The Lightning Company's right wing and center held firm with fewer men, but the wagon barriers, agile light infantry support, and relentless crossbow volleys kept the line rock-solid. They acted like an iron anvil, pinning the enemy front in place, while the left wing's "hammer" smashed into the coalition's soft flank. Mario's formation shattered like cheap pottery.
The moment the left wing was completely overrun, the Dothraki scout cavalry seized the perfect moment for a textbook, savage charge. Sabers raised, lances lowered, they let out wild whoops, their long braids whipping in the wind.
Twenty riders sliced into the enemy's crumbling rear like a hot knife through butter.
Chasing broken men and hunting the cowardly—this was their old trade. On the grasslands, this was exactly how they ran down fleeing infantry and slaves.
Then the full collapse began.
With the left wing destroyed and the Lightning Company's center and right steadily rolling forward, Mario's seven-hundred-man army disintegrated in minutes. What had been a proud force turned into a panicked, screaming mob running in every direction.
Fear took hold. Survivors shrieked and fled, trampling each other. In several places, two or three Lightning Company soldiers simply roared at a group—and they threw down their weapons and surrendered on the spot.
But Tiberius had given strict orders: no prisoners, no mercy, no quarter. Heads were military merit. Bloody weapons were glory.
Every man in the Lightning Company—even Lysaro—had taken up arms and joined the fight. They knew the enemy was finished. They knew they were going to win.
Soon, Mario Ferrero, his handful of spoiled friends, and their core guards—about fifty or sixty men total—were driven into a corner of the arena. Their backs pressed against the wall, they huddled together, faces twisted with terror, disbelief, and utter despair. Their once-splendid armor was now filthy with mud and blood. Their trembling weapons pointed forward, but every trace of their earlier arrogance had vanished.
The stands had fallen into deathly silence. The earlier frenzy and cheers were gone, replaced by cold fear and stunned awe. Several noble ladies had already fainted. Even veteran nobles who had watched countless bloody gladiator fights sat pale-faced, shaken by the sheer efficiency of Tiberius's army.
Tiberius raised his hand.
The entire Lightning Company stopped instantly, weapons still leveled at the cornered remnants, ready to deliver the killing blow at a moment's notice.
In the sudden quiet, weak voices finally rose from the stands—mostly from the Ferrero family and the houses of the trapped noble sons. They cried out in panic:
"Mercy! Lord Rogare! Young Master Lysaro! Please spare them! They surrender!"
It was a lifeline.
Lysaro pulled his sword from a dead mercenary's belly. He was covered in blood, his eyes no longer dazed but now burning with fierce pride. He looked at Tiberius, silently asking whether to continue.
"My dear Tiberius, let us end this farce," Lysandro's voice suddenly rang out across the arena, sounding almost bored. "This bloody little drama has already caused enough tragedy. Besides, mercy is one of the Lord of Light's virtues!"
"Yes, yes!"
"Mercy is a virtue!"
"Noble Young Master Lysaro, and Young Master Tiberius! Please spare them!"
Tiberius didn't answer. He simply looked at Lysaro.
Lysaro took a deep breath and forced his voice to sound steady and magnanimous. "Mario! All of you! Admit defeat and apologize to me and my Lightning Company! If you do, I may consider letting you live!"
Pride and dignity no longer mattered. Mario Ferrero was the first to throw down his sword, sobbing, "We surrender! Lysaro! We surrender! We're sorry! Your army… is strong! Spare us!"
The others frantically tossed away their weapons, tripping over each other to beg for their lives.
Tiberius waved his hand. The Lightning Company opened a narrow gap.
"You few," he pointed at Mario and the highest-ranking nobles, "can crawl out."
Like men granted a reprieve from hell, they scrambled on hands and knees, fleeing the encirclement in utter disgrace.
As Mario and his companions desperately tried to escape through the corridor of Lightning Company soldiers—
Ptoo!
A thick glob of spit landed squarely on Mario's ornate breastplate.
Then another. And another. Almost every soldier they passed spat on them. With each wad of spit came low, venomous mockery—soldiers repeating Mario's own earlier taunts in mocking voices:
"Lightning Kid!"
"Hero Governor's son!"
"Spice things up, my lord!"
Every spit, every mocking word struck like an invisible slap, far more humiliating than any blade. Mario and his friends turned deathly pale, but they didn't dare fight back. Heads bowed, they fled the arena like beaten dogs.
Tiberius's gaze then shifted to the remaining mercenaries and guards huddled in the corner—pale, trembling, already broken men. Most were hired swords or household retainers dragged along by their masters to look tough.
Tiberius's face showed no emotion—only cold indifference.
"As for the rest of you…" His voice was quiet, but it sent a chill through every survivor.
"My soldiers," Tiberius said slowly, eyes sweeping over his blood-splattered, rock-steady warriors, "are exactly what Young Master Mario called them—mules and donkeys. They only know how to work. They don't understand what 'flashy' or 'performance' means."
He paused, looking at the doomed men like livestock ready for slaughter.
"That was an insult. And insults demand an apology."
"So…"
He raised his hand and delivered the final verdict.
"Lightning Company—finish them. Kill every last one."
The last spark of hope died.
Crossbow strings sang. Spears thrust forward. Javelins flew.
The corner erupted in one final, brief chorus of screams and desperate pleas—quickly drowned out by the wet, heavy sounds of steel tearing through flesh.
The Lightning Company soldiers carried out the order without hesitation or mercy. To men who had already seen far worse death in the mines and sugarcane fields, this was almost satisfying.
A few moments later, the corner fell completely silent.
Tiberius let out a long, satisfied breath.
Finally… now I've truly secured my place.