Chapter 242: One Month, Twenty Thousand Rifles

Chapter 242: One Month, Twenty Thousand Guns

Whether a missile will detonate is beyond Chen Jian’s control, but the water‑pipe gun workshop equipment that He Shuo demanded has indeed been set into motion.

According to Fuxi’s projection, with a daily output of five hundred rifles and the subsequent expansion needs, all the machinery can finish production within thirty‑six hours.

Astoundingly fast, yet entirely plausible.

The apparatus required for this contraption is hardly complex at all; the core consists of a single stamping press and dozens of molds, while small‑scale drilling, grinding and cutting tools are easy to procure, and even the cutter can be counted among the essential equipment.

What? You mentioned welding?

Welding? Nonsense.

The Sideng submachine gun at least has a welded stock, but by He Shuo’s design, the rifle he christened the “2375‑type”, abbreviated the 75‑type, short assault rifle possesses no stock whatsoever.

After all, for the level of the wasteland’s ordinary folk, shoulder‑firing simply does not exist.

How does one fire an AK?

Not to brace it, but to press it, brother!

Thus, under this design, sights and optics are needless.

As for Picatinny rails, grips, hand‑guards, recoil buffers—

What are you talking about?

I don’t understand.

In the original blueprint, He Shuo didn’t even want a handguard.

His notion was to make the side magazine a fixed, two‑piece split design, borrowing from the CZ‑75, so the shooter could simply grip the magazine and fire.

That way, if the barrel were to break, swapping it would be straightforward.

In the end, Fuxi did not discard his idea, because a handguard is not hard to fabricate, and saving a few man‑hours was unnecessary.

Consequently, guided by He Shuo’s brutally straightforward thinking, on the morning of Chen Jian’s return to Base 011, the first prototype of the 75‑type short assault rifle rolled off the line without a hitch.

Chen Jian, his emotions a tangled knot, received the gun—more a curiosity than a weapon—from the ant‑swarm robot, and one by one, from the top down, loaded thirty rounds into the fixed magazine, or rather the ammunition chamber.

“Could we also make a long magazine for this thing? Like a Galand, with that satisfying click when it’s loaded—adds a bit of ceremony.”

“Come on, give it a rest.”

Leijie, his face a mask of disdain, stared at the gun in Chen Jian’s hands and then said:

“You still want that click? Whether it will go ‘bang’ later is anyone’s guess.”

“Find a robot to test‑fire it; I’m afraid it might explode and take you apart.”

“Chief, according to the simulation data, the 75‑type’s chance of a catastrophic failure is less than one in a thousand—quite reliable.”

Fuxi’s voice rang in his ear.

“One in a thousand and you call it reliable?”

Leijie stared, dumbfounded.

“I can’t imagine any firearm where one out of every thousand shots might blow up—anyway, I don’t need one.”

“You don’t need one; plenty of people do.”

Chen Jian snorted and said:

“No matter how junky it is, it’s still a burst‑fire rifle.”

“You haven’t noticed? In this world, burst‑fire rifles are rare treasures.”

“This piece instantly outclassed the ordinary flintlock used by the regular clergy troops; best of all, based on the market price of metal in Jinling City, the gun is worth about three grams of gold—roughly three days’ worth of food for an average person.”

“All things considered, it’s far cheaper than a Sideng, isn’t it?”

“That’s because you haven’t counted machine labor costs nor manpower expenses.”

Leijie said helplessly:

“If you factor everything in, it’s not cheap at all.”

“Converted to RMB using grain prices, it’s barely two hundred yuan.”

At that point, Leijie even laughed at himself.

Two hundred yuan for a gun is about the cost of a decent midnight snack.

He shuddered to imagine what would happen if this contraption appeared in his own era and were sold without regulation.

“Two hundred is two hundred.”

Chen Jian hefted the barrel and mused:

“It’s surprisingly hefty—shall we take it out for a spin?”

“Fire away, put on the armor.” “I know, I’m not foolish.”

Obediently, Chen Jian donned his exoskeleton, gathered a few companions, slung the rifle, and walked out of the bunker.

He drew a deep breath, left hand gripping the handguard, right hand on the grip, and assumed a textbook hip‑fire stance, aiming at a distant tree trunk.

Then he pulled the trigger.

“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang—”

The bullets burst from the barrel, the vast majority striking the trunk thirty metres away with pinpoint accuracy.

“What the—?!”

“This thing is surprisingly accurate!”

Chen Jian exclaimed, then emptied the rest of the ammunition chamber.

A wisp of blue‑gray smoke curled from the muzzle as Chen Jian cycled the bolt, confirmed the chamber empty, and, with a tactical flashlight, gave the barrel a quick glance.

“The rifling wear is virtually invisible, powder residue is minimal; if needed, a simple water rinse will do.”

“This contraption truly is a wasteland’s super‑weapon.”

Speaking, he stepped toward the far‑off trunk.

The bullet lodged deep, its penetrative force impressive.

“Its power should roughly equal that of a Galil, right? Can it reach that?”

“Hardly.”

Leijie pursed his lips, reluctantly conceding:

“But it’s sufficient; against a two‑ or three‑metre‑tall creature—say the fungus‑people we met before, or the giant mantis from our first encounter—a single burst would finish it.”

“Fine, I’m voting in favour despite my reservations.”

“Technical purity is overrated; usefulness is king.”

Those words almost made Chen Jian laugh out loud.

“If you’re in favour, that’s settled—unanimous approval.”

“Let’s start production; our goal is to churn out at least twenty‑thousand rifles within a month.”

“Twenty thousand?”

Season Star, who had been silently trailing the two of them like a spectator, could no longer hold her tongue.

What does twenty thousand even mean?

These are twenty thousand fully‑automatic rifles!

The Mechanical Cult had toiled for ages, yet all it managed was a clunky, unwieldy “Conqueror” multi‑barrel gun, its output frightfully meager.

But now.

She had scarcely left Base 011, and the new weapon of the Huaxia army was already sketched.

Within a single night after the design, the guns were forged.

And in the span of a month, twenty thousand would be produced.

She could no longer fathom such efficiency.

Though she knew in broad strokes what lathes, workshops, and assembly lines were, she was still struck with awe.

Seeing Chen Jian glance back at her, she cleared her throat and hurried to explain:

“I’m merely astonished; even assembly alone cannot be that simple.”

“Aren’t we about to bring in the troops right away?”

Chen Jian scratched his head, glanced at the refugees roused by the gunfire, peeking from their huts and shacks to assess the scene, then spoke:

“You’ve reminded me—we must train them in advance.”

“Indeed, the next couple of days will be relatively calm; this glorious yet arduous task falls to you!”

“Huh? Me?”

Season Star was stunned.

She glanced at the rifle Chen Jian handed her, then at the bewildered refugees in the distance, and for the first time truly sensed that, now that the industrial age had dawned, there remained a vast expanse of knowledge she had yet to master.

(End of Chapter)