Game of Thrones: From a deserter to a high-ranking official

Chapter 62 Trouble

"What, young master Mario, what are you planning to do?" Tiberius stepped forward and let out a cold laugh.

"Lightning Legion!" Tiberius roared.

"exist!"

Before he finished speaking, dozens of people ran out of the nearby tents; they were wearing armor, holding spears, and carrying machetes at their waists, and quickly formed a formation.

"Raise your spears!"

The order was given, and dozens of gleaming gun barrels were then pointed at Mario and his companions.

Mario broke out in a cold sweat.

After all, he only brought a few of his trusted playboys with him this time, and he didn't have a single mercenary by his side!

If they really faced these people, they would probably be riddled with bullet holes!

"Who do you think you are, you brat!" A man born into a minor noble family couldn't help but draw his sword, completely ignoring Mario's astonished gaze.

"You think you can win just because you have more people? Let me tell you, you can't afford to mess with any one of us! Now get your soldiers out of here!"

Tippi was slightly taken aback.

Brother, what nonsense are you talking about?

Indeed, I cannot afford to offend your families, but if I were to "accidentally" kill you all here right now, would your families be able to bring the dead back to life?

However, Tiberius would not back down at this point.

The noise had attracted more and more onlookers. Young masters from various families, members of other mercenary groups, and even some guards maintaining order all gathered around, pointing and whispering about them.

Tiberius knew all too well that in such a situation, if he showed even the slightest weakness, all the prestige he had painstakingly built up and the fearsome reputation of the "Lightning Corps" would vanish, and that would be a truly devastating blow.

then……

"Enter!"

Tiberius roared.

Without the slightest hesitation, the soldiers of the Lightning Legion raised their spears and took a step forward in perfect unison.

"You...you're bullying others because of your power and numbers!" The minor nobleman was terrified by the lightning bolt.

No, he really dares to do that?!

"You... alright! Let's settle this with a one-on-one duel, in accordance with the martial spirit of the Lis people!"

"You mean, you intend to duel with me?" Tiberius looked at the minor nobleman in front of him with a strange expression.

Then, the minor nobleman turned to Mario and said, "Who does Tiberius think he is? You fight him! Use your superior swordsmanship to show him what true noble martial arts are!"

Mario got angry.

"You mean you want me to take up my sword and fight him to the death?"

"Yes!" The young nobleman's face showed an "of course" expression.

"You..." Mario exclaimed in frustration.

No, are you crazy or am I? You want me to duel him?! Do you even know how Jon Starr died? His mother got her head smashed open with an iron oar during a trial by combat by this "Boy of Lightning"!

You want me to fight him to the death?! Are you crazy or am I?!

"You just wait!" After uttering these harsh words, Mario led his men away from the scene in a sorry state.

"How was it? My 'persuasion through reason' technique worked pretty well, didn't it?" Lisangluo adjusted his embroidered gold cloak and said with considerable pride.

"The effect is outstanding, Lisanlo!" Tiberius finally couldn't help but laugh and let out a hearty laugh.

-----------------

The competition has begun.

However, according to Tiberius, this was less of a "mercenary selection" competition and more of a dramatic armed parade and a showcase of individual talents.

Moreover, the presentation was rather mediocre.

Tiberius wanted to cover his face when he saw the "mercenaries" brought out by the young masters of nobles and wealthy merchants.

What are all these things?

First, there are the armors with exaggerated designs, intricate patterns, and exquisite carvings. Tiberius glanced at them and realized that some of the exaggerated ornaments on these armors were completely unnecessary: ​​apart from making it more difficult to mount and dismount, their only purpose was to make you more visible to enemy archers!

Then came the bizarre weapons: curved blades, war scythes, even bladed frisbees and a weapon called a "soft sword," which was so flexible that it could be concealed within the lining of a belt...

Tiberius wasn't saying these weapons were useless; in fact, they were created specifically for killing, but their versatility was too low.

In other words: specialized weapons should not be the main force.

Especially Mario Ferrero's "Golden Shield Regiment." They ride ornately decorated warhorses, wear brightly colored robes and meticulously polished armor engraved with intricate patterns. Their "tactics" are more like street performances:

A swordsman who looks incredibly fierce, abandoning his upper armor to expose his muscles, will suddenly break away from the formation and charge into the ragged "enemy army" played by slaves, drawing a soft sword from his waist with extremely graceful footwork and movement.

