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The crossbowmen stood in cold silence, aiming into the glittering, chaotic tide of Mario's mob. Their breathing was quick, but their faces showed no fear. Fingers rested steadily on the triggers, eyes locked on the fastest runners at the front.
"Loose!"
The instant the enemy crossed the midfield line, Tiberius gave the order.
TWANG—TWANG—TWANG—!
A horrifying ripple of bowstrings snapped in near-perfect unison. Dozens of heavy bolts screamed off the steel prods, slicing through the air like a swarm of lethal hornets. They slammed straight into the packed, formation-less mass of Mario's coalition.
Then came the screams.
"AH—!"
"My leg!"
The wet thud of steel punching through flesh, the sharp crack of breaking bone, and the sudden explosion of agonized shrieks replaced every cheer and taunt.
The men who had rushed ahead to steal glory—Mario's show-offs and their armed retainers—were the first to die. Their fancy leather and mail might as well have been paper against the heavy bolts at close range. Some were punched straight through the chest and dropped without a sound. Others took bolts in the thigh or gut, screaming as they collapsed and lost all fight. A few unlucky bastards were hit by three or four bolts at once and flipped backward like broken dolls.
The formation was so tight the crossbowmen barely needed to aim—just point and shoot. The moment they fired, they passed their empty weapons to the loaders behind them and took freshly cocked and loaded ones, keeping the volleys rolling without pause.
Lysaro stood on the command wagon, pumping his fists in excitement. "That's it! Hit them! Give those bastards some color!"
"Seventy paces! Light infantry—loose! Focus on the left flank—they've broken away from the main body!" Tiberius, still on the wagon, had spotted the exact moment the enemy line started to fray under the crossbow fire.
The light infantry drew their bows from the wagon platforms and unleashed another deadly rain of arrows.
The enemy's left wing was completely detached. By the time they fought through the arrow storm and reached the Lightning Company, they were already doomed.
Whoosh! A javelin buried itself cleanly through one man's forehead.
Some tried to charge anyway, only to slam into a wall of spears, pavises, and wagons. The gleaming spear points made their blood run cold. The wagons and shields turned the entire front into a bristling hedgehog.
Then something happened that stunned the entire crowd.
Despite being outnumbered more than two-to-one, the Lightning Company had actually driven Mario's seven-hundred-man coalition back.
"Damn it—attack! Attack!" Mario screamed from horseback, waving his useless decorative saber in fury as he tried to push his mercenaries forward in a desperate human-wave assault.
But the narrow arena killed their numbers advantage. They couldn't spread out. Their instinctive clustering into a dense mob simply made them perfect targets for the long spears.
The so-called "experts" and their flashy sword work were worthless against the disciplined hedge of steel. One man would deflect a spear—only for three or four more to stab him from different angles. Their beautiful blades never even got to swing before their owners were skewered.
There were a few real threats, though.
A hulking brute swinging a massive two-handed sword smashed through several spear shafts, trying to carve an opening.
"Crossbowmen! Light infantry! Kill the big bastard with the greatsword!" Tiberius shouted, throwing aside a broken spear. "He's about to break the line! Damn it—he's already killed three of ours! Spearmen—aim for his neck and legs!"
The swordsman had actually snapped several spear shafts and was trying to force a breach.
Before he could break through, three crossbow bolts slammed into his chest, followed by two spears punching through his belly and throat. He toppled like a felled tree.
Other agile swordsmen who tried to roll or tumble through the gaps were stopped cold by the wagons, then pinned to the ground by javelins from the pavise bearers.
Their fancy skills were worthless against a real battle line.
The flashy soft-sword performer fared even worse. Before he could show off a single move, a perfectly timed volley from the crossbowmen cut him down.
After all, everyone had seen his "skills." They made sure to give him special attention.
This was no battle.
It was a one-sided slaughter.
The Lightning Company soldiers fought with machine-like calm, simply repeating the motions they had drilled thousands of times: thrust, recover, step forward, thrust again. The crossbowmen stayed cool behind their shield wall, picking off anyone who got too close. The pavise bearers held firm, and any warrior brave enough to charge was immediately riddled with javelins, darts, or finished off with cleavers.
The bloody stalemate—or rather, the methodical butchery—lasted nearly forty minutes.
Tiberius watched the battlefield with icy focus. He saw Mario's coalition beginning to tire. After several failed charges their morale had collapsed, their command structure had broken down, and clear gaps were appearing between their units.
The moment the enemy pulled back and the two sides entered a brief standoff—
Now!
Tiberius took a deep breath and began firing off a rapid series of commands.
On the high platform, Jules Mord suddenly shot to his feet, eyes wide with utter disbelief.
The Lightning Company's main spear block and crossbowmen were shifting hard to one side, forming a massive, dense striking wedge. The center and right wing seemed to lag behind on purpose, creating an obvious slant. From above, it looked like a long diagonal spearhead driving straight toward the enemy.
At the same time, the left wing pivoted forward at a perfect forty-five-degree angle with terrifying precision—like a giant serpent lunging to sink its fangs into the enemy's already chaotic and collapsing left flank.
"Oblique order?!" Jules blurted out, voice shaking. "How—how does he know this?! I never taught him that!"
The oblique attack—concentrating superior force on one flank to achieve a local breakthrough, then hammering the enemy's center and other wing—was one of the classic infantry tactics for winning while outnumbered. Jules himself had only mastered it after years of brutal campaigns.
And now his twelve-year-old nephew had just executed it perfectly with an army of former slaves on a chaotic tournament field.
Who taught him this? Or did he… figure it out himself?
Mario's left wing never saw it coming. Their morale was already broken, their formation sloppy. Some men were already starting to slip away. The sudden, ferocious diagonal charge caught them completely off guard.
Why are those spiky turtles suddenly attacking?!
Under the Lightning Company's hammer-like oblique thrust, the enemy left wing shattered instantly. The spearmen didn't even worry about their own flanks—they charged forward with wild cries, driving their spears into anyone in front of them. Some spears had two or three bodies impaled like meat on a skewer, yet the soldiers never slowed down.
"You worried about your flanks?" Tiberius had told them during training when someone raised the question. He had drawn a quick diagram in the dirt with a stick.
"Remember one thing: if you strike fast enough, if your thrust is sharp enough, and the enemy can't react in time…"
He snapped the stick in half, eyes burning with confidence.
"Then they'll never get the chance to hit your flanks—because they'll already be broken! And a broken army is worth less than the lowest pig or dog!"