The next morning I was summoned to Division Headquarters. The duty sergeant led me straight into the division's private firing range, where a semicircle of officers already sat watching. Apart from the chief of staff, I didn't recognize a single face.
"Begin!" barked a squat colonel whose rank insignia I couldn't quite place—surely not the division commander, since protocol said he'd only appear at tomorrow's full-division assembly.
A captain hustled me up to a table laid with a Type-95 automatic rifle and seven or eight fully loaded magazines.
"We're testing you. There's a single target exactly one hundred meters away. You have three minutes, unlimited ammunition—fire as many shots as you can. Use whatever stance you like," he explained, then stepped behind me, stopwatch in hand.
Drawing on yesterday's uncanny clarity, I didn't rush to grab the rifle. Instead, I stared at the distant target until I felt that same sense of it growing larger in my vision. Then, I picked up the rifle, dropped into a prone position, and prepared.
"Fire when ready. Timing starts on your first shot," the captain called.
Crack… crack… crack… I emptied the first magazine at roughly one shot per second. Swapping magazines, I began again—but no sooner had I fired a few rounds than a voice rang out.
"Cease fire!" It was the colonel who'd given the start order. "Stop shooting—target scorer, report the score!" Two silent minutes passed. I stood, and overheard the chief of staff chuckle to the colonel, "Same as yesterday—our scorer must be too startled to call it in."
I caught the colonel's impatient glare. He raised his voice two octaves: "Target scorer, report!" Still no answer. His face went dark, and I braced for an explosion—when finally the scorer came sprinting in, carrying the punched paper target.
He slapped it onto the table in front of the officers, saluted, and reported, "Sir—score cannot be determined." The colonel leaned forward and saw why: the tiny red bull's-eye had been blasted into a clean black hole. There were no other bullet holes to count.
Every. Single. Round. A perfect ten. The entire dais erupted in astonishment. Narrowing his eyes, the colonel peered at the target, then suddenly raised his binoculars to sweep the empty wall where it had hung. "You shot clean through the wall…"
My mind froze. "I didn't mean to," I murmured.
"No need to apologize," he said, cracking a rare smile. "You could've blown the whole wall apart and I wouldn't care. Kid, how on earth did you shoot so true?"
"I… used my hands?" I answered sheepishly.
By special order, I was then transferred to the regiment's Honor Guard Company. Beyond the daily drills and ceremonies, my one duty was to perform live-fire demonstrations—each shot guaranteed to smack the red. Eventually the novelty wore off, so I'd "miss" once or twice—landing fives or sixes—just to keep them on their toes. Still, my name remained on the military district's roster of "Sharpshooters Extraordinary."
Two months later came the district-wide skills competition. The regimental commander held me back as his secret weapon for the final shooting event—and the first pivotal moment of my life began.
There was no suspense about the earlier contests. My event was kneeling-fire at two hundred meters. First up was Captain Liu Yiyuan—last year's champion from the Sixth Regiment—whose form was textbook perfect: lift rifle, settle aim, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack! Five shots downrange. The scorer raised the red flag and announced, "Forty-six rings!" A formidable lead, destined to win—if anyone else dared challenge it.
When Liu returned to the line, I couldn't help but quip, "Nice shooting, Captain Liu." He cast a dismissive glance my way. "Keep practicing a few more years, and maybe you'll hit my score," he replied. I rolled my eyes—before I could retort, the range safety officer called, "Shen La, step out! Take your position!"
I lifted the rifle, closed my eyes briefly to summon that same tunnel-vision focus, then fired five shots. A hush fell over the range as the scorer paused… and then, under prodding by the safety officer, hesitantly called, "Fifty rings!"
A roar of excitement rippled through the lineup. Down on the stand, I saw a sudden stir: the regimental commander was being led out by a contingent of officers. At their head strode a familiar figure flanked by aides—in the gleam of insignia, I recognized three stars: this was the district's deputy commander, a lieutenant general.
The scorer carried the target to the dais. After a brief private word with the regimental commander, the lieutenant general turned to me.
"You're Shen La?" he asked. "Impressive shooting. Keep it up in the service." He glanced at my private's chevrons and frowned, "You're not even a non-commissioned officer?"
Our commander spoke up: "Sir, he's a recruit—too early for NCO promotion."
