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"Tsk, tsk, tsk… Lysaro, your backwater mud-legged drill instructor sure knows how to make your mules and donkeys march in straight lines and look pretty. But honestly? It's putting me to sleep. My servants sweeping out the horse stalls put on a better show!"
Mario Ferrero stood up on the high platform, face twisted with open contempt and a flicker of jealousy in his eyes.
Why didn't my army get cheers like that? he fumed silently. My troops are more magnificent, my soldiers are braver, their skills are superior!
He deliberately struck an arrogant pose and flashed a thumbs-down at the Lightning Company below.
"You lot are about as impressive as my sheepdogs! Hahaha!" He laughed wildly while his sycophants joined in. "And stabbing straw dummies? How cute. Those things don't even move! Lysaro, you brave enough for something real?"
"What do you mean?" Lysaro asked, voice low.
A bloodthirsty grin spread across Mario's face.
"Blood combat," he said slowly, savoring the words. "Real blood combat. Let the lords and ladies truly enjoy the show. After all, armies are meant for the battlefield—their purpose is to kill! Not to prance around in fancy formations that fall apart the second real steel starts flying!"
"True warriors need to taste blood! They need to fight for their lives! That's what gets the crowd excited, Lysaro." He leaned forward, grin turning vicious. "Or are you scared? Afraid to let your obedient little livestock see real blades? Has the Rogare family's martial spirit rotted so badly that you won't even accept a small blood combat?" He put heavy, mocking emphasis on "small."
"You…" Lysaro's face went white.
Mario spread his arms theatrically, as if embracing the entire arena's anticipation. "You! Don't! Dare! Do you? Let your obedient mules test themselves against the blades of my true warriors!"
"Blood combat!"
The words ignited the entire arena like oil on fire. The crowd exploded, roaring and screaming, bloodlust surging through them at the promise of raw, primal violence.
"Blood combat! Blood combat! Blood combat!"
The deafening chant shook the stands.
Lysaro's face drained of color.
At this point, backing down was impossible. He couldn't afford to look weak in front of the entire city.
Still, he shot a desperate glance at Tiberius.
"Hey, Tiberius… what do we do?" he asked, voice tight.
"What do you mean, what do we do?" Tiberius spat on the ground. "We fight. Unless you want to kneel right here?"
Fuck, why is everyone in this city a bloodthirsty maniac? Tiberius thought bitterly, but his hand never hesitated.
Whoosh—
A throwing spear flew from his hand, tracing a perfect arc before slamming into the exact center of the training field. The shaft vibrated with a low, menacing hum.
The entire arena fell deathly silent.
Every eye turned toward the source of the throw—the young drill instructor who had been standing silently at the front of the formation: Tiberius Mord.
"Come on then!" Tiberius pointed at the embedded spear, his face cold and hard.
Those three words were the spark in the powder keg. The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers that threatened to bring the roof down.
Lysaro stared at Tiberius in shock, then gritted his teeth and let the fear turn into pure resolve. He drew his ornate sword and pointed it straight at Mario.
"As you wish! Blood combat!"
---
"Place your bets! Place your bets!"
"Six to one! Seven Gods, the house is basically saying the Lightning Kid is already dead!"
"Of course! Look at the numbers down there—seven hundred against three hundred! That's more than double! Even if they were seven hundred pigs, three hundred men would still take all day to butcher them!"
"Exactly! I'm putting ten gold dragons on Young Master Mario!"
"Me too! The odds are low, but it's a sure win!"
"Heh, I'm feeling lucky. I'll bet on the Lightning Kid… what if there's a miracle?" someone muttered, only to be drowned out by laughter.
The betting was overwhelmingly one-sided. Almost everyone believed that with such a massive numerical disadvantage and Mario's visibly more "ferocious" mercenaries, the Lightning Company had no chance.
Not far from the frenzied betting tables, Captain "the Honorable" Jules Mord stood with his arms crossed, face expressionless as he watched the two sides finish their final preparations—especially the small, lonely-looking Lightning Company facing the massive enemy force.
After a long moment, he spoke without turning his head to the two trusted captains behind him.
"Garvin."
"Here, boss!"
Jules took a heavy coin purse from his belt. The weight and clink told anyone listening it held at least a hundred gold dragons. He tossed it to Garvin.
"Go find the bookie. Put it all on Tiberius winning."
Garvin didn't hesitate. He caught the purse, nodded once, then grinned.
"Old Tom made a killing on that last bet. He's still crying about how he should've bet more on the kid winning instead of losing. Heh!"
"Now it's my turn to get rich!"
He turned and pushed his way into the roaring crowd, heading straight for the shouting bookie.