The sun was only just climbing the ridges when the overseers drove the boys into the yard. Dust rose underfoot, the smell of sweat already thick in the air. Rods cracked against shoulders and shins to drive laggards into line.
"Today, the wall is tested," barked a scarred veteran with a crooked nose. His voice carried like thunder. "Squad against squad. You will learn what it means to face another wall of shields—and what it means to break."
A ripple of unease passed through the younger boys. Some whispered excitedly; others paled. For most, this was the first time they'd face opponents who struck back.
Leonidas stood in formation with his squad. Nikandros rolled his shoulders, eyes gleaming with eagerness for the fight. Doros grunted, adjusting his grip on his shield strap with methodical care. Kyros's hands shook faintly as he held his spear, and Lysander chewed his lip raw, eyes darting nervously toward the opposing line. Only Theron stood calm, unreadable, his expression still as stone.
Across the yard, Phaedon's squad prepared. Six boys, broad-shouldered and scarred from years of training, their confidence radiating like heat. Phaedon himself sneered across the space, locking eyes with Leonidas.
A few boys on the sidelines jeered. "Look at the peasant—he'll drop his shield before the first clash!"
"Twenty years old and weaker than half the twelve-year-olds!"
Leonidas ignored them. His gaze flickered, the System shimmering faintly in his vision:
[Opponent Squad – Strength: High | Average Potential: B | Cohesion: 60%]
A wall well-practiced, stronger than his own ragged group. His chest tightened, but his mind was already running ahead, calculating. If we meet them head-on, we'll be crushed. We need angles, timing, disruption.
"Form ranks!" the overseer roared.
Shields slammed together, the sound a thunderclap across the yard. Leonidas's arm nearly buckled under the weight, but he forced himself steady.
"Advance!"
The squads marched. Dust churned with every step. The clash drew closer, wood and iron groaning under the tension.
At the last moment, Leonidas barked, "Angle right! Let them glance off!"
His squad hesitated—Nikandros with open scorn, Kyros with fear—but Theron moved instantly, dragging Kyros into position with a firm shove. Doros followed without complaint. Nikandros cursed but shifted, unwilling to stand alone.
The lines collided. The impact rattled Leonidas's teeth, his bones screaming under the weight. But instead of shattering head-on, the angled formation forced Phaedon's squad to stagger. Their momentum turned aside, their wall bending just enough.
"Strike left shields!" Leonidas gasped through the chaos.
Spears darted. Nikandros overextended, his thrust scraping uselessly. Doros's strike hit wood but steadied the line. Theron's spear flashed true, slamming into an exposed shoulder. The boy on the other side yelped, stumbling back with a bruise already forming.
For a heartbeat, they gained ground.
But Phaedon roared, smashing his shield forward like a ram. Nikandros grunted, driven back, the line quivering around him. Kyros faltered, his shield dipping low, panic flashing in his eyes.
We'll break, Leonidas realized in a sick rush. Unless—
"Theron! Center with me! Doros, brace left! Nikandros, lock the wall—don't charge, hold it!"
Theron surged forward without hesitation, his spear intercepting a thrust meant for Kyros before lunging in a precise counter. His movements were different now—not hesitant, not restrained. Sharp, clean, devastatingly efficient. His strikes flowed like water, each one purposeful, each one in rhythm with Leonidas's shouted commands.
For the first time, Leonidas saw it: the truth of the System's whisper—SSS Potential.
The wall steadied. Their feet dug into the dirt. Their rhythm grew jagged but unyielding, and step by grinding step, they pushed Phaedon's squad back. Not with brute force, but with angles, timing, and sheer refusal to yield.
"Enough!" the overseer bellowed.
The squads broke apart, gasping for air. Sweat streaked down faces, arms trembled with exhaustion.
Phaedon spat in the dirt, his eyes burning with hatred as he glared at Leonidas. "You think you've won? Next time, peasant, I'll crush you myself."
Leonidas met his gaze evenly, though every muscle in his body shook. "You'll try. But you'll fail."
The overseer said nothing, but his eyes lingered on Leonidas with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps.
The System pulsed faintly:
[Squad Trial Completed – Narrow Victory]
[Cohesion: +1%]
A single percent. A sliver of progress. Leonidas almost laughed. Training polishes a wall. But only true battle will forge it.
As they filed back to the barracks, Nikandros muttered, "We only won because of luck." But his voice lacked conviction. Doros gave Leonidas a short nod. Kyros avoided his eyes, guilt etched on his face.
Only Theron caught Leonidas's gaze, holding it for a moment before nodding once, sharp and deliberate. A silent recognition between two minds who had both seen the truth.
For the first time, Leonidas felt not just exhaustion, but the faint spark of something more: possibility.