The Iron Cohort drilled at dawn, their bronze flashing in perfect rhythm as spears stabbed forward and shields locked tight. Villagers gathered along the edges of the yard, whispering in awe. Even other Spartan trainees stopped mid-drill to watch. Fifty men moved with one heartbeat, one breath, one mind.
Leonidas didn't need the overlay to see the difference, but it flickered anyway:
Iron Cohort – Loyalty: 96%
Formation Instinct Active: cohesion maintained even in broken terrain
He let the men break formation, their sweat dripping into the dust. Doros clapped Nikas on the back, laughing. Kyros spun his spear in a lazy flourish, earning a glare from Theron, who muttered, "Showmanship dulls edges."
Leonidas smiled faintly. These small sparks of character were proof the wall still had life, not just iron discipline. He wanted them that way—men, not machines.
---
Later, when the men rested, Leonidas walked the streets of Sparta. The city felt different now. Eyes followed him, but not all in admiration.
Market folk nodded respectfully, mothers tugged children closer to watch him pass, but among the stoas and shaded courtyards, whispers coiled like snakes.
"That's the one who rose from dirt."
"They say his fifty rank higher than whole armies."
"No captain should outshine the council."
The overlay pulsed faintly at intervals:
[Political Hostility – Rising.]
Leonidas kept his expression calm, but each whisper sharpened his resolve. They see the wall. They fear it. Good.
---
That evening, he was summoned again to the bronze hall. The overseers sat in shadow, Kleon among them, his smirk barely restrained.
An elder spoke first, voice cold. "Leonidas. Sparta has noted your rise. The world has noted it. But Sparta is not the world. Your fifty may rank high, but numbers matter. Can your wall stand against five hundred? A thousand?"
Leonidas inclined his head. "Numbers matter. But loyalty breaks numbers. When others cap at seventy-five, we stand at ninety-six. That is the difference."
A ripple of unease passed through the hall. They had all seen the leaderboard. Evelyne's knights blazed brightest, but their cohesion froze below his. The elders hated what they could not deny.
Kleon seized the silence. "He speaks as though the system favors him alone. Dangerous words. Perhaps dangerous loyalty. If his men obey him so blindly, will they still obey Sparta?"
The elder's eyes narrowed. "A fair question."
Leonidas's jaw tightened, but he did not raise his voice. "My men obey Sparta because I am Sparta. I bled beside them. I trained beside them. They follow me not because I was given power, but because I earned it. If you doubt that, test it."
The hall bristled. Some elders whispered agreement, others muttered in fear. Damaris said nothing, but his eyes lingered on Leonidas with a weight that felt almost like warning.
---
After the session, Leonidas stepped into the cool night air. Theron was waiting outside, leaning against a column.
"They won't stop," he said flatly.
"No," Leonidas agreed. "They'll keep pressing. They'll send shadows when spears fail."
"Then what will you do?"
Leonidas's overlay shimmered. [Traitor's Mark Available.] He could almost feel the system's choice pressing at him again—root out spies now, or wait, and use them as bait.
"I'll let the cracks widen," he said at last. "When the hand pushes harder, the wall will show them where to strike. Then I'll turn the blow back on them."
Theron studied him. "Dangerous game."
"All games are dangerous when the First Wave waits," Leonidas replied.
---
The next morning, his men drilled again, sharper than before. Doros laughed, Kyros smirked, Theron's eyes never stopped watching. Leonidas stood among them, silent, calm.
He felt the weight of eyes from the council, from Kleon, from the city itself. Eyes that doubted, feared, hated.
But his wall did not waver. And as long as it held, no dagger in the dark could break it.