"So, Young Master Mario," Tiberius stepped forward, voice dripping with cold mockery, "what exactly do you think you're doing?"
"Lightning Company!" he roared.
"Present!"
Dozens of armored men poured out of nearby tents in seconds. Spears leveled, cleavers at their hips, they formed up in a tight, bristling hedgehog with terrifying speed.
"Raise spears!"
Dozens of gleaming steel points snapped up and locked onto Mario and his little entourage.
Mario broke into a cold sweat.
He had brought only a handful of his spoiled noble friends today—no actual mercenaries.
If these bastards decided to get serious, his group would be turned into pincushions in seconds.
"What the hell do you think you are, Mord brat?!" one of the minor nobles finally snapped, drawing his sword and ignoring Mario's stunned look. "Hiding behind a bunch of thugs because you've got numbers? Order your dogs to stand down right now!"
Tiberius blinked, genuinely surprised.
Brother, are you actually this stupid?
Sure, he couldn't openly touch their powerful families… but if he "accidentally" had them all killed right here, what were their families going to do? Raise the dead?
Still, Tiberius wasn't about to back down.
The commotion had already drawn a huge crowd. Sons from every major house, other mercenary companies, even some of the city guards had gathered, pointing and whispering.
He knew that showing even the slightest weakness here would destroy the reputation he had spent months building—and ruin the Lightning Company's fearsome name along with it.
So…
"Advance!"
No hesitation. The Lightning Company stepped forward in perfect unison, spears glittering.
"You… you're bullying us with numbers!" the noble stammered, visibly shaken.
Then, in a desperate attempt to save face, he spun toward Mario. "According to Lysene martial tradition, let's settle this with single combat!"
"You want me to duel him?" Tiberius asked, staring at the noble like he was looking at an idiot.
The noble turned back to Mario with an eager grin. "My lord, show him! Use your superior swordsmanship and teach this lowborn what real noble martial skill looks like!"
Mario's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
Are you out of your fucking mind?!
You want me to fight him? Do you not remember how Jon Starr died? That "Lightning Kid" beat the vice-captain of the Second Sons to death with a fucking blunt oar in a trial by combat!
You want me to go die against him?!
"You…!" Mario was speechless.
Finally he spat on the ground and snarled, "Just you wait!"
With that weak threat hanging in the air, Mario and his group slunk away like beaten dogs.
"How was that?" Lysaro adjusted his gold-embroidered cloak, looking extremely pleased with himself. "My 'power of reason' worked pretty well, right?"
"Extremely effective, Lysaro," Tiberius finally let out a genuine laugh, bright and unrestrained.
---
The tournament officially began.
To Tiberius, though, it looked less like a serious mercenary selection and more like a ridiculous armed fashion show and talent exhibition.
And the "talent" was painfully mediocre.
As the noble and merchant sons paraded their so-called companies, Tiberius had to fight the urge to cover his face.
What the actual fuck is this?
First came the armor—over-the-top, ridiculously ornate pieces covered in pointless decorative spikes, dangling ornaments, and ridiculous flourishes. In Tiberius's eyes, most of it served no purpose except making the wearer easier to spot for enemy archers and slowing them down when mounting a horse.
Then came the ridiculous weapons: inward-curving blades, war scythes, even throwing discs with edges and something called a "soft sword" that was flexible enough to be hidden in a belt.
Tiberius wasn't saying these weapons were useless—they were made to kill—but they were so specialized they were almost worthless in real battle.
Never use gimmick weapons as your main force.
Mario Ferrero's "Golden Shield Company" was the worst offender. They rode out on lavishly decorated warhorses, wearing garishly colored surcoats over polished, intricately engraved armor. Their "tactics" looked more like street performance:
A muscular swordsman who had ditched his breastplate to show off his oiled muscles would suddenly break formation, charge into a group of trembling, poorly armed slave "enemies," draw a ridiculous flexible sword, and perform a flashy, overly dramatic dance of spins and flourishes.
He "slaughtered" several slaves with theatrical ease. The slaves, lacking any real armor, suffered deep, gruesome cuts. One poor bastard even had half his face and jaw sliced off. The bloody spectacle drew wild cheers from the crowd.
Another performer would spin a long spear in an exaggerated, pointless display, then "impale" multiple slaves in one thrust—again, against defenseless targets.
To maximize the crowd's excitement and pad their "achievements," Mario himself eventually took the field. After a "fierce battle" (more like one-sided butchery against slaves armed with deliberately blunted weapons), he dramatically lifted a slave "casualty's" severed head on his sword, letting the blood splash across his shiny gilded armor and drip down his ridiculous horned helmet like rain.
The grandstands erupted in frenzied applause. Mario had bought cheap "glory" with slave blood.
Tiberius watched from the sidelines with cold disgust, stomach churning.
This meaningless, performative cruelty sickened him to his core.
If you're so brave, give them real weapons and fight like men. This is just bullying.
"Clowns," he muttered under his breath.
Finally, it was the Lightning Company's turn.
Their entrance was completely out of place. No flashy armor. No war cries. No individual heroics. Just the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots and the soft clink of armor plates.
Lysaro took his place at the very front of the formation—pre-arranged, of course. All he had to do was stand there in his dazzling armor and look the part of the glorious young commander. The real orders came from the unassuming Tiberius at the rear.
The drums began.
"Advance!"
The spear phalanx moved forward like a single gray boulder—steady, unstoppable, perfectly synchronized. Spears held at the exact same angle, forming an unbroken wall of steel.
"Halt! Present spears!"
The formation stopped instantly. The front three ranks lowered their spears into a bristling hedge, while the rear ranks kept theirs high—creating a seamless wall of death.
"Crossbowmen! Forward volley! Pavises up!"
The crossbowmen advanced under the protection of their sixty massive shield-bearers. No flashy tumbling or kneeling theatrics—just efficient, rotating volleys.
"First rank—loose!"
"Kneel! Reload!"
"Second rank—loose!"
"Third rank—loose!"
The bolts whistled out in tight, overlapping arcs. Even though they were blunted training bolts wrapped in dye, the rhythm was terrifyingly precise—like clockwork.
"Left wing—wheel! Wagon troops—form laager!"
Command after command. The entire company moved as one living machine. The left flank pivoted smoothly to counter a simulated threat while the wagon troops quickly pushed their carts into position, linking them into a makeshift defensive circle in seconds.
Throughout the entire display, not a single Lightning Company soldier broke formation to show off. They executed every order in cold, mechanical silence. No cheers. No boasting. Just the clash of weapons, the stamp of boots, and the snap of crossbow strings.
In the stands, the few men who had actually seen real war—veteran mercenaries and a handful of noble officers—grew deathly serious.
They recognized what they were watching: discipline, obedience, and collective will.
These were the things that kept an army alive on the battlefield.
For the casual spectators, the complete lack of individual flair and the overwhelming emphasis on cold, collective efficiency created a different kind of pressure—one that slowly choked the noise out of the crowd.
It wasn't exciting. It wasn't flashy.
But it felt like watching a machine built for nothing but destruction.
On the main viewing platform, Lysandro Rogare had originally come expecting embarrassment—ready to watch his "useless" son make a fool of himself. But as the Lightning Company performed, a genuine, proud smile slowly spread across his face for the first time.
Lysaro stood tall at the front, basking in the moment.
Then a discordant voice cut through the stunned silence—
"Tsk tsk tsk…"