Farming Life Starting in Africa

In the wasteland east of the Uller, the sun had already begun to set, but it was still scorching hot, making the stones on the ground scorching. Looking into the distance, waves of heat rose in waves, distorting the distant scenery with their steam.

On a small hillside, Rosen lay there, motionless like a stone. He had a brand-new M40A3 sniper rifle propped up on a flat mound of earth, the butt against his shoulder, his eyes fixed on a wine bottle 1200 meters away through the scope.

Swage was sitting under the parasol next to him, legs crossed, looking at the bottle with a rangefinder.

A wind blew from the left, carrying a dry, hot breeze that rustled the grass and was mixed with the distant cawing of some unknown animal.

After a while, Rosen's fingers moved. He gently tapped—

"Smack."

The sound was crisp. About ten centimeters away from the bottle, a small cloud of dust popped up with a "poof".

Swage put down the observation scope, wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, and slowly began to speak: "You need to figure out the Magnus effect and the Coriolis force—we're in the Northern Hemisphere, so the trajectory will veer to the right a little. Besides, at distances over a kilometer, crosswinds and air currents will all cause problems; you can't just rely on your gut feeling, you have to trust physics."

Rosen nodded, calmly took a 7.62×51mm NATO round from his ammunition pouch, inserted it, chambered it with a click, and then aimed at it.

This time, he silently recalculated the trajectory in his mind, and then pulled the trigger—

"Snapped!"

The wine bottle in the distance exploded completely, shards of glass flying everywhere.

"You're really talented." Swagger said, looking through his binoculars at the shards of broken glass in the distance, his voice tinged with admiration. "In just two days, you've reached a level that most people can't achieve in a lifetime."

He sighed as he spoke, the image of that drone flashing through his mind again—that thing was a nightmare on the battlefield, specifically designed to kill snipers.

When he returned, Rosen showed him several drone accessories, including night vision goggles and infrared thermal imaging—it was all there. On the battlefield, with enough patience, any sniper would be doomed if they encountered that thing.

Rosen remained lying there, not even raising his head, his voice muffled: "I'm still far behind you. I can't hit anything past 1400 meters."

Swagger was speechless after hearing this. He glanced at the gun in Rosen's hand; Rosen had made it himself, and the stock even had a special camouflage finish. It was indeed much more refined than his own.

The problem is that this gun is designed to have an effective range of 1,400 meters; beyond that, you can forget about hitting anything accurately.

His accuracy wasn't as good as Rosen's; at best, he could hit targets a thousand meters away, and beyond that, it was all down to luck. Rosen actually performed slightly better with this gun, but this guy insisted on practicing with targets beyond the effective range—wasn't he just making things difficult for himself?

"This gun doesn't have enough range," Swagger said, licking his fingers to get them wet, sensing the direction and approximate speed of the wind.

"Just switch to the M82A1M tomorrow. Besides, at such a long distance, you have to take into account all the factors that can affect the trajectory—wind direction, humidity, temperature, Earth's rotation, none of them can be overlooked, including the Coriolis force."

Rosen nodded, finally getting up from the ground and brushing the dirt off his clothes. He knew in his heart that this distance was actually enough for him; the real danger was right under his nose. He was learning to shoot only to make up for his weaknesses; he never thought of actually becoming a sniper.

Swagger had noticed Rosen's rifle-holding posture yesterday, and he'd always found it rather strange. Rosen didn't follow the rules; it wasn't the standard shooting stance. Instead, he held the rifle at his waist and pulled the trigger with almost no aiming.

Within 200 meters, he could basically hit any target. At 400 meters, a burst of bullets would always result in several hitting the target. The muzzle climb of a regular rifle seemed to be no problem for him; he was incredibly steady.

Rosen's shooting method was something he saw in instructional videos of the US and German armies during World War II. This method was particularly suitable for shooting in motion, and even more outrageous was his shooting stability.

With such precision at this distance, you'd be a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield—the enemy wouldn't even have time to react before they were down.

Through his observations over the past few days, Swag discovered that Rosen's reaction speed and strength far exceeded those of ordinary people.

He hadn't had his physical fitness officially tested yet, but he figured he was no match for Rosen. Besides, Rosen was only in his early twenties, in the prime of his youth, while he was almost forty; he couldn't compete.

"You're really wasting your talent. If you were on the battlefield, you would definitely be a killing machine."

Rosen smiled modestly and slung the gun sling over his shoulder: "Even someone like you would be outmatched."

"Heh." Swagger shook his head, flicking away his cigarette ash. "Snipers are a rare breed. During training, we're not even required to hit targets over a kilometer away. Do you know how many people in the world can hit targets over 1,500 meters? You can count them on two hands."

"In movies, they're always two or three thousand meters apart, one shot, and they're down."

"That's a movie," Swagger said seriously. "My record is probably the best among the available shooters right now. Even with preparation, I can only hit targets more than two kilometers away. Anything beyond that depends on luck. If the wind speed is off by one degree or the temperature difference is two degrees, you never know where the bullet will end up."

"Heh, okay." Rosen crouched down and started picking up the spent cartridge cases from the ground. "I'm still curious how you shot down that plane?"

Swagger's face darkened instantly, as if he'd swallowed a fly, and he remained silent for a long time. Finally, he said dryly, "Just lucky. Normally, it's very difficult to hit a vital spot. If it were something like a Black Hawk, unless you gave me a Stinger, all other weapons would be useless, and I definitely wouldn't have survived. That day was truly a blessing from God."

"Heh, alright." Rosen put the spent cartridge into his pocket. "What are you planning to do when you get back?"

"Go back and find a job for now," Swagger said, his voice heavy as he looked at the distant wasteland. "I need money. My brother probably won't get his pension, and his wife is likely to have a hard time."

Rosen nodded, not wanting to offer any advice, "I'll contact you again if I have the chance to go to America in the future."