The laughter started before the boy even reached the firing line.
The National Precision Championship was packed.
Sponsored competitors.
Reporters.
Television cameras.
Thousands of spectators.
And then he appeared.
A thin teenage boy wearing a faded gray hoodie and an old baseball cap.
No sponsors.
No official uniform.
No professional equipment.
He walked straight toward the registration desk.
Several spectators lifted their phones and began recording.
The head judge raised an eyebrow.
“Who is that?”
The boy didn’t answer.
He simply handed over a folded registration form.
The official examined it.
His expression changed instantly.
“He’s been cleared to compete.”
The conversations faded.
Now, every eye was fixed on him.
From the competitors’ area, the national champion, Javier Mendoza, smirked confidently.
Three consecutive titles.
Dozens of sponsors.
Thousands of devoted fans.
“This should be entertaining.”
The laughter returned.
The boy made his way toward the inspection area.
He picked up the rifle.
He inspected it for barely two seconds.
Then continued forward.
No sign of nervousness.
No rush.
Without acknowledging the crowd.
Something about the way he walked caught the veteran referee’s attention.
He seemed far too calm.
Far too confident.
The young man stepped into the shooting position.
The flags fluttered gently in the breeze.
The entire range fell silent.
Javier folded his arms.
“Five shots,” he said.
“Let’s see how long this lasts.”
A few people laughed again.
The boy positioned the rifle.
He took a slow, steady breath.
Then settled into a flawless stance.
So flawless that the veteran referee dropped his pen.
Because he had seen that posture before.
Many years ago.
In only one person.
The camera slowly zoomed in on the teenager.
He aligned the scope.
The wind seemed to vanish.
The laughter disappeared.
Everything disappeared.
Then…
BOOM.
A single shot thundered across the entire range.
And the referee shot to his feet.
Because he had just recognized the hidden tattoo beneath the young man’s sleeve.
PART 2
The echo of the gunshot still lingered across the range when the veteran referee began to walk.
Not toward the target.
Toward the boy.
The entire crowd looked confused.
Javier smirked.
“What is this? Are they inspecting shots out of sympathy now?”
A few spectators laughed.
But the referee didn’t react.
His eyes were fixed on the teenager’s arm.
The sleeve of the gray hoodie had slipped back a few inches.
Just enough.
Just enough to reveal an old tattoo.
The referee’s heart began to pound.
Because he recognized that symbol.
He had seen it more than twenty years earlier.
Only one person had ever worn it.
Mateo Salazar.
The legend of competitive shooting.
The man who vanished after a mysterious accident.
The man many believed to be the greatest marksman the sport had ever known.
The referee stopped in front of the teenager.
“Who are you?”
The boy hesitated for a few seconds.
Then he answered.
“My name is Diego Salazar.”
A heavy silence swept over the field.
The color drained from the referee’s face.
“Salazar?”
The teenager nodded.
“He was my father.”
Whispers immediately spread through the crowd.
Javier’s smile disappeared.
For the first time, he looked uneasy.
Just then, a technician came sprinting from the target area.
He was visibly shaken.
Breathing hard.
“You all need to come and see this!”
Everyone turned toward him.
The electronic scoreboards lit up.
And the crowd froze.
Because the shot hadn’t missed.
It hadn’t merely struck the bullseye.
It had passed precisely through the hole of a shot fired years earlier during a historic exhibition.
The very shot that had transformed Mateo Salazar into a legend.
One impact through another.
Perfect down to the millimeter.
As though time itself had reversed.
As though the father had pulled the trigger once again.
The laughter vanished.
Javier slowly lowered his arms.
And the referee could barely whisper,
“That’s impossible…”
Then Diego raised his head.
He looked the national champion straight in the eyes.
And said,
“That was only the first shot.
I still have four left.”
