The wind at the shooting range was cold that night. It sliced across Yan Xiyan's cheeks like the edge of a blade, but she didn't flinch.
She stood in front of the shooting bench, her posture steady, eyes locked on the rifle laid before her.
It was her first time holding a loaded weapon.
Not a training simulation, not a disassembled model—this one was real. Loaded. Breathing with danger.
"Pick it up," Sergeant Zhang ordered calmly from behind her, his voice low and unshakable like mountain stone.
Yan Xiyan inhaled slowly and reached forward. The moment her fingers wrapped around the cool metal, she felt it—the faint thrum of something ancient and primal. The weapon wasn't just a tool. It had weight, not just in mass, but in meaning.
She remembered Sergeant Zhang's words clearly.
"A sniper must form a bond with their weapon, as intimate as flesh and bone. It must become an extension of your breath, your will, your silence."
And so, she treated the gun as more than just an object. She held it like it mattered.
Sergeant Zhang walked to her side, his arms crossed behind his back.
"Today, you learn your first lesson in sniping: stillness."
He took a step closer. "Not everyone can pull a trigger with their heartbeat pounding like a war drum. Not everyone can breathe calmly while waiting for the perfect kill window. But you—" he narrowed his eyes, "—you might."
Yan Xiyan swallowed, lying prone on the ground. The rifle rested in her hands, scope aligned with a target two hundred meters away.
"Breathe," Zhang instructed. "Count it. Inhale for four. Hold for two. Exhale for four."
She obeyed. Her breath slowed. Her world narrowed to the space between the crosshairs.
"Inhale again… now wait."
A minute passed.
Another.
Sweat gathered at her temple, but she didn't blink. Her body was still, but her mind raced. She thought of that day—the piano, the blood, the cold moonlight.
I won't die helpless ever again.
"Target: 2 o'clock, moving. Wind: 3 knots westward. Adjust half a click," Sergeant Zhang said, watching her closely. "Fire only when you no longer doubt."
Yan Xiyan adjusted.
Her heartbeat slowed.
The moment her breath aligned with her will, she squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The recoil was clean, but sharp.
The distant metallic clink echoed a second later.
"Hit. Right on the mark." Zhang's expression didn't change, but there was a subtle nod of approval. "Good. Again."
She adjusted for the next round without hesitation.
By the time they left the range that night, her shoulder was sore, her elbows raw from gravel, but her eyes burned with something fierce—conviction.
Later, at home, Yan Xiyan stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her school uniform hung neatly nearby, the perfect disguise for a girl who had just fired ten rounds in the dark like a phantom.
She brushed her hair back, observing the changes.
Her eyes were no longer soft. They had turned sharp, like shards of polished obsidian.
Still a student by day.
But by night… she was evolving.
One step closer to vengeance. One trigger pull at a time.