"Lucky shot!"
"I could do that at this distance too."
"Even a blind cat can find a dead mouse sotis."
The other competitors couldn't laugh, but faint voices of doubt still carried through, attributing the shot to luck rather than skill.
But Margaret didn't care in the least and simply beckoned the referee over to start the qualifying round imdiately.
The rules were straightforward: hit a target at ten yards with three out of five shots to pass.
The accuracy of muskets from this era, even those handcrafted by Masters, was notoriously unreliable, almost akin to mysticism.
Thus, the target paper wasn't divided into ten rings but had a simple black outer circle with a red dot at the center—any hit on the paper counted as a success.
The red dot primarily served as a sighting aid. While there was a rule that shots closer to the red dot scored better, this wasn't a requirent for the qualifying round.
BANG!
The lead bullet flew true, puncturing the target ten yards away. Everyone clearly saw it tear through the red bullseye.
Margaret smirked, her arrogant deanor confirming her noble status.
Without any idle chatter, she reloaded and shot... reloaded and shot...
Five consecutive shots, five bull's-eyes. Such a performance promptly silenced the chattering onlookers, their faces becoming as impassive as statues.
A strong competitor like her was no good news for them, but the onlooking crowd burst into cheers.
Laura had been on edge ever since fleeing Hamlet. She avoided human settlents and dared not linger too long in any one place.
On her journey, she sustained herself by hunting with her impeccable archery skills, eating wild fruits, and drinking from mountain streams when unable to light a fire.
Now, finally, she had returned as quickly as possible.
Before her lood the imposing city, its massive walls daunting to behold, and its towering castle. A main road, wide enough for four carriages abreast, bustled with unceasing traffic.
Bastia, I'm finally back!
Laura had rushed back to Bastia, but upon arrival, she paused, lost in thought.
I am of the Barbarian Tribes but grew up in Bastia, so I'm not that single-minded. After all, my return isn't to bring joy. How can I explain that the entire Order of Knights was captured and only I escaped? How will the leader of the Eagle Flock treat ? And Count Bastia himself, how will he deal with ?
Laura felt lost, even tempted to turn and flee.
If I just pretended to be dead, perhaps no one would care.
Struggling with her thoughts for a long while, Laura eventually steeled herself and walked towards Bastia. She had no idea where else she could go.
The bustling comrcial district, the relentless stream of people on the streets, and the large events held in the squares all unabashedly showcased Bastia's prosperity.
But she felt out of place amidst it all. Carrying her unease, she wandered aimlessly, pondering how to face the inevitable interrogation.
As she walked past the square, the sudden sound of gunfire startled her. Already on high alert, she instinctively reached for her short bow, but quickly realized it was just a shooting competition nearby and let out a sigh of relief.
Her Eagle Eye quickly spotted a woman in hunting attire. Laura recognized her as Baron Lawrence's daughter. The Eagle Flock had been mobilized to search for her after that scandal, and Laura, having participated in that mission, knew this distinctive noblewoman.
Yet Baron Lawrence is still in Hamlet's jail awaiting ransom...
This coincidence made her subconsciously stop and watch the competition.
The competition featured various events: fixed targets, moving targets, and rapid-fire challenges.
The distances progressively increased: fifteen, thirty, and then fifty yards.
Laura stood by, watching as Margaret's musket roared and bullets accurately pierced target after target, t by cheers and praise from the spectators.
She was the only woman among the Gunners, yet she was by no ans inferior. In fact, she outperford most of them, with only a select few able to match her.
At this level, I'm confident I could do the sa with a bow and arrow, even more quickly, with a steadier hand. I could achieve even more perfect results. But what about reality? Far from enjoying cheers, I was captured within monts and only managed to flee back disheveled because my opponent chose to let go. An entire Order of Knights and an Eagle Flock set out, but only I returned. What am I supposed to say? No matter how I explain it, I'll...
The stark contrast only highlighted her own situation to Laura, and the pressure within her mounted with each wave of the crowd's cheers.
Yet, amidst the event's bustle, no one noticed the increasingly labored breathing beneath the green hooded cloak.
Suddenly, the cheering at the venue subsided, and everyone held their breath.
After several rounds of elimination, only two competitors remained for the final.
The event to determine the Champion returned to the basic fixed target, but this ti the distance was extended from the previous fifty-yard limit to a full one hundred yards.
This distance plunged many Gunners into despair. Accurately hitting a target at one hundred yards depended heavily on whether the Goddess of Fortune smiled upon you.
Simply put, it was all up to fate. One fired the musket, and luck determined the rest.
However, for the two competitors remaining on the stage, it was not yet hopeless. There was still room for skill.
During the previous duels, the opponent seed to realize his skills might not be enough to surpass Margaret. He decisively loaded his gun, aid, and fired.
The bullet whistled through the air but, under the watchful eyes of the crowd, missed the target entirely, lodging in a corner of the humanoid target fra.
Had the Gunner hit the target, he might have clung to so hope. But now, he had lost the will to compete; as long as his opponent hit the target, any score would defeat him.
Seeing this, the crowd sighed in disappointnt. However, their anticipation for Margaret's turn only grew, and all eyes focused on her.
Even Margaret, as confident as she was, felt the pressure at this distance. The casual air about her vanished.
Having loaded her weapon, she raised the long gun. Her cheek gently pressed against the stock. As her breathing steadied and slowed, her index finger crept towards the trigger.
Her sharp gaze focused all her attention on the target. Just hit that red dot, and I'll be the Champion...
Unseen by anyone, Laura was overwheld by the oppressive atmosphere. Her head jerked up, revealing bloodshot eyes, tinged with madness beneath her hood, staring intently at Margaret.
No one can escape the Curse of Hamlet... even after having left Hamlet...
Just as Margaret achieved full focus, the red dot on the target suddenly warped, transforming into a bizarre eyeball. A re glimpse of its eerie, vertical pupil sent a wave of despair crashing through her mind, instantly robbing her of control over her body.
But that wasn't the most terrifying part. In her vision, Flesh began to spread from the eyeball at the center, weaving like a grueso web across the entire world, squeezing everything else from her sight.
It felt as if sothing was hurtling towards her, magnifying rapidly before her eyes. In an instant, it completely dominated her vision, and an unprecedented fear consud her mind.
At that mont, it was as if her blood had frozen.
"AH!"
With a cry of alarm, the intense sensory assault triggered an instinctual response. Her feet stumbled, and before she could fully retreat, her body leaned back sharply. In her panic, she jerked the musket skyward and pulled the trigger, the violent motion dislodging her hat.
After the gunshot echoed, the terrifying illusion before her eyes faded. Yet Margaret couldn't shake off the profound terror and despair. She stood frozen, trembling uncontrollably, muttering strange, incoherent words.
"No... we are the prey..."
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