At dawn, as the first light crept over the horizon, the rhythm of marching boots, booming chants, the clamor of wall-building drills, and the crashing clang of blades shattered the dreams of most Uruk citizens.
In the central and southern districts, those caught in the noise simply pulled their quilts over their heads and continued sleeping, long accustomed to the commotion.
But for those near the northern wall, there was no such luck. Sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, they wore matching dark circles under their eyes like badges of exhaustion.
A few grumbled curses, covering their ears and stubbornly burrowing back under their covers, determined to cling to their dreams. But most rose in a daze, their eyes vacant, dragging themselves to the window to face another day under the rising sun.
Then came the thunderous roar, like it was forced from every soldier's lungs, shaking the northern wall. The shout rumbled through the air, causing dust to fall from the window frames of nearby homes.
"Sparta!"
"Sparta!"
Every single morning—it never stopped. Damn Spartan brutes, would they ever let up?
The remaining Uruk citizens who still wished to sleep clutched their aching ears. Their tears nearly spilled from sheer frustration as they groggily gave up and crawled out of bed.
Half an hour later, as the last traces of night receded, shops and street stalls opened one by one. The scent of food and rising smoke from hearths began to fill the streets.
Meanwhile, in the camp beside the northern wall, a group of shirtless, muscular men clad in light armor gathered—round shields in one hand, short swords or spears in the other.
At the command of the red-haired Guardian of the Hot Gates, these highly disciplined Uruk soldiers moved in flawless unison, fluidly shifting the Spartan phalanx formation with precision and speed.
Straight backs, firm steps, raised shields, thrown spears, and swinging swords—thousands moved as one.
Even from a hundred meters away, the surge of battle spirit was suffocating, sending a chill through any onlooker's spine.
Though the morning disruptions earned their fair share of whispered complaints among the disturbed citizens, no one dared speak ill publicly of the man leading them—the very same foreigner who had forged this elite force, repelled multiple waves of Magical Beasts, and held the line in Babylon's darkest hours.
Without him, who knew how many of Uruk's young warriors would have perished?
Compared to sleeping eternally beneath the earth, most preferred to be jolted awake by those vibrant, roaring voices.
After several rounds of standard training, the Uruk soldiers, barely winded, casually broke formation.
They grabbed wooden sticks—one side wrapped in cloth—raised their shields, and began the next, far more brutal, phase of combat drills.
The crash of shield against wood, the dull thud of blunt tips striking flesh, echoed through the camp without pause.
Even with bruises, fractured bones, and torn muscles, these warriors showed no signs of falling—nor any intention of retreating.
Only when they fully collapsed, unconscious from exhaustion or injury, did the priests, priestesses, and Magus from the Astrology Tower—who had been waiting anxiously at the sidelines—dare to rush in and drag them off the training field, pale-faced and careful not to be trampled.
Within moments, divine arts, Magecraft, and multicolored herbal remedies were poured over the wounded.
The half-dead were swiftly restored—bones mended, tendons reshaped, bruises fading like mist. In no time, they were nearly back to full strength.
In fact, before they'd even rested a full hour, these soldiers had to give up their spots to a new batch of even more battered comrades.
And so, limping and aching, they got back on their feet and returned to the training grounds—ready for another round of hell.
"Beasts! Brutes!"
"Madmen! Sadists!"
The nearby Magus, watching in horror, couldn't bear the sight. They averted their eyes and muttered curses at the instigator under their breath.
But the Guardian of the Hot Gates, the man fully in charge of the training, had only one response from beginning to end.
"This is Sparta!"
The brutal sparring finally ended after two relentless hours.
And yet, the battered and half-dead Uruk soldiers had no time to rest—they still had to drag their aching bodies off to complete the muscle-training method invented by the so-called "Spartan."
The locals had a name for it—"wall-building."
"On the battlefield, the only things you can trust are your muscles and your comrades!"
Leonidas, the foreigner known as the "Guardian of Thermopylae," paced through the camp as he barked these teachings, drilling the Spartan creed into his men.
Already broken down past the point of resistance, these now fully Spartanized Uruk soldiers sweated under the harsh sun as they toiled on the construction site, their voices hoarse from shouting slogans at the top of their lungs.
By noon, when supply wagons rolled into the camp, the Sparta-worn soldiers finally saw a glimmer of salvation—and some teared up on the spot.
Pushed to their absolute limits, they dropped to the ground and used trembling hands to grab the food delivered from the sacrificial altar, stuffing it into their mouths like starved wolves.
The strong taste of medicinal herbs and the dense flavor of Magical Beast meat brought not only a powerful sense of fullness, but also a prickling itch—evidence of wounds knitting together and Mana being absorbed.
Even as they winced and gasped, the soldiers kept devouring their meals with desperate speed, like a pack of beasts gorging after a long hunt.
Once the brief lunch was over, it was time to swap out worn-down gear and test the new half-plate armor.
This was one of the rare chances Uruk soldiers got to relax and digest. The sweat-slicked, musclebound warriors reached into the wagons, pulling out spears, short swords, round shields, and arrows.
Some seasoned veterans took the time to test the weapons—comparing weight and grip—ensuring everything felt just right, because a minor imbalance in battle could mean death.
Leonidas, clearly excited, stepped forward and yanked out a throwing spear. He dashed into a run, leaned back, his body arched like a drawn bow—muscles and bones stretched taut in a massive curve.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The spear exploded forward in a golden blur, slicing through the air with sharp, echoing booms. It pierced through four solid wood targets in a row before embedding nearly halfway into a wall a soldier had built during training. The shaft still vibrated with lingering force.
"Sparta!"
"Sparta!"
Stirred once again by the general's overwhelming display of violent grace, the Uruk soldiers erupted into cheers, blood pumping with raw excitement.
Pleased with his little showcase, Leonidas turned to the black-haired man overseeing the weapon shipment.
"Hey, Samael. This batch is top-notch. Did you forge them yourself?"
"As long as they work. I'm pretty good at crafting polearms and similar weapons—wasn't a big deal."
Recalling his forced labor in the Underworld, a faint smile curled unconsciously at the corner of Samael's lips.
"They're more than fine. They feel amazing to wield! We better kill a few more Magical Beasts just to make it worth your effort!"
With a hearty laugh, Leonidas clapped Samael's shoulder. The impact landed like thunder—but the ancient serpent didn't budge an inch.
Leonidas wasn't surprised in the slightest. Instead, he took off his helmet and unstrapped his lower armor, his eyes locking onto Samael's—flames of battle burning bright.
"It's been a while. How about… a spar?"
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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