"Lower spears!" Demetrius stood at the front of the formation, slamming his helmet onto his head.
"Lower spears! Everyone pack tight and brace for the first wave!"
The instant the first Volantene knight burst out of the stream on his warhorse, he slammed straight into a wall of spearheads and a storm of crossbow bolts and javelins.
"Stab under the armpits and at the horses!" Old Tom roared. "Don't waste time on the chest—their fucking armor's too thick!"
He was right. Those super-heavy Volantene cavalry wore layers on layers: cotton or linen padding, mail, brigandine plates, and another reinforced cotton coat riveted with iron. Good luck punching through that with one hit.
But all that weight had a downside. Once they were knocked off their horses—especially in this mud—they were done. The swamp sucked them in, and the soaked padding turned into dead weight.
Spears punched into fallen knights' chests and guts. Infantry pinned them down while others drove daggers into the weak spots at the neck and armpits.
And there was an even nastier weapon for these iron bastards.
"Hyah!" One soldier on a wagon swung what looked like an oversized flail—iron-spiked, brass-banded—and smashed a knight clean out of the saddle.
Flails. Started as farm tools, but once you studded them with spikes they became monsters. For the ex-farmers in the ranks, a flail felt way more natural than a spear.
Even if it didn't kill, that hit still hurt like hell.
Still, the Volantene charge was terrifying.
Especially the six war elephants and the last of the heavy cavalry. They came on like moving mountains, crushing men and morale. Tiberius and Vito watched Volantene officers, arrows sticking out of them like porcupines, still galloping and screaming encouragement. Their raw courage was chilling.
Just when the line looked ready to snap, Tiberius did something that stunned everyone.
He yanked a thick roll of parchment from his coat—the slave contracts he'd secretly bought back for every Lightning Company soldier and their families.
He jumped onto a small rise so the whole company could see him.
Facing hundreds of shocked, disbelieving, then blazing eyes, Tiberius roared with everything he had, voice cutting through the chaos:
"Brothers! I know what you're fighting for! Today we're not just fighting to survive!"
Under every stunned stare, he thrust the roll of parchment—the symbol of their chains—straight into the torch beside him.
Flames roared up instantly, devouring the names and thumbprints, turning the contracts into swirling ash.
"Look! The chains binding you and your families are gone!"
Tiberius's voice thundered like a war drum:
"Now fight for your own freedom! For your families! For yourselves—KILL!!"
"FREEDOM—!!!"
A deafening roar exploded from the Lightning Company. Exhausted men suddenly burned with savage fire, like wounded beasts given new souls.
With impossible willpower they held the line, stopping the final desperate charge of the Volantene elephants and heavy cavalry dead in the swamp and blood.
"Tiberius! They're breaking!" Habro hurled a notched short sword into the mud and roared. "Where the hell is Old Jules?!"
"Coming right now!" Tiberius's palms were slick with sweat.
And then—
"FOR THE WHITE COMPANY! FOR VICTORY—CHARGE!!"
Jules's mighty bellow erupted from the flank.
He led one hundred twenty rested heavy shock riders and two hundred veteran reserves like a thunderbolt straight into the reeling Volantene side. Fresh and unstoppable, they sliced through the shattered formation like a hot knife through butter.
At the same moment, "Stableboy" Leon dropped the gates of Cliff Fort.
"Get ready to hit them! Pin down those Summer Storm cheese-smelling bastards!" Leon raised his curved blade, pointing at the light cavalry circling the edge.
The scales of victory—fueled by burning contracts and the roar of the flank charge—tipped completely.
Swamp, blood, the Ruthless aura, flames, and the cry of freedom forged one of the bloodiest and most glorious victories of the war.
The stench of slaughter still hung thick, but the mood had already changed.
Lysandro Rogare's face glowed with barely contained excitement as he directed men to clean up the battlefield. He ordered high-value captives—especially the super-heavy cavalry, shock riders, and Tiger Cloak officers—bound and guarded while his eyes gleamed at the piles of pristine armor, weapons, and banners.
As the Rogare heir, he knew exactly how much gold those spoils and noble ransoms would fetch back in Lys.
Even by the most conservative count, this single battle had netted them over fifty thousand gold coins in pure profit.
Nearby, soldiers dealt with the grim leftovers. Badly wounded horses and mules that couldn't be saved were put down and turned into victory meat.
When Jules ordered the surviving riderless war elephants driven into the nearby woods and released, both Tiberius and Lysandro looked openly disappointed. Those beasts were worth a fortune.
Plus… war elephants were badass.
"Uncle, we could sell them for serious money," Tiberius muttered. "Or hell, we could even try to use them ourselves—"
Jules shot him a cold look. "We can't feed them. Do you know how many bananas and rice sacks those things eat every day? And we don't have trainers. Letting them go is better than letting them rot."
His gaze swept over the bound Volantene elite cavalry. Even captured, their eyes still burned with humiliated rage.
For them, losing was one thing. Being taken alive felt like extra insult.
"Tiberius." Vito suddenly appeared, grinning. "After the final count… we recovered over four hundred golden spurs."
"Take the loot report to my uncle," Tiberius waved him off, a little impatient. "I don't handle that."
"No, Tiberius!" Vito grabbed his arm. "Do you understand what this means?"
"What?"
"We killed nearly four hundred nobles and knights in this fight alone! Only Volantene nobles and super-heavy cavalry are allowed golden spurs!"
"And the entire Three Daughters combined haven't killed a quarter of that many highborn since the war started!"
"This is a straight-up, glorious, balls-out victory!"
Tiberius thought privately, Yeah, comparing their second-line garrison troops to frontline noble knights isn't exactly fair. But he kept it to himself.
Still, they had done something the Three Daughters hadn't managed once: win a real, decisive, satisfying victory.
Tiberius thought for a second, then said,
"Since the results are this magnificent, Vito—record this battle as…"
"The Battle of the Golden Spurs."
After a brief rest and tally, the command staff gathered again around the blood- and mud-stained map.
Jules's finger slammed down on a spot: Broken Spear Ford, the only major crossing in the upper Disputed River capable of moving large armies quickly.
"Uncle, the prisoners confirmed it repeatedly," Tiberius said, voice hoarse but eyes still sharp. "The force we just destroyed was Volantis's only mobile field army in the entire upper river region."
His finger traced across the map.
"That means Broken Spear Ford and the city behind it are basically an unguarded treasury right now. Their garrison is either dead in the mud or already packing after hearing their main force got wiped out."
Tiberius looked up at Jules, voice urgent and decisive:
"Uncle, we can't waste this chance! Let's move! Before they can react or call reinforcements from downstream, we take Broken Spear Ford and the city in one stroke. Control that crossing and most of the upper region falls into our hands. Lys and the other cities will have no choice but to recognize this victory—"
He flashed a sly grin.
"After all… up until now, they haven't had a single real strategic win. We just handed them one they can brag about in the council chambers."
But before that—
"Uncle… about the prisoners," Tiberius asked hesitantly.
"What do you plan to do with them?"