The stench of blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the smell of churned earth and death, refusing to fade over the arena.
The Lightning Company soldiers began cleaning the battlefield in silence, as if the slaughter had been nothing more than another task on the list.
After the initial stunned silence, the stands erupted into uneasy murmuring. Several noblewomen in fine silks and glittering jewels turned deathly pale, pressing embroidered handkerchiefs to their mouths and noses. Their eyes, filled with undisguised disgust and fear, were locked on the twelve-year-old boy standing in the center of the carnage.
One braver lady finally snapped, her voice trembling but still sharp with outrage.
"You… you little monster! You have no mercy, no sense of justice! The gods will curse you!"
Tiberius had just yanked a javelin out of the ground and was calmly wiping the blood off the tip with a rag.
He paused at her words, then shrugged indifferently. He looked up at the noblewoman, his face showing neither anger nor offense—only a kind of bored calm.
He raised the javelin—not pointing it at her, but casually gesturing toward the far side of the arena where Mario Ferrero and his friends were being frantically wiped down with silk cloths and fussed over by their servants.
"Yes, my lady," Tiberius said clearly, his voice carrying that innocent, boyish tone that somehow made his words cut deeper. "You're right. I probably do lack the… mercy and justice you speak of."
Then his tone shifted, cold mockery slipping in.
"But they had it."
He shrugged again, talking about mass slaughter as casually as if discussing the weather.
"They were so merciful, letting their 'highly skilled' warriors charge straight into our spear wall with no formation, generously offering themselves up to die."
"They were also incredibly just, gathering seven hundred 'brave warriors' to 'fairly' fight against our three hundred former slaves who were digging in mines and cutting sugarcane just months ago."
"And in the end, they were extraordinarily magnanimous, allowing a lowly mercenary's nephew like me to live and stand here listening to your lecture."
Each sentence landed like a silent slap across the faces of the very people who had cheered for Mario moments earlier. The noblewoman was left speechless, her face cycling between white and purple.
"And one more thing," Tiberius added coldly, pointing the javelin toward the sky. "If you're going to pray tonight, please do me a favor and tell the gods this…"
"Tell them to stay out of my business!"
The stands fell silent once more.
---
The Lightning Company soldiers followed Tiberius's orders precisely: they took heads as proof of kills, but when there were too many, they switched to cutting off ears instead.
Lysaro wiped the blood from his ornate sword with his own cloak. He had personally killed two men and had even charged to the very front of the formation.
But the same Lysaro who had shown real courage moments ago now looked around at the twisted corpses, the cold-faced Lightning Company soldiers, and the Dothraki riders hanging enemy heads from their belts. His stomach finally rebelled. He dropped to his knees and vomited.
"Young Master Lysaro." A hand steadied him.
It was Tiberius, offering him a bottle of clean water.
"Rinse your mouth," Tiberius said quietly.
To Tiberius's surprise, Lysaro suddenly sprang back up. A wild mix of lingering fear, excitement, and overwhelming pride flooded his face. He rinsed his mouth, then stood tall, eyes bloodshot with exhilaration, voice hoarse but bursting with joy.
"Tiberius… we won! We actually won! We're still alive! Fuck! Hahaha! Did you see Mario's face? That idiot!"
Tiberius looked at his spoiled friend with a helpless smile, but inside he was grinning from ear to ear.
Perfect. Now I finally have the leverage to say I'm not going to the Volantis front lines.
---
On the high platform, Jules Mord stood with his arms crossed, quietly watching the Lightning Company's ruthless cleanup. His face remained expressionless, but deep in his eyes there was a flicker of genuine pride and approval.
He turned to his most trusted old brothers—Vito, Old Tom, Garvin, Leon—and spoke in a low, firm voice.
"Now I can say it." He paused, his gaze returning to Tiberius's small but straight-backed figure. "He is no longer just a clever, lucky boy. Today he stood on a real battlefield, commanded a real fight, and won. He has become a true commander."
His words were careful, but there was no doubt in his tone.
"He's still green, still lacks experience, and his methods are… harsh. And yes, this was only a limited, rule-bound 'blood combat' meant for show…"
Jules's eyes swept across the field of corpses, his voice carrying the caution of an old veteran.
"But regardless, it was a real battle. Iron and blood. Life and death. He passed the test… and he passed it beautifully. Extremely well."
Then he straightened his back and spoke to the old guard of the White Company.
"The future of the White Company… I can hand it to him without worry."
Vito and the others realized that Jules had truly decided to pass the torch to his nephew.
---
That same night, news of Lysaro's victory over Mario in the "blood combat" spread through Lys's high society and mercenary circles like wildfire.
The Rogare family's prestige soared to new heights. Everyone was talking about the great Lysandro and his outstanding son Lysaro.
But in the private taverns and camps where veteran mercenary captains and grizzled old soldiers gathered, the conversation centered almost entirely on one name—Tiberius Mord, nephew of "the Honorable" Jules.
"That Tiberius Mord… Jules's nephew!" A scarred old mercenary named Habro slammed his mug down, shaking his head in disbelief. "Seven Hells, the boy's even more dangerous than his uncle! First he cracks the Bloodwave Cape cannibal case, then he beats Jon Starr to death with a damn oar in a trial by combat!"
"I was there!" another captain spat, waving his hands wildly. "His Lightning Company didn't fight—they crushed them! Like grinding wheat under a millstone! Those idiots thought he was being cowardly… ha! Backing against the wall to stop them from flanking? That's just smart! The kid got mocked the whole time and never wavered—he just kept executing his plan. What nerves!"
"And his Lightning Company—crossbowmen steady as rocks, spearmen brutal and rock-solid, those Dothraki riders hitting exactly when they needed to! Most importantly, their formation never broke once!"
"The oblique attack was the killer!" A calmer-looking commander dipped his finger in wine and drew a quick diagram on the table. "See? Concentrate your strength on one flank, hit them at a forty-five-degree angle! Once you break that side, you roll up their center and other wing… Beautiful! Clean! The timing was perfect! It was like a vicious left hook straight to the soft ribs!"
"I still can't believe those soldiers were slaves three months ago," someone whispered in awe.
"Turning slaves into that in three months… the kid isn't just ruthless—he's a devil! Did Jules teach him the Unsullied training methods or something?"
"Doesn't matter if they were slaves or free men," Habro said, slamming his mug down again with finality. "The fight he fought today was flawless. The discipline, the formation changes, the timing, that perfect oblique attack—most of the old bastards who've been bleeding in the Disputed Lands for ten, fifteen years couldn't have pulled that off."
"Jules Mord…" he snorted, half jealous, half admiring. "The man really has one hell of a nephew!"