America: Starting from collecting corpses, leveling up to godhood

Forty minutes later, at MacArthur Park.

Chen Ming pushed open the heavy security door, and the familiar smell of mildew and gun oil hit him.

Behind the counter, Yuri was watching a video of an ice hockey game playing inside, holding a lottery ticket with an uncertain outcome. When he heard the doorbell ring, he just waved his hand impatiently.

"If you're here to be used as a microwave or to steal a bicycle, get out! Grandpa Yuri's in a bad mood tonight, he doesn't have time to play house with you addicts..."

"What if it were Sig Sauer and Glock?"

Yuri turned his bald head, saw that it was Chen Ming, and quickly put on a smile.

Clearly, he made a lot of money from the last transaction.

"Oh... look who's here, my friend, ghost from the East. What good things have you brought me this time?"

"See for yourself." Chen Ming took two pistols out of the bag.

One is a Sig Sauer P226, and the other is a Glock 17 with a grip added.

Although somewhat worn, to those in the know, these are still two treasures exuding a deadly allure.

"let me see……"

Yuri skillfully disassembled the slide, inspecting the rifling and firing pin of the barrel.

"It has extra parts, is well-maintained, and has no serial number... I'll take it for eight hundred dollars."

"Deal." Chen Ming didn't waste any words and took the banknotes Yuri handed him.

But instead of turning away as usual, he tapped his fingers lightly on the counter.

"Yuri, since you're so knowledgeable, could you show me the way?"

"Give directions?" Yuri raised an eyebrow.

"I want to find a shooting range... a place where they don't need to check IDs and don't care if the toys I'm holding are California compliant," Chen Ming said in a low voice.

Although he had previously taken down two seasoned gunmen in the sewers with a bare-handed ambush, the shot they fired at Marcus before they died still served as a reminder to Chen Ming.

In a country where everyone owns a gun, he doesn't need to rely solely on his fists for self-defense; traditional American martial arts are clearly more cost-effective.

"I want to practice, but I don't want to be watched by administrators who are obsessed with political correctness."

"Hahaha, looking for a free place? You've come to the right person, Comrade Comrade..."

Yuri pulled a black information card with a wolf's head printed on it from under the counter and tossed it to Chen Ming.

"Back when I was driving a T-72 tank chasing guerrillas through the mountains of Afghanistan, I realized that a gun is a man's second life—you don't need to follow those sissy rules when practicing shooting."

"Let's go to 'Coyote Canyon.' The owner, Old Joe, is a crazy old man who used to be a Marine. His temper is worse than the rattlesnakes there."

Chen Ming took the card and started searching. He frowned as he looked at the "110 miles" displayed on the navigation.

"I just want to practice shooting, and I have to drive for two hours?"

"Trust me, Chen," Yuri chuckled.

"Only in the desert can you shoot freely. You can't train good shooters at those indoor shooting ranges that sissies play around with. Besides, nobody cares where you got your gun or whether you blew the mannequin's head to smithereens... and they provide very realistic 'mannequins,' you know."

After thinking for a moment, Chen Ming picked up the card.

"Thanks, Yuri."

"Don't thank me yet," Yuri said, exhaling a puff of smoke.

"The stuff you've been bringing me lately is really good... Once you've improved your marksmanship, maybe we can talk about some big business deals besides the dead's belongings."

"We'll see when the time comes."

……

The next morning.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the smog of Los Angeles, Chen Ming's Ford roared onto Interstate 14, speeding north towards the Mojave Desert.

As skyscrapers gradually shrink to the size of matchboxes in the rearview mirror, the surrounding scenery begins to appear rugged.

The Joshua trees stood like twisted guards on the cracked yellow earth. Occasionally, a few tumbleweeds lazily rolled across the asphalt road. The hip-hop music on the car radio had long since lost signal, replaced by folk songs mixed with crackling static.

The air was dry and scorching hot; every breath felt like swallowing a mouthful of hot sand, filled with a "wild" flavor.

After a bumpy twenty-minute ride, a wooden sign riddled with holes appeared crookedly in Chen Ming's view, with a few words scrawled on it in red paint.

【COYOTE VALLEY RANGE】

Below the wooden sign, there was a line of even smaller characters.

[Those who trespass will be shot; survivors will be shot again.]

"They are so hospitable..."

Chen Ming muttered a complaint and slammed on the gas, sending the wooden sign flying.

This place doesn't look like a proper shooting range; it's more like a post-apocalyptic junkyard.

The ground was littered with gleaming bronze bullet casings, which shone blindingly in the blazing sun. Instead of neatly arranged targets in the distance, there were several wrecked Chevrolet cars, rusty washing machines, and plastic mannequins hanging from wooden stakes, their fragments flying everywhere under the bombardment of bullets of various calibers.

"Bang! Bang!"

"Da da da—"

The gunshots were deafening; without earplugs, it was pure torture.

Dozens of burly rednecks, some shirtless and others wearing tactical vests, stood beside their respective pickup truck beds, unleashing a barrage of fire on the wrecked trucks with everything from old WWII rifles to the latest AR-15s. In the distance, someone was even fiddling with a Maxim rifle…

This is California's lawless zone.

Trevor first appeared in this scene in a certain game.

When Chen Ming's huge food truck, bearing the sign "Son of Soul," drove into the venue, the previously noisy shooting range fell into a brief silence.

To these tough guys driving F150s or Dodge Rams, a food truck appearing here is as out of place as a stripper barging into a monastery...

Chen Ming calmly turned off the engine, opened the car door, and jumped out.

He was dressed casually today, in a white T-shirt and jeans, with a bulging waist, looking harmless.

Hey! Delivery guy!

A burly man with a full beard and wearing a red baseball cap whistled at Chen Ming.

"If you're here to sell food, you're too late. We just ate a whole roasted pig... but if you have some ice-cold beer in your car, we wouldn't mind buying two cases!"

A burst of laughter immediately erupted around them.

"Sorry, I'm not selling food today. I'm here to see Old Joe."

"Looking for Old Joe?"

Upon hearing this, the burly man pointed to the shipping container next to him.

"Old Joe's in there taking care of his precious things, but he has a bad temper, especially towards city folks who come here with toy guns to take pictures and post on Instagram..."

"Thanks for reminding me."

Chen Ming ignored the laughter and strange looks around him and walked straight over.

Before he even got close, he heard a burst of angry curses coming from inside, delivered in a heavy southern accent.

"Damn it, how many times have I told you not to use that damn WD40 on the spray gun barrel? That's for door hinges, not precision machinery! You bunch of idiots with cow dung in your heads..."