High Martial Arts: From Mechanic to Sword Immortal

Chapter 73 The terrifying uses of the Spirit Vision talent!

Han Feng cut off the fighter jet's power, pushed open the heavy cockpit canopy, and climbed down the boarding stairs to the ground.

Just now, I activated my [Spiritual Vision] talent in the sky. That high-dimensional vision, which stripped away the physical appearance and directly perceived the source of energy, was indeed extremely useful, but it also severely depleted my mental energy.

At this moment, his temples were throbbing, and his muscles were aching slightly from the long-term high-overload.

"Technician Han, you flew way too fast this time."

Ground crew member Lao Zhang rushed over pushing the ammunition replenishment cart. He had just pulled open the maintenance panel of the weapon pod under the belly of the "Grey Donkey" when he froze.

The long ammunition feed belt was empty.

"All 1,000 30mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds, used up?" Old Zhang turned to look at Han Feng, his face full of astonishment.

The other fighter jets of the Sharp Sword Society went to patrol the perimeter, and even Wang Meng, who consumed the most ammunition, only fired a few dozen rounds.

Han Feng's old support aircraft, which had the worst maneuverability, managed to empty a whole box of ammunition completely.

This is a whopping 50,000 Alliance Contribution Points, real money.

Just then, the armored blast doors surrounding the farm slowly opened.

Three heavy-duty diesel trucks rumbled along the muddy dirt road and drove into the spoils collection area next to Hangar No. 7.

The truck bed was piled high with the corpses of monsters.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of blood and burning.

Wang Meng had just jumped out of his fighter jet and followed the scent. He stepped onto the truck tire and peered into the cargo bed, immediately swearing.

"Han Feng, did you do all of this?"

At the very top of the carriage, a dozen or so tin pigs were piled up haphazardly.

Looking down, there was also half of the remains of a Windblade Wolf.

A mutated pangolin at the peak of the first tier.

This thing is the size of a small armored vehicle, and the scales on its back are even harder than first-tier black tungsten gold.

But at this moment, two fist-sized holes have appeared on the pangolin's carapace.

Deputy Director Zhou Ping, carrying an electronic calculator, led several inventory clerks to quickly calculate the figures beside the train carriage.

"I've figured it out!"

Zhou Ping handed the data to Han Feng.

"Although the iron-skinned pig is not worth much, the parts you hit were all in the eye sockets and neck, and the skin and meat were not damaged at all. We will sell it at the highest purchase price."

Add to that this exceptionally well-preserved, peak-tier first-order pangolin, and those few Windblade Wolves—

"A total of 115,000 contribution points have been earned. After deducting the 50,000 points for your box of ammunition, and then deducting the Sharp Sword Guild's 30% cut, your net profit is 30,500 points!"

The surroundings fell into a deathly silence.

After working 4 hours, I earned a net profit of over 30,000 contribution points after deducting all costs.

This speed at which they're making money has already put all the members of the Sharp Sword Society's first team to shame.

Wang Meng rubbed his face vigorously, shouting in a gruff voice, "Han Feng, what you're piloting isn't a support aircraft, it's a money-printing machine!"

Han Feng didn't reply, but simply took the identity terminal handed to him by Zhou Ping and swiped it.

Looking at the fluctuating balance in my account, I finally felt a little more at ease.

In this wasteland where people eat each other, the numbers in your account are your greatest source of confidence to survive.

"Alright, let's eat first."

Han Feng was so hungry that his stomach was practically sticking to his back. He headed straight for the cafeteria. "I hauled too much cargo earlier, and my stomach is empty."

Half an hour later, at the farm's canteen.

Han Feng, carrying a stainless steel basin bigger than his face, sat on a table in the corner and swept away the dirt like crazy.

The basin was piled high with braised black mountain pork stewed until tender in a pressure cooker, with a thick layer of steaming purple rice underneath.

While others use chopsticks to eat, Han Feng simply slurps his food down with a spoon.

Once the total Qi and Blood of a Body Tempering Level 8 cultivator, amounting to 950 points, is depleted, the body's thirst for energy becomes an uncontrollable biological instinct.

The raw spiritual energy contained in the monster meat transformed into a scalding hot current as it traveled down the esophagus. It was quickly broken down by the breathing techniques of the Sword Control Technique, filling the empty meridians.

As Han Feng chewed on the meat, he repeatedly recalled the sensation he felt when he broke through to the "Master" level and released his sword energy in the sky.

In that instant, he could clearly feel that what he was shooting out was no longer a simple ball of blood and qi energy.

The mastery-level initiation of knowledge allowed him to alter the microscopic structure of energy in an extremely short period of time.

