As a veteran soldier who had handled firearms for decades, Colonel Phillips firmly believed that the gun in his hand was the best partner a man could have. To him, compared to a pistol, throwing knives were children's toys—utterly inferior in power, accuracy, and sustained fire.
"Colonel, I don't quite agree," Chen Mo said calmly, shaking his head. "Used properly, a throwing knife can be just as deadly as a gun."
Phillips's stubborn streak flared at the hint of disagreement.
"Oh yeah? Then let's find out," he said with a smirk. "Let's see which is stronger—your knives or my gun."
The colonel, confident in his marksmanship, was determined to prove his point with hard evidence—and maybe humble this cocky young man. Chen Mo only smiled faintly. Since the colonel was asking for it, he didn't mind granting his wish.
—
The shooting range. Mixed target zone.
Both men stood at their respective positions. In front of each of them, three steel targets stood at 30, 50, and 80 meters. Agent Carter, reluctantly pulled in as referee, stood off to the side watching the two men square off like a pair of schoolboys.
Phillips assumed a perfect textbook stance—feet apart, shoulders relaxed, both hands gripping the pistol, eyes locked firmly down the sights.
Chen Mo, by contrast, appeared relaxed, one hand resting lightly on the throwing knives at his waist, poised to strike.
"Begin!" Carter called out.
In an instant, Chen Mo drew a knife and snapped his arm forward.
A flash of silver cut through the air—straight and true—striking dead center on the target.
A sharp metallic screech rang out as the blade tore through the steel plate. Half the knife buried itself in the target, locked tight in place.
At the same time, the colonel fired. His pistol barked, smoke curling from the muzzle as the bullet spun downrange and slammed into the steel with a dull clang. The impact left a dent—but failed to pierce through.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Shots and knives flew in rapid succession until each man had fired fifteen times.
When the final echoes faded, both stood quietly as Carter walked downrange to check the results.
She began with the 30-meter target. Chen Mo's knives had all punched clean through the steel, each one dead center. The precision—and sheer force—made her heart skip.
Composing herself, she checked Phillips's target next and called out,
"Thirty meters! Chen Mo—fifty points! Colonel—fifty points!"
Neither man reacted. The colonel wasn't surprised; if Chen Mo had dared to challenge him, the kid must have had some skill. Still, he was confident the longer distances would expose the difference.
Carter moved on to the 50-meter line. Curiosity won out; she checked Chen Mo's target first. The knives had again pierced the plates, all clustered in the center. The penetration was less—about ten centimeters deep—but still more than enough to punch through a man's body.
"Fifty meters! Chen Mo—fifty points! Colonel—fifty points!"
Phillips let out a quiet breath of relief. His aim today was solid; that distance wasn't always a perfect round for him. But as he glanced at Chen Mo's target, surprise crept in. Hitting bull's-eyes at fifty meters with throwing knives? That kind of accuracy was unreal. Still, he couldn't wait to see the eighty-meter results.
Carter arrived at the final targets. The sight left her momentarily speechless.
All five of Chen Mo's knives were sunk deep into the bull's-eye; the blades jutted out six centimeters from the back of the steel plate—still lethal even at eighty meters.
The colonel's plate, by comparison, bore only five shallow dents, scattered far apart.
Taking a breath, Carter raised her voice:
"Eighty meters! Chen Mo—fifty points! Colonel—thirty-two points!"
"What?!" Phillips blurted out. "That's impossible!"
Eighty meters—and every knife hit dead center? He stared at Chen Mo like he was some kind of monster.
"Colonel, you might want to take a closer look," Carter said, her tone edged with amusement.
"What's there to see? Fine, fine, I admit it," Phillips muttered, red-faced. Being completely outclassed—especially by something he'd dismissed as a toy—was a bitter pill to swallow. But Carter didn't move, still waiting expectantly.
"Let me guess," he grumbled as he walked toward her. "You just want me to admire how badly I lost."
Yet as he approached and saw the knives embedded deep in the steel, his expression shifted to disbelief. The power behind those blades… even rifles might not do better.
The outcome was obvious. The colonel's prized M1911 was no match for Chen Mo's knives. In power, range, and accuracy, the knives won outright. Even in sustained fire, Chen Mo easily overtook him whenever Phillips paused to reload.
Thirty meters, fifty, eighty—Chen Mo had dominated them all.
Phillips could only concede that, in the right hands, a throwing knife was no weaker than a gun.
Of course, it made sense. A trained soldier could kill at ten meters with a thrown blade—but with Chen Mo's strength and speed, the result was devastating.
Phillips couldn't help but sigh. In the hands of a truly powerful man, even the simplest weapon could become something terrifying.
Still, the stubborn old colonel wasn't ready to swallow defeat. Scowling at the knives stuck in the target, he said grudgingly,
"Alright, kid, I'll admit I underestimated you. But tell me this—how many of those things can you carry in a real fight? Ten? Twenty?"
He patted the gun at his hip and barked, "When the shooting starts, you'll still need a gun to survive!"
At last, his real challenge came through.
"Kid, you've got the guts to test your shooting against mine?"
Carter groaned, covering her face.
Chen Mo looked at the fuming colonel and nearly laughed. The man was asking to be humiliated again—how could he refuse?
"I haven't practiced with guns for very long," Chen Mo said evenly.
The colonel smirked, thinking he'd found an excuse. But then Chen Mo added,
"…but I doubt anyone can beat my aim."