Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story! Thank you! Pat**on : CaveLeather
After the drill ended, the veteran sergeants gathered in a loose circle.
"Damn, the kid's actually got them looking sharp!" Old Tom grinned, tilting his head back to pour water down his throat. "Not bad at all. The only thing missing now is real steel and real blood. Time to let them kill someone."
Red-Hair Garvin slapped Old Tom on the back hard enough to make him stagger. "Haha! Old Tom, you finally ate shit today! If me and Leon hadn't brought the cavalry to bail your ass out, Tiberius's boys would've rolled right over you. But seriously…"
Garvin's grin faded as he looked toward where Tiberius was dismissing the formation. His voice turned respectful.
"That wagon laager he throws up is fast. Once it's set, cavalry can't just smash through without eating spears and bolts. The kid's trick actually works."
"Pavise crossbowmen, long spears, and that wagon wall together… it really does turn them into a damn turtle that can shrug off a charge. We should tell Captain Jules about this when we get back."
Old Tom rubbed his sore shoulder and grumbled, "Who the hell knew the kid would improve this fast… Two weeks ago they were a bunch of sand that fell apart at the first push. Now they can actually trade blows with us. His training methods are straight-up weird."
---
"You all did well today."
That afternoon, Tiberius gathered the entire Lightning Company and gave them a short, encouraging speech. Then he had the quartermaster hand out the rewards.
Every man received half a sack of rice, a bottle of olive oil or wine, and—depending on performance—three to eight copper coins.
This was Tiberius's deliberate system. He wanted the soldiers to link hard work and obedience directly to tangible rewards. Positive reinforcement.
But when the quartermaster finished distributing everything, Tiberius frowned.
Why don't they look happy?
The men accepted their portions with dull, muted expressions. No smiles, no excitement—just a heavy, depressed silence.
The positive feedback loop wasn't working.
Did I spoil their tastes too much? Tiberius wondered.
That wouldn't do. If this continued, his Lightning Company would turn into the kind of spoiled palace guards that eventually destroyed empires—Praetorians, Janissaries, or those Wei-Bo tooth soldiers who became worse than the enemies they were supposed to fight.
These men had started as raw material. He refused to let them become tumors.
No. I need to find out why.
He didn't pull rank. Instead he spoke in a calm, almost friendly tone:
"I noticed you all don't seem very happy with today's rewards. Is it too little? Or is there another reason? Speak freely. We're all part of the Lightning Company now. If something's wrong, tell me."
But the soldiers either stayed silent or gave evasive answers.
"Everything's fine, my lord!"
"Yes, my lord… we're just… a little tired."
There's definitely a problem. The unnatural silence and dodging only confirmed it—and whatever it was, fear was keeping their mouths shut.
But what the hell are they afraid of? Tiberius thought, irritation rising.
Food? He issued rations based on family size—rice, meat, oil.
Money? He paid them three-fifths of White Company wages—generous for new recruits.
Status? They were former slaves. Wasn't the treatment he was giving them already a massive improvement?
After dismissing the formation, Tiberius called the freeborn light infantry (the hunters, woodsmen, and fishermen he'd recruited as seeds) into his tent.
"Gentlemen, you're new here, but I trust you." Tiberius tapped the table, voice low and serious. "Tell me the truth—what's really going on? Speak openly. I won't punish anyone for honesty."
Under gentle but firm questioning, the ugly truth finally spilled out.
Every Sunday, the extra food and copper coins meant for the slave soldiers' families were being extorted the very next day by the estate's old overseers and supervisors—under all kinds of excuses: "storage fees," "rent," "damage compensation," or simply outright "tribute."
Sometimes it was even more blatant.
The soldiers bled and sweated in training to earn those little extras for their wives and children, only for the overseers to snatch it away the moment they got home.
According to the freeborn light infantry, some soldiers barely made it back to their huts before the overseers were already waiting at the door.
"Why didn't they tell me?!" Tiberius's rare genuine anger flared. Veins stood out on his hands. "Those overseers are my slaves too! They deserve the whip, yet they dare touch what belongs to my men?"
One hunter gathered his courage and spoke up:
"Lord Tiberius, pardon my crude words… but there's an old saying: 'The lord's orders may shake the heavens, but the overseer's whip still rules the ground.'"
"Our slave comrades wanted to tell you, but what happens after you punish the overseers? They just take it out ten times worse on the families! And the soldiers are stuck in camp six days a week. They only go home on Sundays. If the overseers cause trouble or something happens to their wives and kids while they're gone… what can they do? They can't leave. They can't complain. So they endure."
"We freeborn are different. The overseers don't dare push us too hard because we have grown male relatives. But those slave soldiers? Most are the only grown man in their household, maybe with one half-grown son. If the overseer brings a few thugs… what choice do they have but to submit?"
Tiberius's eyes turned cold as steel.
This had to be dealt with.
Immediately.
Ruthlessly.
Completely.
Otherwise, the Lightning Company he was building wouldn't fall apart because of poor training or lack of investment—it would be hollowed out from within by these parasites.
That was unacceptable.
His goal was to forge elite mercenaries, not let a bunch of greedy overseers grow fat off his men's blood and sweat.