High-frequency spiral, extreme compression.

The originally loose blood and qi were forcibly twisted into an extremely sharp rope, tightly attached to the 30mm shell.

He felt that the power had increased significantly, but he was still unsure of the exact extent of the increase.

Fire a cannon from the sky; each bullet costs fifty contribution points.

Moreover, the fighter jet was in a high-speed motion, and the battlefield environment was changing rapidly. He simply couldn't see the physical process of this "spiral sword energy" cutting through the armor at that moment.

If you can't see the details clearly, you can't further optimize the output structure of Qi and blood.

We need to find a low-cost place to properly test the limits of this skill.

"team leader."

Han Feng put down the empty basin in his hand, took out two rough tissues to wipe his mouth, and looked at Zhang Hao, who was slowly drinking tea across from him.

"Are there any shooting ranges on the farm where we can do live-fire shooting?"

Zhang Hao put down his teacup and glanced at him. "Yes. You want to practice shooting?"

"I was shooting at a moving target in the air just now, and I felt that the shooting was a bit unstable, and I couldn't control the recoil."

Han Feng casually made up an excuse: "I wanted to find a place to practice my aiming."

Wang Meng, who was gnawing on half a rib next to him, almost choked.

A thousand bullets brought back a dozen or so fully corpsed monsters. Is that what you call "unresponsive handling"?

If you get the feel right, will you be able to break through the earth's crust?

Zhang Hao didn't ask any more questions and pointed outside the door: "The waste area behind Hangar No. 3 was originally a shooting range for the farm's guard team."

Later, the entire guard unit was replaced with exoskeleton armor, and that place was left unused.

Nobody goes there usually, so you can just go there.

"Thanks." Han Feng stood up and walked straight out.

With nothing else to do, Wang Meng tossed the pork rib bones onto the table and shouted, "Young Master Gu, let's go see how our 'money-printing machine' practices shooting!"

Gu Yun didn't want to go; he thought the abandoned shooting range was too dirty.

But when he thought of the hole in the pangolin's back, his curiosity got the better of him, so he snorted, got up, and followed.

Behind hangar number three.

The shooting range was even more rudimentary than Han Feng had imagined.

Several discarded armor plates were stuck diagonally in the mud to serve as cover. A hundred meters away, layers of sandbags were piled up. The alloy target marks were already dented and riddled with bullet holes.

There was a tin shed in the corner of the shooting range.

An old man with gray hair and an old-fashioned hydraulic prosthesis on his right leg was sitting in a recliner, wiping the parts in his hands with an oilcloth.

Wang Meng lowered his voice and introduced to Han Feng: "This old man's nickname is 'Old Sick Man,' he used to be a sniper in the city defense army."

I heard that he later lost a leg to a second-tier monster in the battle zone, and after retiring, he was taken in by Chief Minefield to retire. He usually just manages this shooting range and warehouse.

Hearing footsteps, the old man didn't even raise his head. He took two puffs of his cheap cigarette with his dry lips and exhaled a pungent puff of smoke.

"You choose your own gun for target practice; they're hanging on the wall."

A standard brass bullet contributes two points per shot, while an armor-piercing bullet contributes ten points per shot.

Damaged bunkers will be compensated at the original price.

Han Feng walked to the wall of the tin shed and glanced at the row of long and short guns.

Most of them are low-end firearms that are readily available on the market.

He reached out and picked up a Thunderfire-3 assault rifle with a slightly polished surface.

This gun was an obsolete product of the Gaia Alliance field army. It was simple in structure, sturdy and durable, and had extremely strong recoil.

It's perfect for verifying mastery-level sword energy.

Han Feng gripped the handle with one hand and skillfully used his thumb to unlock the safety lock.

The gun looked shiny and new, but when Han Feng picked it up, he could feel an extremely slight shift in its center of gravity.

He closed his eyes, his mind stirring slightly.

The [Spiritual Vision] talent, which had just awakened at 30% progress in the cockpit, has been activated again.

The scene in sight instantly shed its material disguise. The dusty tin shed disappeared, replaced by halos of energy in various colors.

Han Feng looked down at the "Thunderfire-3" assault rifle in his hand.

Through the penetrating power of the spiritual vision, this weapon, made of alloy and engineering plastics, was transformed into an extremely clear three-dimensional perspective view.

The firing pin inside the barrel has irregular wear of 0.3 millimeters at its tip.

In the middle section of the recoil spring, metal fatigue leads to extremely uneven tension distribution.

Even the gunpowder residue on the edge of the gas port on the inner wall of the barrel, which was invisible to the naked eye and had not been wiped clean, was now clearly visible to Han Feng.

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