Oliver

The militiamen were terrified of this foul-tempered, lame instructor who lashed out with curses and beatings at the slightest provocation.

Oliver's severity was notorious. It was as though he poured all his resentment at the unfairness of his fate into his harsh treatment of these recruits.

Under his roars and the prodding of his stick, the chaotic scene was finally forcibly brought under control. The soldiers crawled and scrambled about, barely completing the error-riddled tactical rotation drill well past the allotted time, while whispers and scattered laughter continued to rise from the onlookers throughout the process.

The final part of the training was checking the Musketeers' matchcords. Anyone whose matchcord had not been stored as required or had already gone out was immediately called out by Oliver and punished by running laps around the training grounds until he was nearly unable to stand.

He wanted to use this most direct and painful method to make them remember that on the battlefield, the slightest negligence could lead to the destruction of themselves—or the entire battle line.

"Dismissed!" Oliver finally rasped.

The exhausted, taut-nerved militiamen seemed to have received a pardon. In an instant, they scattered like ants whose nest had been disturbed, noisily preparing to run off in all directions.

But just then, Oliver's Command Baton came crashing down again with a rush of wind. It did not strike anyone; instead, it slammed heavily against an abandoned wooden barrel beside him, producing a resounding bang that stunned everyone into stillness.

"Dismissed from formation! Have you forgotten?" Oliver glared furiously. "Fall in! By rank! Leave the training grounds! Even if you have to crawl, crawl out properly!"

Only then did the militiamen come to their senses. They hurriedly and painstakingly formed up again. Though the line was still crooked and uneven, it