The lieutenant general nodded. "Then let's make an exception. Promote him to NCO now and send him to the military academy."
My heart soared—I'd broken the Shen family curse against the academy! But he continued: "No… better not. Shen La is clearly a combat talent—he'd be wasted on academic study. We need him in the field."
Before I could register disappointment, another voice arose from the assembled officers: "Why not send him to my command? My unit's standards are higher—he'd both hone his skills and earn rank." I glanced over: a major general was smiling at the lieutenant general.
"No," the lieutenant general shook his head. "You're not in our district—why should you benefit?"
The major general laughed. "Come now, Commander Zheng, I'm here to help you pick talent. Besides, I hear you're standing up a special operations battalion. How about I loan you a dozen men for two weeks' training?"
The lieutenant general stroked his chin, clearly weighing the deal. After a whispered word from an aide, he turned to the major general and said, "In September, some of your men are retiring to civilian life. Have them stay with us two more years—we'll promote them two grades, and they'll do better in the transition. What do you think?"
"Perfect," the major general replied at once. "Thank you, Commander Zheng."
"Pleasure's mine—win-win, win-win." Zheng's grin was ear to ear. I realized I'd watched myself being traded like a chess piece.
The shooting competition ended without a medal ceremony; the major general whisked me away so fast he even skipped the awards presentation. In fact, my result was officially voided—Captain Liu Yiyuan was declared champion once more, though he claimed he'd fainted from heatstroke and couldn't accept the trophy.
By the time I emerged from the range, I was escorted straight to the airfield. In my rush, all my personal belongings had been left at the regiment—trivial things, but still a nuisance to replace. When I mentioned fetching them, the accompanying lieutenant colonel intercepted me. "Forget it," he said. "You'll be reimbursed."
Five hours later the plane landed at the capital's air terminal. Waiting on the tarmac were three military-plate SUVs.
"Get in," the major general said, patting my shoulder.
All the way back, his phone buzzed nonstop on a military frequency—he was busy coordinating staff. I sat in the back, silent and wide-eyed. I had no idea which base we were heading to—perhaps even outside the capital? It wasn't until after eleven that we arrived at a sprawling barracks. After a quick meal, they led me to a bunkroom where I slept like a log.
At dawn I was ushered into an office whose occupant turned out to be the lieutenant colonel from yesterday. He slid me an envelope. "This five-thousand yuan is your compensation for the items left behind," he said.
Five thousand yuan. My hands trembled taking it. I'd never held so much money—my soldier's stipend barely covered my needs, and as kids we'd thought a single one-hundred-yuan red envelope at New Year was untold fortune.
He then got to the point: the major general who'd "purchased" me was none other than Li Yunfei, Political Commissar of the Special Operations Battalion. The lieutenant colonel was my new company commander. In other words, I was now officially a special forces soldier.
After outlining the history and mission of the special operations battalion, he gave me the news I'd been hoping for.
"Our battalion operates under full military discipline. We're assigning you the rank of second lieutenant pending review in a year…" I gulped. Third Uncle was a first lieutenant—barely one rank higher than me after three months in uniform. Would he salute me next time we met? Maybe even call me 'Sir'?
And so began life as a special forces trooper—only much less glamorous than I'd imagined. Every day was training upon training: nothing like boot camp's endless push-ups and runs, this was a constant grind. I wasn't Sergeant Xin Sanduo—I nearly died under the twenty-kilogram rucksack runs through the hills. On my first two-kilometer run, I vomited white foam into the dust, and my classmates thought I'd had an epileptic fit. Then came the worst: two hours every afternoon holding one of those rifles aloft with a brick tied to the muzzle—no lie, I'd look at that rifle and curse it as the ultimate torture device.
At least there was one hour each day on the shooting range—a blessed release. After the first week, the seasoned troopers who'd once mocked me gaped in shock: "Does he even know how to hit anything besides the tens?"
But happiness was short-lived. A month later, the company commander hauled me into his office, slammed a report across his desk, and tore into me: my shooting met the standard, but every other skill—hand-to-hand, obstacle course, endurance—was failing by a wide margin. "One month to improve, or you're out of the battalion!"
A month later, my scores were largely unchanged. "Another month," he growled. "Or you're gone."
Three months later… he said it again: "One month." And my journey in uniform had only just begun.