Although his stomach had long been empty, Brian Carter had absolutely no appetite. He simply stared blankly at the ceiling, unwilling to speak, his mind a complete blank... As if he were a zombie, devoid of consciousness and unable to move.

He had remained in this state for a full two days.

Many people had come to see him.

Curious officers and soldiers, reporters hoping to dig up an exclusive story, medical officers worried about his physical condition... Without exception, all of them were stopped at the door by Henry Clark. Facing so many dissatisfied faces and questioning gazes, the colonel said only one thing.

“If you were forced to kill your own friends and family with your own hands, you would become just like him.”

Perhaps it was the long time spent in the same position that had left his body feeling numb. After the afternoon meal call sounded, Brian Carter finally climbed out of the bed where he had lain for nearly fifty hours.

“Are you hungry? Want to eat something?” The colonel sat calmly on the chair beside him, a lit cigarette held between his fingers as usual.

He had been keeping watch here these past few days.

Brian Carter's eyes were bloodshot, exhaustion and haggardness showing through his pale skin, his hair unkempt and falling over his forehead from days without washing. He stuck out his tongue to lick his cracked lips, and in a hoarse, hesitant, and low voice, he asked, “...Can you take me to the shooting range?”

...

“Boom—”

Expressionless, he glanced at the moving target that had been blown to pieces. Loosening his grip, the empty magazine slid smoothly from the grip of the gun. Immediately, he picked up a new magazine from the equipment table beside him, loaded it, chambered a round, and fired.

Half an hour passed, and spent shell casings were scattered all around Brian Carter's feet, while the ammo boxes on the equipment table were completely emptied. The observer sitting in the monitoring room stared at the screen, mouth agape, eyes wide, watching Brian Carter holding the gun one-handed.

The “Type 6 Special” pistol had tremendous recoil; firing continuously in a short period would cause massive shock to the shoulder, neck, and other areas. Under such circumstances, numbed nerves would not only make it difficult to maintain shooting accuracy, but could also cause tearing injuries to joints and ligaments.

Yet this young warrant officer before him had fired over seven hundred special explosive rounds in thirty minutes. Not a single shot missed, and he maintained a one-handed shooting stance the entire time.

This completely overturned the observer’s understanding of firearms.

Seven hundred heavy recoils—enough to shatter even a full-steel shoulder guard. Could this guy’s bones be harder than high-strength alloy?

Henry Clark sat in the audience with his arms crossed, silently watching Brian Carter.

Although his face showed nothing, his heart was equally filled with shock.

As the commander of the 64th Mobile Task Force, he was, of course, very familiar with the specific parameters and power of various firearms.

Using special explosive rounds, his own record for continuous shooting was 271 rounds. As for accuracy, he maintained about seventy-five percent. That was already the limit his body could withstand, and, so far, was the elite-level record verified by militaries around the world.

Yet this young man before him had more than doubled his record. Even more terrifying, his hit rate was one hundred percent.

If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, Henry Clark would never have believed it was real.

This left the colonel deeply puzzled.

The 75th Infantry Division was only a Category B combat unit—how could it have such an outstanding soldier? Even setting aside other aspects, just the shooting ability just displayed was enough to make him a member of the most elite forces.

He knew very well that the reason Brian Carter had asked to come to the shooting range was entirely to release his inner pain and depression to the fullest in the thick smoke and deafening roar. Could it be that this terrifying strength, so powerful it inspired fear, came from a burst of potential in the face of death?

The colonel couldn’t help but fall into deep thought...

He didn’t even notice when Brian Carter put down his gun, his face full of determination and resolve, and slowly walked up to him, fingers together in a standard military salute.

“Warrant Officer Brian Carter of the 64th Mobile Unit, requesting to participate in the next operation. Please approve—”

...

In the human dictionary, “autumn” is often associated with beautiful words like “harvest.” In people’s habitual thinking, this season should be filled with a very comfortable golden hue, everywhere bathed in warm sunlight, and heavy fruit hanging from the tips of branches.

“All those so-called writers are blind fools. If I make it out of here alive, I’ll make those damned guys see what real autumn is like—”

Wiping the rainwater that had splashed onto his face from outside, David Bolton grumbled as he pulled the half-open window a little closer, feeling the chill as the raindrops touched his skin. He hugged the M5G43 assault rifle in his arms even tighter, the weapon already warmed by his body heat.

It had been raining for four whole days.