The overseers called them to the yard at dawn, rods snapping against shields to drive them faster. Dust rose under the tramp of feet, the air thick with sweat and nerves. The crooked-nosed veteran strode forward, eyes scanning the lines like a hawk.
His finger lifted, stabbing the air. "You."
Leonidas's stomach twisted as the overseer's gaze fixed on his squad.
"And you."
The hand swung to Phaedon.
A murmur swept through the yard. Every boy knew of their feud. Now it would play out in the open.
Phaedon's grin split wide, cruel and eager. His men pounded their shields in rhythm, the sound echoing like war drums. Leonidas's squad stiffened around him. Nikandros bared his teeth like a wolf, Doros flexed his shoulders with grim resolve, Kyros's knuckles whitened on his spear, Lysander muttered curses, and Theron stood calm, his eyes narrowed, as if this was the moment he had been waiting for.
"Form!" the overseer barked.
They slammed shields together, six against six, spears leveled. The yard fell silent except for the creak of wood, the rasp of breath. Boys crowded the edges, whispering, some smirking, others watching with sharp, hungry eyes.
"Advance!"
The two walls marched. Dust swirled higher with every step, the ground vibrating under the steady tramp. Leonidas's heart thundered, but his mind was cold. If we meet them head-on, we'll break.
"Angle left!" he barked.
Nikandros growled, his pride bristling, but shifted. Doros adjusted instantly, Kyros stumbled but was shoved back into line by Theron's firm grip. They hit not square but slanted, the impact a thunderous crack of wood and iron.
The shock rattled Leonidas's bones. His shield slammed back into his chest, his arm nearly buckled. The enemy staggered, thrown off-balance.
"Now! Strike center!" Leonidas roared.
Their spears darted. Nikandros lunged too far, nearly exposing himself. Doros's thrust smacked uselessly against wood. But Theron—Theron's spear cut true, slamming into an opponent's ribs. The boy gasped, stumbling back with a cry. For a heartbeat, they gained ground.
Then Phaedon crashed forward. His strength was a hammer, his shield smashing into Nikandros with brutal force. Nikandros grunted, legs skidding in the dust. Kyros panicked, his shield dropping, leaving a hole.
Leonidas felt the collapse rushing toward them. "Theron! Anchor center! Doros, brace left! Nikandros, lock your stance, stop rushing!"
They obeyed, some grudgingly, some out of desperation. Theron stepped up, his spear a blur, intercepting a thrust aimed at Kyros and driving it back with ruthless precision. Doros planted his weight, a wall of stubborn muscle. Nikandros cursed but steadied, his shield grinding back into place.
The noise was deafening. Shields scraped, spears thudded, boys grunted and shouted. Dust filled Leonidas's throat, sweat stung his eyes, but their line held. Step by grinding step, they steadied. Not polished, not perfect—but unbroken.
Phaedon snarled, hammering forward again and again. His men shouted, their chants turning ragged as their momentum faltered. Leonidas shouted corrections, each one dragging another heartbeat of survival from their failing bodies.
And still, the wall did not break.
At last, the overseer's roar split the chaos. "Enough!"
The squads broke apart, boys stumbling back, gasping for air, arms trembling. Phaedon's men looked shaken, their confidence dimmed. Phaedon himself glared at Leonidas, hatred burning, his chest heaving with fury.
Leonidas stood bent, his shield dragging at his arm, his lungs afire. Nikandros wiped blood from his lip, Doros straightened slowly, Kyros's breath came in shuddering gasps, Lysander muttered hoarsely, and Theron's eyes burned sharp, calm even in exhaustion.
The overseer's gaze swept them, his voice rough but carrying across the yard. "Not polished. Not clean. But the wall stood."
Whispers rippled among the boys watching. For the first time, Leonidas's squad was not a joke. They had held.
The System flickered faintly before Leonidas's eyes:
[Trial Completed – Narrow Survival]
[Cohesion: +2%]
Only a sliver. They had not won glory, but they had endured.
As the squads staggered back, Phaedon spat in the dust. His eyes never left Leonidas. The fight was far from over.
Leonidas's arms ached, his ribs screamed, but beneath the pain, a spark of pride flickered. The wall had not broken. And in Sparta, that was enough to begin.