"We're not fighting them in the middle of the arena," Tiberius told Lysaro. "It's a long oval. We're outnumbered, so we're taking the bottom end, backs to the stone wall. That way they can't wrap around our flanks and hit us from behind."
"Fine. Whatever you say, Tiberius!" Lysaro nodded firmly.
At this point, who else could he trust?
The Lightning Company marched in perfect step toward the far end of the arena.
The move hit the roaring crowd like cold water on hot oil. The stands erupted.
"Are you scared already, Lightning Kid?"
"Seven Gods, they're tucking their tails before the fight even starts? What a bunch of cowards!"
"Disgraceful! This is an insult to the spirit of combat! Real warriors stand in the center and clash like men! Hiding against a wall? Pathetic!"
"Young Master Mario, just charge them and crush the little turtles! Show them what happens when you hide!"
Laughter, jeers, and whistles rained down. Lysaro's face turned purple. His hand tightened around his sword until his knuckles went white.
But the Lightning Company soldiers ignored the noise completely. They moved like stones in a crashing wave—silent, steady, executing every order without a single break in formation.
After months of Tiberius's training, one thing had been hammered into their bones deeper than anything else:
Obey.
"Ti-Tiberius, they…" Lysaro's voice shook with anger. "I can't stand this!"
"Endure it!" Tiberius snapped.
Lysaro flinched. This was the first time Tiberius had spoken to him so sharply.
"Let them laugh, Lysaro," Tiberius said coldly. "They want us dead, not some noble 'honorable fight.' They've all bet heavy on Mario and want their gold. So they scream about 'honor' and 'courage' to force us into the kind of suicidal open brawl they love watching…"
"But soon they'll learn a bloody truth: only the ones still breathing get to decide what 'honor' means."
"Alright… I'll listen to you!" Lysaro gritted his teeth and swallowed the humiliation, marching with the company.
Under a storm of boos and mockery, the Lightning Company reached the stone wall and formed up in silence. Backs protected, spearmen in position, pavises planted, crossbows cocked, wagons rolled into place and chained together to create simple barriers. The formation was tight, compact, bristling with steel—an iron anvil ready for the hammer.
They were ready for the blood and slaughter.
---
Mario's seven-hundred-strong coalition surged forward in a chaotic, shouting mass.
"Hey! Shut up and listen to me!" Mario Ferrero sat on a tall warhorse, waving his ridiculous gem-encrusted ceremonial saber that was clearly meant for decoration, not killing. His face was red with frustration as he tried to control the unruly "alliance." He needed to look like the leader while dealing with equally arrogant noble sons. "We'll attack in waves, wear them down, use our numbers—"
"Oh come on, Mario, who needs tactics?" One rich merchant's son tightened his belt over his fat belly.
"Let's just all charge at once! We outnumber them two to one! They've got their backs to a wall—they can't run!"
Another noble rode forward on his horse, cloak flapping dramatically. "Mario, if you want to stay in the center and command, we won't mind…"
A third threw Mario a mocking look and sauntered off with his own retainers, leaving the "commander" behind.
"Tiberius, what the hell are those ass-lickers doing?" Lysaro asked from the command wagon, staring at the disorganized mess opposite them. "They've got the numbers—why aren't they charging?"
"Simple," Tiberius said with a cold smirk. "They're trying to make their own little mercenary bands look flashy. Right now they're not discussing how to beat us—they're arguing about who gets to look the most 'heroic' and 'noble' in front of the crowd."
"A bunch of idiots." Tiberius's eyes were those of a man watching future corpses. "They think this is a stage play? Or one of those fake gladiator shows where the worst injury is a shallow cut?"
"Crossbowmen—check your weapons, cock them, stand ready! Hold fire until my command! No early shots, no wasted bolts!"
"Light infantry—ready your bows! When the enemy reaches fifty paces, loose at will! Sharp-eyed men, watch for the rich boys and anyone trying to show off and break formation!"
"Scout cavalry—do not charge, do not flank!" He stressed this point. "Your job is to stay alive! When the enemy front line gets within a hundred paces, fall back inside the wagon laager and defend from there! No heroics!"
"Pavise bearers and wagon troops—ready your javelins and darts, but do not throw until you can see the feathers on their helmets!"
Finally, the enemy began their "charge."
It was anything but organized. A few glory-hungry rich boys broke away with their personal guards, screaming as they tried to be the first to reach the Lightning Company and claim "first blood."
The rest—especially Mario's "star" veterans—were old campaigners who instinctively hung back when real death was on the line. Their steps dragged. Behind them, the eager new recruits, arrogant noble sons, and armed household slaves kept pushing and shoving them forward.
The result was pure chaos: shouting, cursing, weapons clanging, bodies jostling. From a distance, the seven-hundred-man "army" looked like a dirty, directionless tide rolling noisily toward the silent gray iron wall at the far end of the arena.
What a pack of fools, Tiberius thought, raising his own crossbow with a cold smile. But that's perfect. My first trophies today will be the heads of you gold-drunk, glory-rotted donkeys.