"Not today. After unloading this batch, I still have to collect the spears and arrows scattered outside..."
Samael glanced toward the battlefield beyond the northern wall, where dried, dark purple blood stained the ground. His tone carried a hint of hesitation.
Magical Beasts were mostly nocturnal, and ambushes under cover of darkness were their preferred tactic.
Fortunately, Leonidas, the Guardian of the Hot Gates, was a seasoned general. He had long prepared for such tactics.
Every morning, the corpses of Magical Beasts could be seen strewn across the battlefield—skewered like hedgehogs, pinned to the ground by javelins and arrows.
With creatures like Mušḫuššu nesting and multiplying from the Reed Fields to Mount Ebih, mineral transport routes had been heavily disrupted.
To sustain the war effort, it had become part of the sacrificial grounds' logistics team's routine to recover used spears and arrows, melting down the damaged ones for reuse.
"No problem! Old Tabbad here just happens to be taking a bunch of these Uruk brats out on patrol!"
A brawny old man with a tangled gray beard slapped his chest—scarred by claw marks from Magical Beasts—and grinned broadly.
"I still need to load up the beast corpses outside... and those Astrology Tower scholars and Magus..."
Samael shrugged, a touch of resignation in his expression.
"Tim! You handle loading the Magical Beast corpses with your team!"
Leonidas instantly shut down the excuse. At his command, a burly man in light armor gleefully rounded up over twenty men and took control of the transport wagons.
Compared to the brutal, inhuman training inside the camp, hauling Magical Beast corpses outside was practically a field trip—a rare, enviable assignment.
"There's still..."
Samael lifted a finger, rubbing his chin, looking slightly troubled.
"Still what? Just spit it out! We've got plenty of brats here itching to burn off their energy!"
Leonidas caught on immediately and couldn't help but chuckle and curse under his breath.
This war hero from the ruins of Babylon had already been in Uruk for over a month. On the surface, he seemed unremarkable.
But people had witnessed it themselves—beasts weighing hundreds, even thousands of pounds, being tossed onto carts by him like it was nothing.
Whether it was hauling supplies, forging metals, or dismembering corpses, no matter how grueling the labor, Samael rarely even broke a sweat.
There was no doubt he had some skills hidden up his sleeve—and his muscles were the result of intense training. After all, anyone who made it out of the Magical Beast-infested north had to be built differently.
"So… what's the game?"
Samael puffed his chest slightly and rotated his wrists, a smile playing on his lips.
"The usual!"
Leonidas dropped into a squat in front of a mud wall. His bronze-like fingers curled slightly, thick muscles rippling under his skin like forged steel.
"Arm wrestling, huh? What's the win condition this time?"
The ancient serpent accepted a tree stump from a nearby soldier and casually raised a pale, almost unnaturally white arm.
"Hold out for half an hour—you win."
Leonidas waved it off like it was nothing, full of confidence.
The two had done this before. They understood each other well enough.
Don't be fooled by Samael's slim build—beneath that deceptive frame lay explosive power. His streamlined physique, hidden under loose clothes, was anything but fragile.
And with how tirelessly he worked every day, his strength had improved rapidly. He was already outpacing most of Uruk's veteran soldiers.
He was sharp, quick to learn, and built like a natural-born warrior. Leonidas liked that.
What he didn't like, though, was how slippery the guy was. After being thrashed a few times, Samael started avoiding this part of the camp altogether, making it hard to catch him again.
But now that he finally had this elusive eel cornered, Leonidas wasn't about to let him off easy. He was going to drill it into the guy's head—Sparta and the frontlines were where he belonged.
Leave logistics to the priestesses.
A real man? He should strive to be the strongest warrior. Forge the perfect body.
And crush the fiercest Magical Beasts alive!
"Is there a prize?"
Samael narrowed his eyes, asking lazily.
"Kid, last time you tricked me. I taught you shield strikes. This time, if you win, I'll teach you spear throwing—my specialty. Deal?"
Leonidas threw out the bait with practiced ease, though the memory of their last bout left him slightly annoyed.
Even with multiple self-imposed restrictions, he still won more often than not. But this kid was improving fast—too fast for comfort.
"Fine! But let's be clear—only raw strength. No divine power!"
"I'm not about to get my hand bones crushed again and end up laid out at the Astrology Tower for half a day."
Samael nodded, rolling his wrist as he spoke. The ache of last time still lingered in his memory.
Divine power was an innate ability inherited from divine bloodlines. Once activated, it drastically boosted all physical stats.
This so-called "outsider," Leonidas I, was the future king of the Greek city-state Sparta.
Historically, Sparta was a nation of warriors, its founding traced to two direct descendants of the great hero Heracles.
These two bloodlines eventually became the dual royal families of Sparta—the Agiad and the Eurypontid dynasties.
Leonidas hailed from the Agiad line, meaning the pure blood of Heracles flowed through his veins.
Even without tapping into that divine power, the ancestral blessing gave him monstrous natural strength.
"No problem! Even just muscles, I'll still crush you!"
"Get ready, kid! Feel the love of Sparta!"
Leonidas grinned wide, teeth gleaming, the oppressive force of his smile enough to make most back down.
"Begin!"
Buzz!
With a wave from old General Tabbad, the two locked eyes. Their bodies tensed at once, unleashing an explosive force that sent a sharp tremor through the air.
Their muscles bulged and twisted like furious dragons writhing beneath their skin. A chorus of deep, grating creaks echoed from their clamped fists.
Sharp-eyed spectators could see the deep indentations left in the ground beneath their feet.
"Not bad, kid! You've come a long way!"
Leonidas grunted, jaw clenched as he pushed back hard. Veins bulged beneath his bronze-toned skin, and the deadlock between their arms began to tilt.
"You're not so bad either..."
Samael lowered his head, drawing out every last drop of strength, teeth grit tight as he forced out the words—his face flushing red as he fought back.
Something felt off.
Leonidas, who had held the upper hand, suddenly frowned. The muscles in Samael's arm squirmed unnaturally, twisting like a giant constrictor, coiling tighter and tighter.
Well damn—he was hiding something!
Instead of anger, the Guardian of the Hot Gates lit up with battle joy. This was what he lived for. His forehead veins bulged as the strain surged through him.
Samael wasn't doing any better. His face was flushed crimson, eyes bloodshot, his body pushed far past its limit.
Two beasts in human form, locked in a brutal stalemate. Steam rose off their skin, sweat beading and tracing down the grooves of taut muscle.
Around them, thousands of Uruk soldiers roared in rhythm, slamming their shields and spears.
"Sparta!"
"Sparta!"
"Sparta!"
Boom!
A thunderous crack split the air. The clay wall, already veined with fractures, exploded into dust.
And in the rising haze, two arms—one raised, one pressed down—made the victor unmistakably clear.