military: the Mana-Musket Model 18. A strange, transitional weapon. It was shaped like a bolt-action rifle, but without shell casings. This weapon worked by compressing Mana into a crystal inside its firing chamber to launch a metal projectile.
"Pay attention, you filth!" Gunter shouted while lifting one rifle. "Shooting with Mana isn't about pulling a trigger. You must unify your consciousness with the focal crystal inside this rifle. If your Mana flow is unstable, the projectile will stray, or worse... the gun will explode in your face!"
One by one, the cadets stepped forward. The results were pathetic.
Sounds of Pang! and sparks of blue light echoed repeatedly. Most of their bullets didn't even hit the target boards at the 100-meter mark. They were too busy "praying" to the crystal or were too tense while channeling their Mana.
"Cadet Reichenbach! Step forward!"
Gunter called my name with a challenging tone. He wanted to see if the boy who had surpassed physical limits yesterday also possessed technical talent.
I stepped forward. The rifle was nearly as long as I was tall. I had to rest the barrel on a stack of sandbags to achieve a stable position.
"Hey Kid, do you need a footstool just to see the target?" a cadet mocked from behind me.
I didn't answer. My hands touched the cold steel of the rifle. I didn't try to "unify my consciousness" with the crystal like Gunter's foolish instructions. I treated the crystal as a machine. A catalyst.
I closed one eye. In my head, a calculation interface began to work automatically. A legacy from thousands of hours commanding artillery.
Distance: 500 meters.
Wind speed: 4 knots to the Northwest.
Humidity: 65%.
Mana Strength: Set at 150 units to compensate for air resistance.
I didn't fire at the 100-meter target. I aimed the barrel directly at the furthest target, which was barely visible to the naked eye of a child.
"Hey, Reichenbach! What are you doing? Your target is the one in front!" Gunter yelled.
Click.
I adjusted the crystal valve on the rifle to the maximum position, something strictly forbidden for beginners due to the high risk. I channeled Mana into the chamber, but I didn't let it flow wildly. I compressed it and gave it a spin (mimicking the rifling effect of a modern rifle barrel) so the projectile would have rotational stability.
BOOM!
The sound of my shot was different. It wasn't a weak little Pang, but a sharp crack that split the silence of the valley. The blue light erupting from the barrel was so bright it was blinding.
Everyone went silent. They looked toward the 500-meter target.
A few seconds later, the red marker flag in the distance waved. Bullseye. Dead center.
"Impossible..." Gunter snatched the binoculars from around his neck. His hands trembled as he saw the distant wooden board had a massive hole in it, nearly shattered by the sheer force of the impact. "A distance of 500 meters with a standard Musket? Even an elite marksman needs five seconds just to aim!"
I pulled back the bolt, venting the steaming residual heat. My expression remained flat.
"Sergeant, the focal crystal on this rifle has a production defect of 0.2 millimeters on the left side. If you don't compensate for it with a clockwise Mana flow, you will never hit a target beyond 300 meters," I said while placing the weapon back on the table.
I looked at Gunter, then at the other cadets whose mouths were agape.
"This weapon is not magic. It is a mechanical tool. And if you treat it like a lucky charm, you will only be an easy target on the battlefield."
Gunter stared at me with an unreadable expression. It was no longer just fear. It was the realization that he was dealing with something that surpassed the definition of "genius."
"Reichenbach..." he whispered. "You... where did you learn about projectile rotation and wind calculation?"
I turned around, walking back to the line with a steady stride. "I read it in a book, Sergeant. A book titled 'Logic'."
Naturally, that was a lie. I learned it in the mud and blood of the Eastern Front.
That day, my name officially became a legend in the camp. They began calling me by the nickname that would follow me all the way to the actual battlefield: "The Silver Ballistic."
I knew that after this, reports of my abilities would reach the ears of the military high command in the capital. And that was my goal. I didn't need ten years to become a soldier. I would take the fast track through the ranks, and I would be at the peak of command before my first whisker grew.
War will not wait for a child to become an adult. And I, Hans Von Richter, am already very impatient to take back control of the world map.