Chapter 549 - Shooting Training

Bai Yu advocated for a 9mm caliber. His reasoning was pragmatic: it discarded the archaic imperial system for metric simplicity, struck a balance between stopping power and manufacturing ease, and future-proofed the design.

"We can't mass-produce brass casings yet," Bai Yu argued, "but if we bore the chambers to 9mm Parabellum dimensions now, we can easily convert these revolvers to use modern ammunition later."

Some voices called for further simplification, suggesting the elimination of rifling. They argued that for a crude self-defense weapon intended for untrained natives, smoothbore barrels would suffice, saving valuable machining time.

"Absolutely not," Li Yiwo countered fiercely. "A smoothbore pistol is a pipe dream—literally. Without rifling, accuracy and range drop off a cliff. We're building weapons, not fireworks."

The consensus shifted to Li Yiwo's side. Cutting rifling was a trivial task for the transmigrators' specialized equipment; switching the cutter head took minutes. To sacrifice performance for such a negligible saving was foolish.

"It breaks continuity," Bai Yu added. "If we go smoothbore, the 9mm standard becomes meaningless."

The final design was locked: a fixed-cylinder revolver with a six-round capacity and a rifled 105mm barrel—roughly four inches. Shorter or longer barrels could be swapped in for specific mission profiles.

For ammunition, Li Yiwo devised a clever control mechanism: wax-sealed paper cartridges. He combined a Minié bullet, a measure of high-grade black power, and a percussion cap into a stiff paper tube, sealing the entire assembly with paraffin. It was a self-contained unit that loaded as easily as a modern cartridge.

Crucially, it was impossible for the locals to replicate. While natives might scrounge black powder and cast lead balls for a simple smoothbore, the percussion cap chemistry was beyond their reach. This ensured that if the weapons were lost or stolen, they would eventually become useless paperweights without a steady supply of ammunition from the administration.

The trade-off was fouling. Like all paper-cartridge weapons, the residue built up quickly, demanding rigorous cleaning discipline.

The prototype, hand-finished and blued by Li Yiwo himself, performed admirably in testing. At twenty meters, it punched through iron plate; at fifty, it remained lethal.

The Planning Council formally designated it the "Model 1630 Revolver"—or "Model 30" for short—and authorized low-rate production. The first batch was immediately issued to the National Police and the Political Security General Administration.

When the crates were pried open before the trainees, a hush fell over the ranks. Rows of blue-black steel glinted deeply in the sunlight.

"It's the Six-Star Pepperbox!" someone whispered in awe.

"Ignorant," another hissed. "It's called a revolver."

"I heard it fires continuously. Just pull the trigger and people die!"

For the trainees, these weapons were symbols of authority. They had seen the Australian leaders carrying them, talismans of their power. Now, that power was being placed in their hands.

"Starting today, you will master this weapon," Xue Ziliang announced. He gestured to the red-haired woman standing beside him. "This is Instructor Salina."

The administration had plenty of marksmen, but Zhao Manxiong didn't need target shooters; he needed gunfighters. He needed operators who could clear a room or suppress a threat in a crowded street. For that, he turned to the professionals: the ATF agents.

"Three rules," Xue Ziliang barked, counting them off on his fingers. "One: Never point the muzzle at anything you don't intend to destroy. Two: Firearms are not toys—no joking effectively avoids death. Three: Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire. Violate these, and you are gone."

He spoke with the venom of experience. He had seen too many "modern" transmigrators flagging each other on the range, their fingers resting casually on triggers. He would not tolerate such stupidity here.

Since guns were scarce, the squads rotated through training. The range soon echoed with the boom of black powder and the smell of sulfur. The trainees were giddy with their new power—the ability to deal death with a twitch of a finger was intoxicating.

But accuracy was humbled by physics. The Model 30 kicked like a mule, demanding arm strength and solid technique. Xue Ziliang found that even 21st-century enthusiasts struggled with pistol marksmanship; for these natives, who had never held a firearm, it was completely alien.

After a week of live fire, Li Yiwo inspected the weapons. Aside from minor fouling, they held up well. "The pure lead bullets are saving the rifling," he noted, measuring the bore with calipers. "If we had better steel, we could forge the barrels instead of using seamless tubing. They'd last forever."

"They're adequate," Xue Ziliang said. "What's the service life?"

"Originally estimated at 100 rounds. Looks like they'll handle 200 easy, though accuracy will degrade."

"Accuracy is secondary," Xue Ziliang shrugged. "For them, it's mostly about noise and courage." He had noticed the trainees' tendency to "spray and pray"—firing wildly to boost their own morale rather than to hit a target. It reminded him of militia fighters in war-torn Africa. Breaking that habit was his priority.

On the fifth day, the women's squad took the field.

"These are precious instruments, crafted by the Leaders with ultimate technology," He Chun shouted. "You must be worthy of them!"

The women trembled as they approached the table. The dark metal looked cold and unforgiving.

Salina stepped forward. She looked vibrant, her energy restored by decent food and Xue Ziliang's... attention. She enjoyed training locals; she had once told Xue Ziliang it felt like "training police for a third-world African nation." To her, their primitive nature made them eager, malleable students.

She started with the basics: disassembly. The Model 30's simplicity was a virtue here; even the mechanically illiterate could strip and clean it.

Once they understood the mechanism, Salina prepared for a live fire demonstration.

"Watch closely."

She leveled the revolver at a target twenty meters away. The boom was deafening, a cloud of white smoke erupting from the muzzle. The women flinched.

"Check the target."

A neat hole had been punched through the iron plate and the hardwood backing behind it.

"So powerful..." The whispers rippled through the squad. They realized with a chill that no armor, no muscle, could stop this.

"Now, the grip." Salina reholstered the weapon. In a blur of motion, she drew, fired, and reholstered. She did it again. And again. Three shots in the blink of an eye.

The girls forgot to scream. They stared at the target—three fresh holes clustered in the center of the chest plate.

"Practice, and you can do this too." Salina began correcting their grips. "Left hand supports the barrel, right hand drives high into the beaver tail. Squeeze until you shake, then back off ten percent. Lock your wrists."

She moved down the line, adjusting hands with professional force. When she reached Lu Cheng, she clamped her hands over the girl's grip, squeezing with shocking strength. Lu Cheng felt her bones grinding against the steel and let out a small cry. Salina didn't flinch, molding the girl's hands to the weapon as if she were shaping clay.

(End of Chapter)