He performed a dazzling display of swordsmanship, easily "slaying" several trembling slaves. Lacking armor, the slaves suffered deep, bone-revealing wounds from even a glancing blow from the soft sword, and one unfortunate soul had his face and half his chin sliced ​​off with a single stroke. This thrilling scene drew gasps from the audience.

The other would raise a long spear and perform a lengthy and flamboyant spear dance, targeting the defenseless slaves. He would perform feats such as "piercing the heart" and taking on two or three opponents at once, skills that Tiberius considered meaningless.

In fact, to maximize the sensory stimulation and "achievement" of the audience, Mario Ferrero himself went into battle, leading his confidants in a "fierce battle" (a one-sided massacre, since the enemy's weapons were not only armored but also specially dulled). After that, he used his sword to lift the head of a slave "wounded" and let the blood splatter on his shiny gold armor. Then the blood from the head poured down on his exaggeratedly designed helmet like rain.

This sparked even more frenzied cheers from the stands. He cheaply used the blood of slaves to fuel the audience's passion for "bravery" and their desire for "victory."

Tiberius watched all this from the sidelines, his stomach churning.

This kind of meaningless and cruel killing, which was only meant to please onlookers, disgusted him from the bottom of his heart.

Besides, if you're so tough, let them pick up weapons and have a proper fight. What is this? It's just pure bullying.

"The Joker," he muttered, spitting under his breath.

Finally, it was Team Lightning's turn to take the stage.

Their entrance seemed out of place. There was no ornate armor, no boisterous shouts, no display of individual heroism. There was only the dull sound of footsteps and the scraping of metal plates.

Lisanro excitedly rushed to the very front of the formation—this was pre-arranged; he only needed to stand there, clad in his dazzling armor, serving as a mascot and a banner. Real command lay with the unassuming Tiberius at the rear.

The drums sounded.

"Forward!" Tiberius's voice was conveyed through a simple command flag.

The entire spear formation, like a gray boulder, began to move forward steadily. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, their spears like a forest, pointing diagonally forward. There were no superfluous movements, only a cold, mechanical precision.

"Halt! Set up your guns!"

Upon receiving the order, the spear formation instantly halted. The first three rows of spears were slammed down, while the rear rows remained raised, forming an impenetrable jungle of steel thorns.

"Crossbowmen! Launch forward! Shields, cover!"

The crossbowmen, escorted by sixty shield bearers, advanced swiftly. There were no fancy, continuous rolling, kneeling shots, only the most efficient volleys.

"First row! Place them!"

"Crouch down! Load!"

"Second row! Place it!"

"Third row! Place it!"

The crossbow bolts whistled through the air in low parabolas. Although they weren't real arrows, the dyed headstocks still clearly marked "hit." The rhythm was terrifyingly precise, as tight and seamless as the movement of a mechanical watch.

"Turn left! Vehicle camp! Construct!"

Commands came in rapid succession. The entire legion moved as a cohesive unit, shifting formation flexibly to the sound of flags and drums. The spearmen and shield bearers on the left flank coordinated their turn to deal with harassment from the flank. The wagon infantry quickly pushed their obstacle wagons into position, forming a simple field defensive stronghold in a short time.

Throughout the entire process, not a single soldier from the Lightning Regiment broke formation to seek personal glory. They silently carried out every order, like cold machine parts. There were no cheers, no shouts, only the clanging of weapons, the sound of footsteps, and the twang of crossbow strings.

In the stands, the expressions of those who had actually participated in the war—some mercenaries and some nobles—gradually grew solemn.

They saw the ruthlessness of this army: discipline, obedience, and a strong sense of collectivism.

These are the things that allow an army to survive the battlefield.

For the other spectators, this drastically different tactical style, which emphasized absolute discipline and teamwork, gradually calmed the commotion in the stands.

They weren't "exciting" or "stimulating" enough, but they brought a completely different kind of oppressive feeling that made people feel suffocated.

This is a highly efficient and ruthless killing machine, not for show, but for destruction.

In the main stands, Lisandro Rogal had initially come expecting to see his son and Tiberius "act up," even prepared to be embarrassed. But as Team Lightning performed, a genuine, undisguised smile of joy appeared on his face—the first time he'd shown such a seemingly unworthy son.

Lisanglu raised his head excitedly, fully enjoying it all.

However, at that moment, a discordant voice rang out—

"Tsk tsk tsk..."