The training field froze the instant Tiberius's roar cracked across it.
"Stop! Who the hell gave you permission to lie down?!" His voice cut like a whip as he jabbed a finger at the soldiers who had just finished a weighted run and were already dropping onto the sand like sacks of potatoes.
"Discipline! How many times do I have to say it?! Without my order, you don't even breathe on your own schedule! On your feet! Form ranks!"
Not a single man dared disobey. They scrambled up and snapped into neat lines before the order even finished echoing.
Through endless drills and the "moving the wood" stunt, absolute obedience had been branded into their bones.
Tiberius's discipline was merciless: stand like statues, sit like rocks, move like one single body. Any ten-man squad that fell short got punished hard—extra drills, cut rations, or public humiliation in front of everyone.
He hammered the same idea into them every single day: "Here, you have only one head—me, Tiberius Mord! Forget your old masters, forget who you used to be. From now on your only name is soldier of the Lightning Company!"
In short, he had broken them into pieces, then welded the pieces back together with steel and iron rules.
---
Then came meal time.
Long tables filled the mess hall. Hot food sat in front of every man—yet no one touched a single bite. The smell of fish stew, cheese, and fresh bread clawed at their stomachs after a brutal morning, but they waited.
"Hungry?" Tiberius asked from his spot at the head table, wooden bowl in front of him: coarse rice, fish, vegetables, the same as everyone else.
"Yes!" the soldiers roared.
"Perfect. Then stay hungry!" A cruel little smile curved his lips. "Until I give the order, nobody moves. Even if the food is right in front of you—even if I throw it to the dogs—you sit and watch. Understood?"
"Understood!"
"Good. Eat!"
The moment the word left his mouth, spoons and hands dove in.
This was the second way Tiberius was nothing like normal officers.
He never ate better than his men. Same wooden bowl, same big-pot rice, same fish stew, same cheese. The only privilege he allowed himself was swapping the cheap beer or wine for honeyed milk.
Vito and the veteran sergeants still grumbled about it.
"Kid, we're officers—how the hell are we supposed to eat the same slop as these animals?" Vito complained between drills, pointing at the mess hall. "It makes us look weak!"
Tiberius didn't waste time on speeches about "officers and men are one." He simply tossed a heavy bag of gold coins onto the table.
"First—you don't get to argue with me." His eyes were cold steel. "I am the commander of the Lightning Company. You are not. If I hear one more complaint, you can pack your shit and crawl back to the White Company. I'll ask my uncle for a new batch of sergeants."
"Second—" He looked straight at Vito. "Every Sunday you take the men into the nearest town. Buy the best meat, the best wine—spend whatever you want, I don't care. Then hit the taverns and the pleasure houses. Get them the hottest girls you can find. Pay for as many as they can handle. My coin. But—"
His voice turned to ice before anyone could cheer.
"I heard my uncle once executed a knight who was late because he was balls-deep in his mistress. I don't want to see any of you walking in here Monday morning with your legs shaking and your brains leaking out your dick. My officers will not be a pack of drained, soft-cocked weaklings!"
Still, Tiberius wasn't pure iron. He turned to the veteran sergeants and let his tone soften—just enough.
"Look, back in the White Company you were ten-man leaders at best, maybe commanding twenty or thirty. The good slots are full—my uncle doesn't short-change you, but you know the only way up is either more years of bleeding or some heroic feat. Here? You start as real fifty-man company commanders, no waiting."
"And behind me stands Young Master Lysaro Rogare. The Rogare family is one of the richest in all Lys. Stick with me, train hard, fight well—gold, rank, women… you think I'll let you go without?"
He let his gaze linger on the sergeants who hadn't been promoted yet, voice dripping promise.
"The Lightning Company won't stay this size forever. I'm expanding. Cavalry captain, crossbow captain, spear captain, centurion, standard-bearer—those seats are empty. And I give them to my people." He put heavy weight on "my." "As for who counts as my people…"
He didn't finish. He let them figure it out themselves.
Vito didn't answer right away. He just weighed the coin purse in his hand, then broke into a wide grin.
"Alright, kid! Don't worry—we know the rules. When it's time to play, we play. When it's time to bleed, we bleed!"
---
Saturday was a special day for the soldiers.
That morning they lined up and received their family rations from the quartermaster: half a sack of fine rice, half a sack of wheat, a jug of olive oil, some cured meat and salted fish, a bottle of wine, and—most precious of all—a handful of copper coins.
After morning drill they were allowed to go home to their families and return Monday morning.
"Take all of this to your wives and children!" Tiberius stood on the platform, face hard as he watched the grinning men clutch their bundles. He made damn sure every sack and coin actually reached their hands.
"You train here, you don't work the fields, so you get no field pay. But I won't let your families starve. This food and coin is your wage."
"And you will return on time." His voice stayed flat, but his eyes were sharp as daggers.
"Remember—your family's safety depends on how you perform in camp. If you're late coming back…" He let the silence finish the threat.
After all, every soldier's family was on Tiberius's list. He knew exactly how many mouths they had to feed, how many acres they farmed, where they lived.
Try to run? Good luck.
Sometimes he even rode out with a small cavalry escort, personally delivering the men to the edge of their settlement and picking them up at the exact appointed time. He called it "ensuring safety." Everyone knew it was also a very visible leash.