Special forces personnel needed to excel in all six areas: physical fitness, tactics, shooting, psychology, hand-to-hand combat, and sniping.
Zhang Yang had no intention of bullying anyone right from the start.
He wanted them to be genuinely convinced, so naturally, he would begin with what they were best at.
"You go first." Zhang Yang looked at the special forces soldier beside him.
This round was rapid-fire shooting.
The shorter the time, the more targets hit—the winner would be decided that way.
Put plainly, it was a test of real combat reflexes.
Comparing this event against Zhang Yang's practically inhuman neural reflex speed was honestly a bit unfair.
The special forces soldier beside him nodded and stepped forward without hesitation.
"Ready."
"Yes!"
At the command, he swiftly raised his gun and fired.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
It took only a few seconds.
Someone in the distance called out the result.
"3.84 seconds. Ten bullets, ten hits."
He lowered his gun.
The soldier revealed a faint smile without meaning to, then looked at Zhang Yang. It could not really be called provocative—more like a look that said, Your turn.
All around them, gazes of scrutiny and anticipation converged on him.
Zhang Yang smiled, his expression sharpening as his neural reflex speed instantly surged to its limit.
In that instant, everything around him seemed to slow down.
Everyone's movements, every word, every furrowed brow, the flap of an insect's wings in the distance, each gentle sway of the grass and trees in the wind.
Then, he heard the starting whistle.
The whistle seemed to come from far away, stretching on without end, infinitely drawn out.
Almost at the same time, he smiled and raised his gun, aimed at the distant target, and pulled the trigger.
Whoosh!
The muzzle lifted slightly. A flash of fire