The next day, Robert picked up a batch of guns and tools from Weasel and got to work.
As soon as he started modifying the weapons, the Super High School-Level Sharpshooter talent kicked in again—an instinctive familiarity rushing through him like muscle memory.
Without even thinking, Robert could clearly distinguish the purpose of every part. Complex data and performance parameters floated naturally through his mind, like they had always been there.
With that instinct guiding him, it didn't take long for Robert to finish modifying his first pistol.
The result?
The power of the pistol had more than doubled compared to an ordinary sidearm—yet the recoil hadn't increased at all.
Unlike Frank's heavy, modified Browning (which packed a punch but would rip a normal man's wrists apart), Robert's custom work was pure balance: powerful, fast, and surprisingly smooth.
Honestly, if he threw this thing on the black market, someone would call it black tech.
But Robert wasn't done.
Instead of keeping the finished pistol, he disassembled it, rebuilt it along a new design, tested different combinations. Every failure, every tweak, pushed his instincts even deeper.
With every weapon he touched, his experience visibly improved at an astonishing rate.
In just a few days, Robert had transformed himself into a true firearms expert.
It was then that Robert understood something about Super High School-Level Talents.
They weren't simple plug-and-play skills.
They were potential—a bottomless well of ability that needed to be practiced, trained, and refined through real work.
And the more he practiced, the more terrifying that potential became.
Five days later, Robert stood in the middle of a deserted open field on the outskirts of the city.
One thing he had to admit: if America had anything going for it, it was the abundance of empty land.
Finding a spot without a soul in sight was easy.
After scanning the surroundings and making sure the coast was clear, Robert lowered his hands casually.
With a slight flick of his wrists, twin pistols popped into his hands from hidden spring-loaded holsters built into his sleeves.
His pupils shrank.
Adrenaline surged through his veins.
His brain fired up, rapidly calculating dozens of variables in the environment—angles, distances, bullet trajectories, wind speed—all mapped out like a perfect 3D model inside his mind.
Without a single wasted motion, Robert pivoted sharply.
Both guns erupted in synchronized muzzle flashes.
Bang bang bang bang—!
The muffled bursts filled the air, but it wasn't the slow rhythm of an amateur—it sounded more like the rapid fire of twin submachine guns.
Every movement Robert made was tight, precise. His body turned and flowed with each shot, each pivot syncing perfectly to the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
This wasn't random wild shooting.
It was a dance.
Fluid, lethal, beautiful.
When the magazines ran dry, Robert flipped his wrists sharply, letting the empty clips fall to the ground.
Before they even hit the dirt, the spring-loaded mechanism in his sleeves ejected fresh magazines. Robert snapped them into place mid-motion without even looking.
The pistols roared to life again, with no break in rhythm—pure, seamless death.
More than ten seconds later, Robert's pupils slowly returned to normal.
Breathing a little heavily, he holstered his pistols and muttered under his breath:
"Super High School-Level Sharpshooter... really is insane."
This was only the second time Robert had fully entered Bullet Time.
But each time, he could feel his mastery growing.
Under Bullet Time, his perception expanded wildly, calculations became instant, and his accuracy shot up to nearly perfect.
Every bullet counted.
Every bullet was lethal.
And with the custom pistols he'd built—optimized for speed rather than raw power—Robert could unleash a stream of high-speed, armor-piercing shots faster than any normal gunman could even react.
It wasn't about hitting harder.
It was about hitting first.
And hitting in the right place.
The enemy wouldn't even have time to fire back.
Gunfighting techniques. Custom weapon mods. Bullet Time.
This... this was how the Super High School-Level Sharpshooter was truly meant to fight.
Finished with his training session, Robert reloaded and headed home.
As he passed an abandoned construction site, something caught his eye.
Two figures, one large and one small, stood in the middle of the lot.
They looked like a father and daughter—though there was a strange distance between them.
Robert paused, frowning.
Before he could take a closer look, he saw the man—presumably the father—suddenly raise a pistol and aim it straight at the girl.
What the hell—?!
Instinct kicked in.
Robert's perception snapped into Bullet Time again.
His pistol slipped silently from his sleeve.
A flick of the wrist.
A single shot.
The bullet curved gracefully through the air.
CRACK!
Two sharp sounds echoed through the lot.
In the blink of an eye, Robert's bullet struck another bullet mid-flight—deflecting it before it could hit the girl.
To the outside observer, it all happened in a blur.
The little girl, seeing her father raise the gun at her, instinctively closed her eyes—waiting for the pain.
Instead, there was only a sharp metallic clang.
Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes.
Her father was still standing there, frozen in shock.
The gun dangled limply in his hand.
"Big Daddy...?" she called out softly.
No response.
The man's wide eyes were locked onto something near their feet.
Two bullets lay on the ground—fused together in a twisted, almost artistic collision.
One had punched sideways through the other at a perfect ninety-degree angle.
It didn't even make sense.
Both sides of the alley were solid walls.
There was no visible source, no sniper, no hidden shooter.
Yet somehow... a bullet had come out of nowhere and saved the girl at the last possible second.
[End of Chapter 31]
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