Sylar's eyes glowed with a radiant, feverish light as he held the Stormlance Hypervelocity Rifle, its chamber fully loaded with live ammunition. Excitement surged through him, but he didn't allow the thrill to overwhelm his focus. His gaze remained fixed on Captain Lancel.
Because Sylar had ranked first in the recruit standings, he—along with the top five—would receive personal instruction directly from the one-armed super-soldier.
The other instructors were more than capable; each carried lifetimes of battlefield experience. But there was something irreplaceable about learning from a supreme master who had reached the peak of his field, and whose insight was on a transcendental level.
"Adopt standing shooting position," Captain Lancel commanded.
Sylar immediately shifted his stance. He relied on body alignment rather than brute strength—resting the rifle on skeletal support points like his elbows and shoulder pocket to minimize fatigue and maximize steadiness. He loosened his muscles, grounded his feet, and positioned the stock so that his eye aligned naturally with the sights every single time.
He closed his eyes for one second, inhaled, exhaled, and opened them again. His sights were still perfectly on target. Textbook.
Several instructors watching from the side exchanged glances. Sylar had already shocked them during the dodgeball trial, but the boy's instinctive grasp of fundamentals was just as impressive. They nodded silently.
Captain Lancel, however, was not so easily satisfied.
"Bend your knees five more degrees," he barked. "Shift your weight forward onto the balls of your feet. Push your weak-side foot forty-three degrees outward. Lean your torso slightly forward."
The orders came like machine-gun fire, one after another without pause. Many recruits watching from a distance felt relieved that they weren't the ones being trained by the captain—his pace was simply inhuman, and neither their minds nor bodies could keep up with that.
Yet Sylar did it. He pushed his Cognition, Adaptability, and Agility to their limits, adjusting his stance the very instant each command landed. The corrections were minute—barely a centimeter here, a subtle angle there—but each felt like carving a new, sharper edge onto a blade.
And when Sylar completed the last adjustment, a flash of astonishment crossed his face.
His previous stance had been excellent—easily comparable to lower-ranked Shooting Stars—but this new posture was an entirely different level. The refinements were small, but the improvement was massive.
Captain Lancel gave a single approving nod, then pointed toward the wall in the distance. The tiny hole left behind from his earlier five-shot burst—fired in less than a second—still sat there perfectly intact.
"Fire five shots in five seconds," the captain said. "Minimize dispersion."
Sylar nodded, turned his body, and steadied his breathing. He applied the exact pressure needed to the trigger and fired.
The moment the Stormlance Hypervelocity Rifle discharged, the ground beneath his feet trembled.
What came the moment he pulled the trigger was a crushing, bone-deep shockwave—like being struck by a battering ram made of thunder. Only then did Sylar fully understand why Stormlances were restricted to Shooting Stars.
Logically speaking, the Kingdom of Man should arm every soldier with these weapons, even those without the capabilities of Shooting Stars. Expensive, yes—but the battlefield advantage would be overwhelming. Even an inexperienced civilian could kill from a fortified tower with a Stormlance.
The reason they didn't?
Recoil.
The Stormlance Hypervelocity Rifle had internal stabilizers, but nothing could fully nullify the backlash of a projectile heavier than five gold ingots traveling above Mach 7.
If a normal person pulled the trigger, every bone in their arms would shatter instantly, shattering them so terribly that the only path forward would be amputation. And that was if they were lucky. The recoil could ricochet into their chest, collapsing ribs, crushing lungs, and rupturing their heart in a single instant, killing them the moment they pull the trigger.
Only someone who had survived the Omega Compound could wield such a monster without destroying themselves, and only a Shooting Star could endure hours of continuous fire.
These thoughts flashed through Sylar's mind in less than a heartbeat—but he didn't allow them to distract him. He re-aimed and fired again.
The second bullet hit two centimeters (0.7'') left of the first. Not ideal.
He had no time to think, so he surrendered to instinct and training. The third round struck one and a half centimeters (0.6'') to the right. The fourth and fifth tightened the grouping, but each still landed roughly a centimeter (0.3'') from the center.
