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"Go over to the estate and give the kid a hand. Tiberius is training a batch of mercenaries for Lysaro. Help him out." Jules tossed a heavy coin purse to Old Tom, who was still a little wobbly on his feet, and frowned.
"And show some restraint. Don't come back and blow the whole thing on your old flame and the taverns again!"
"Relax, boss! I've got this!" Old Tom grinned, showing yellow teeth. "At least this time I didn't dump everything at the gambling tables, right?"
"Enough! Get lost!" Jules barked. "And don't let me find out you lost it all again and came back eating porridge and bran while the rest of us drink wine!"
"Got it, boss!" Old Tom gave a sloppy salute and swaggered out of the tent.
Training soldiers? he thought, still half-drunk. Sure, the kid's clever and handy with a spear for his age, but…
Training real soldiers wasn't something you did with a few clever tricks and a mean streak. The boy was still green as grass.
Probably fucked it up already, and the captain's sending me to clean up the mess. Fine. I'll take a quick look at how bad these "young master's toy soldiers" are, then slip away and ask Black Dog or Scarface if their companies have any emergency fill-in gigs. Easy side money. Old Tom smirked. Besides, the kid's gonna be a captain someday. Never hurts to stay on his good side.
When Old Tom finally sauntered onto the Lightning Company training field, he was still mentally dividing up his future gambling winnings.
"Vito!" he bellowed the second he spotted his old friend, waving as he staggered over. "Captain sent me to help out. So what new madness has that 'Lightning Brat' cooked up this time? Need us old dogs to come fix his—"
His words died in his throat.
His eyes went past Vito and locked onto the training field.
Under the bright sun, roughly a hundred and fifty soldiers were drilling in perfect ten-man squads—basic spear thrusts. The movements weren't elite-smooth, but the crisp, unified discipline made Old Tom's jaw drop. Every order was obeyed instantly, no chatter, no slacking.
"First Company, left face! Second Company, right face! Third Company, stand fast!" Tiberius's clear voice rang from the platform as he directed the three fifty-man blocks.
Three different commands at once? And they actually know which company they belong to? Old Tom's brow furrowed.
Then the result hit him like a warhammer.
No confusion. No hesitation. Just the rhythmic thud of boots, the sharp snap of squad leaders' voices, and a rock-hard discipline that had already been hammered into these men's bones.
And they looked… healthy. Ruddy faces, no hollow cheeks. These weren't the half-starved wretches he'd expected.
"Holy shit…" Old Tom sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening even the scarred one. He slapped Vito's shoulder hard, voice full of stunned admiration. "Well I'll be damned! Vito, you old dog—where the hell did you dig up this bunch of prime meat? Some disbanded mercenary company? Or a fallen noble's household guards? Look at that discipline, that spirit! Fuck me, they're better than half the freeborn recruits I've seen after years in the saddle! Just getting them to stand like that must've taken serious work. Not bad, not bad at all!"
He assumed Vito had poached them from some elite outfit or broke noble's private retinue.
Vito stood with arms crossed, wearing the most complicated grin—half proud, half mocking, and one hundred percent "gotcha." He leaned in, voice deliberately slow and dramatic, each word dropping like a hammer on Old Tom's heart:
"Where did I find them? Right here in Lys, Tom.
"Huh? What kind of place has this many good men at once? Tell me the source—I'll go recruiting there myself!" Old Tom was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Source, huh…" Vito stepped closer, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and let the words explode like thunder in Old Tom's ear:
"Contract slaves, Tom. Every single one of them. Tiberius hand-picked them from the markets and our own estates, then trained them with his 'special methods.'"
"Contract… slaves?!?!"
Old Tom's face froze mid-smile. The expression shattered like cheap plaster. His mouth fell open wide enough to fit an egg. He looked like he'd just heard a Targaryen dragon was tap-dancing in the Lys market square while the triarchs played backup on trumpets and flutes.
He stared at the perfectly disciplined soldiers on the field, then back at Vito's barely-contained grin. His brain short-circuited. The tavern conversation, his own mocking laughter, the fifty gold dragons he'd bet against the kid—all of it flashed through his mind like a fever dream.
"Contract slaves?! You're fucking with me, Vito! This isn't funny!" Old Tom's voice cracked. "You been writing those shitty poems again? Or did the wine finally pickle what's left of your brain? Don't mess with me!"
"Who's messing with you?" Vito snorted, jerking his chin toward Tiberius. "It's all our 'Lightning Kid.' He picked them himself, trained them himself. The whole damn lot."
The shock lasted less than three seconds.
Then Old Tom exploded like someone had lit a fire under his ass. Every trace of disbelief vanished, replaced by pure, manic terror—and a terrifying, greedy joy.
He grabbed Vito's arm with both hands, squeezing hard enough to bruise bone, voice shrill with panic and excitement:
"Vito! Vito, my brother! Lend me money! Quick, lend me some money!"
"Huh?" Vito played dumb. "Why do you need money again? The captain just paid everyone's wages a few days ago."
"Not enough! Shut the fuck up and listen! Three points interest… no! Five points! Five points is fine!!!" Old Tom was sweating, words tumbling out. "And where the hell are Garvin, Leon, Harwin, and the rest of those bastards? Tell me! I need to borrow from them too! Hahaha! So that's how it is! The 'rich young master' everyone's betting on is actually our Lightning Kid's army! Seven Gods above! It's locked! It's all locked!!!"
He laughed like a madman while shaking Vito violently, as if gold coins would magically fall out of his pockets.
Contempt? Mockery?
Gone. Completely gone. All that remained was joy—pure, unfiltered ecstasy.
How the fuck could I lose now?
I'm gonna win big!!!
Vito watched his old comrade lose his mind and finally couldn't hold it in. He burst out laughing and clapped Old Tom on the back.
"Now you're panicking? But since we're brothers… come on, I'll get you my private stash. I'll even tell you which tavern Garvin and the others are probably getting shit-faced in right now. But remember—five points interest. Short me one copper and I'll skin you alive!"