Each of them appears quite ordinary, even somewhat simple, but those who know their combat records understand that these are all formidable individuals.

In every battle, they've accumulated at least nine or ten kills, and the cold look that flashes in their eyes when they pick up a gun is enough to send a shiver down the spine.

"This sharpshooter wants to challenge our Hamlet. When you go out there now, don't disgrace me, understand?"

"Yes!" The soldiers stood at attention with their guns on their shoulders, chests out, exuding a vigorous spirit.

"Good! Very spirited!" Lance was pleased with his soldiers and turned to look at Margaret with a gesture, "Come on, getting into my Honor Guard isn't so simple."

Margaret's noble upbringing instilled a sense of fearlessness, "Let's begin."

People love a spectacle, and Lance didn't mind letting everyone take a break from intense training, so more soldiers gathered around.

There wasn't any scene where Hamlet's soldiers were shouting sexist remarks, followed by Margaret showing off and slapping faces.

Because those three sharpshooters were as cold as machines, they didn't waste any words; the target was in front of them, and the competition started instantly.

Then, after a round of shooting, things started going awry.

At the thirty-yard target, everyone hit the target, but Margaret hit the bullseye with precision, stunning the audience, and the other contestants felt the pressure.

In the second round at the fifty-yard stationary target, one contestant was eliminated, and shockingly, Margaret scored the highest again.

At this point, Lance sensed something was wrong; this marksmanship was exceptional.

If this continues, they're going to lose!

But Lance wasn't panicked at all; he still had Dismas and Barrett, two great generals.

"Go quickly..." Lance whispered to a nearby soldier.

Meanwhile, the competition continued.

In the third round at a hundred-yard stationary target, only Margaret scored, eliminating the remaining two.

They couldn't even compete on the most basic stationary targets, let alone moving targets and rapid shooting events.

The three soldiers' faces looked bad upon hearing the report of their scores. Even though typically only three out of ten would score at the hundred-yard target in practice, losing to an outsider like this made them feel ashamed of the Lord's trust.

The other soldiers who came to watch had mixed reactions. They came to watch the fun, not expecting it to end in a slaughter.

Lance had instilled them with confidence to diminish their fear of the nobility. These guys had been winning battles without any obstacles, their confidence growing into arrogance, which now seemed to be backfiring.

Lance noticed their reactions but didn't comment.

If he could use this opportunity to temper their arrogance, it might be beneficial for their growth.

After all, any mistake on the battlefield can be fatal, and the enemy won't care about you.

"They're coming!"

"It's Instructor Dismas and Barrett!"

"..."

To the soldiers' expectations, the two hurried over. They had been on vacation but came quickly at the Lord's call.

"Drinking again?" Lance smelled the alcohol on Dismas, guessing he just came from the tavern.

Dismas could only grin awkwardly in response.

Lance slightly frowned at this but didn't say anything, instead briefly introducing the situation.

"You two, don't underestimate her; Margaret easily knocked out our top ten musketeers." Lance reminded them, then instructed, "Dismas, you compete with her using pistols."

"Watch me, milord."

The Lord's warning made Dismas straighten up a bit from his carefree demeanor and step forward.

Most of these musketeers were trained by him; he knew their level. Getting eliminated so early in the competition meant this opponent was not simple.

"Let's skip the ten-yard target, go straight to thirty yards," Dismas said, instantly raising the difficulty. If she was a pro, no point wasting time on beginner levels.

These flintlock short-barreled pistols usually have an effective range of only ten yards; beyond that distance, they're inaccurate and not very powerful.

Thirty yards is almost the limit, sufficient control shows true skill.

Margaret didn't mind and drew her pistol from her hip to load it.

Though both were skilled, Dismas was faster loading with pre-loaded ammo.

Dismas raised his gun, aimed at the target, and without much aim, pulled the trigger.

With a "bang" and burst of fire, Dismas confidently holstered the gun, demonstrating what true confidence looks like.

Then the referee ran to inspect and shouted.

"Missed the target!"

Everyone stood stunned at these words.

Even Lance was momentarily taken aback.

This... doesn't seem right...

To boast about hitting a thirty-yard target, everyone's waiting for your performance, and you miss the first shot?

Is this a fixed match?

Is this rigged?

Dismas, how much did you bet on the opponent's win?

But Lance quickly noticed something; Dismas's gun wasn't his usual weapon but one he'd grabbed from the fat Francis.

Dismas probably had never used this once; with a new gun, it's inevitable to make mistakes, especially at a thirty-yard target.

But the problem is, this gun was a gift from himself.

Oh no! I'm the one who rigged this myself...

Lance had mixed emotions, feeling proud at the time, not expecting the "bullet" to hit him from behind days later.

Dismas himself was dumbfounded, the shout of "miss" broke him into a cold sweat, the slight drunkenness evaporating, bringing clarity.

He stared blankly at the distant target, speechless.

I... missed?

"Bang!"

On the other side, Margaret finally finished loading. A gunshot brought everyone's attention back, yearning for the score.

"Hit the target! Eight points."

This announcement exploded the scene, voices rising, acknowledging that Dismas might be ordinary with a long gun but outstanding with a pistol.

His personal record within ten yards is accurate, and even a thirty-yard target challenge has a stable dispersion, at least not missing the target.

Yet now he actually lost to her directly, missing, which raised many doubts.

Dismas also heard the score and felt the gaze of the crowd. Despite his carefree nature, he couldn't help but feel ashamed, the pressure skyrocketing, his hands trembling involuntarily.

Dismas wrestled with complex emotions, gazing at his hands; had he fallen to such a state?

Had he forgotten why he lived?

Dismas's resolve was being tested...

He hadn't forgotten!

The oath made on the old path was etched in his mind, never, ever forgotten!

Dismas tightened his grip, his knuckles whitened with force.

Without a word, he holstered the new gun and pulled out his original pistol to reload quickly.

Dismas decided to face the failure, meeting those eyes filled with confusion, disappointment, and even anger, and shouted loudly.

"See this? This is the price of underestimating your opponent. Be ashamed of me."

With those words, he raised his hand for another shot, even without aiming.

"Bang!"

The sudden gunshot silenced the restless crowd.

Everyone's attention was inevitably drawn.

"Ten points!"

Someone went to inspect the target and called out loudly.

Margaret also couldn't help but be amazed; this guy was exceptional, shooting by sheer instinct.

What was that previous shot all about?

She wasn't the only one with this question; others shared it too.

Many shouted for a rematch, but Dismas immediately refused.

"A loss is a loss; there are no second chances on the battlefield."

With that, Dismas turned and left without a word, his face showing no reaction, only determination.

I will tread the path of redemption again.

From today—No more drinking!