The dispersion was small—impressive even—but Sylar frowned. The target was close. At longer distances, the spread would widen drastically. And this was a controlled situation with a single stationary target. If this level of precision carried into real combat—against hordes, moving threats, or chaotic environments—he would waste ammunition. In battle, that was no different from crippling himself.
Still, Sylar didn't let disappointment take root.
Talent was a blessing, but he knew better than to rely on talent alone. He was young. He lacked years of refinement. And that was fine. No warrior began perfect.
What mattered was drive. The refusal to stagnate. The determination to improve, even if only by a fraction each day.
Skill was not born—it was built. And as long as he continued to sharpen himself, step by step, day by day, he would reach the point where even a Stormlance would feel like an extension of his own body.
And when that day came, the enemies of humanity would drown in their own blood.
With that mentality firmly rooted, Sylar turned toward Captain Lancel, waiting for the man's evaluation.
"Don't fully inhale and exhale between shots," Lancel said, his voice crisp and sharpened by centuries of battlefield experience. "Keep a small, consistent breath, and press the trigger during the natural respiratory pause. Keep your eyes on the sights during and after recoil. Let the rifle settle back on target by itself."
For nearly five minutes, Captain Lancel dissected Sylar's mistakes and explained in precise detail how to improve them. Sylar listened to every word, making sure not a single piece of advice slipped from memory.
"Again," Lancel commanded at last. "Five bullets, five seconds. Now!"
The captain's voice acted like a trigger itself, snapping Sylar instantly back into position. Five bullets fired in rapid succession, each shot a sharp burst of sound and pressure. When the final round struck the wall, a grin broke across Sylar's face.
The second, third, and fourth shots deviated from the first by about a centimeter (0.3'')—small, but noticeably better than before. Yet the fifth shot punched cleanly through the exact same hole as the first. That one achievement sent a surge of pride through him.
He turned to Captain Lancel, expecting at least a nod of approval. Instead, the old soldier offered no praise—just another barrage of corrections and instructions, pushing Sylar to stay focused rather than celebrate. Only after five full trials did the captain permit himself a brief, almost invisible nod before signaling Sylar to rejoin the other top recruits.
Then he called forward the second-ranked recruit: Zendo.
Zendo was an intense, brooding young man whose glowing yellow eyes radiated a predatory aura. Deep scars carved across his face told stories of previous battles, and even at rest his fists remained half-clenched, as if he were always expecting the next fight.
Just like with Sylar, Captain Lancel began with posture and precision, observing every movement with hawklike patience. Zendo's shooting was undeniably impressive, but even so, he lagged behind Sylar by a clear margin.
Next came number three, Vorg. His stance and precision were only average compared to the others, but the moment he fired, it became clear what placed him in the top ranks. His metallic alloy bones allowed him to absorb and redistribute recoil with incredible efficiency—better even than Sylar. Each shot looked effortless, the rifle stabilizing in his hands with unnatural ease.
Following Vorg was number four, Michael. He carried a solemn, almost haunted presence. Pale skin, sharp features, and white hair gave him a ghostly appearance, while a faint red glow pulsed from his right eye.
When his turn ended, a deep frown settled over his face. Of the four recruits so far, he performed the weakest—still impressive by normal standards, but clearly below Sylar, Zendo, and Vorg.
Finally, recruit number five stepped forward: Arthur.
Arthur looked worn down, as if life had hammered him harder than any battlefield ever could. His rugged face was bruised, and thick, unkempt hair clung to his forehead. Yet neither Sylar nor the others looked down on him. His narrowed, intense eyes radiated a quiet determination powerful enough to crush exhaustion itself.
From the very first moment, everyone saw he was different.
His stance—nearly flawless. So flawless, in fact, that Captain Lancel seemed to struggle to find anything to correct. And when Arthur began firing, even Sylar felt a jolt of shock.
By the fifth round, all his bullets had torn through the exact same hole as the first. The surrounding marks showed slight dispersion, but it was still performance on a level that surpassed even Sylar's best attempt.
When it came to marksmanship, Arthur was unquestionably number one.