The Law of the Fight
If deploying and commanding troops is called the art of war, then at least I never properly learned such arts from anyone. When I first opened my eyes in this world, everything around me was already in chaos, crawling with bandits everywhere. Joining the military? The only legion left in Britannia even fifteen years prior was the one near Londinium—and even that had been used for the selfish ambitions of General Constantinus, who held the office of Comes in southern Britannia at the time.
So I had no choice but to teach myself, beating down the starving bears threatening my life and packs of wolves that had gotten a taste for human flesh. Looking back, if I'd been born into this world without any abilities, I'd have died nine times out of ten. If I'd started by leveling up something other than martial prowess, it'd have been ninety-nine out of a hundred—nine hundred ninety-nine out of a thousand. But I survived. And from the moment I smashed that bear sniffing my face, mistaking me for a corpse, rolling a nearby log into it, I knew I was different.
They say geniuses are born different. Well, I was a genius of violence. When it came to anything that could take a life, I needed no one's teachings. It was as natural as a fish breathing through gills or a newborn crying to expand its lungs. Everything was instinctive, sensory. You might not believe it, but the wind teaches me the paths. Like a beast smelling blood from miles away. The wind always brings me the thick scent of impending violence.
Deep forests that even seasoned hunters avoid whisper their secrets to me alone, like a woman longing for her lover. Nature, indifferent to human affairs, pays me constant attention, revealing all. I prowl under the dark night sky as if it were broad daylight, without fire. Every ridge, hill, and slope conveys the vivid landscape beyond. Knowing all this by instinct alone, how could I lose in battle?
[Clatter clatter clatter—]
[Snort! Snort snort!]
So my first five years were spent hunting dangerous beasts, the next ten hunting far more perilous human beasts. That's how I developed my own combat techniques. Too grand to call it the art of war—my far simpler methodology deserves the name , the Law of the Fight.
The core is speed. In war, on the battlefield, in a duel—speed is paramount. Especially against those sporadic raiders hitting our vast coastline. The best would be cavalry, but even the handful left were taken by Constantinus—a Britannian soldier himself at the start—when he revealed his ambitions for the mainland and crowned himself Emperor Constantinus III.
No cavalry, then. So how to maneuver swiftly on foot? First, observe. Every year, the barbarians' invasions grew more sophisticated, evolving just like my own Law of the Fight through battles. Disgustingly enough, they too refined their tactics as winters grew harsher.
Now, for my eastern coast at least, they send a ship or two ahead to test our reactions: garrison sizes at each fort, tidal anomalies. And above all, my position. If they deem no chance of victory, they head north or to the southern coast. Sometimes feinting south to strike east, or lurking east before suddenly hitting south. Sea trash, these barbarian raiders, but they're definitely evolving their ways to fight me.
But we Romano-Britons don't sit idle. While they probe and feint, we stick to the basics. When their scout ships appear, we deploy our night-eyed scouts along the coast for full surveillance. If a fleet of ten or more shows, we light the beacon fires. Then I move.
At that point, the barbarians must choose: flee before I arrive, or face me. So rapid enemy identification is key, followed by swift maneuver. The Roman answer for fast infantry movement was discovered back in the Republic days: roads.
Mud paths halt infantry and cavalry alike. Britannia's beautiful, rain-soaked landscape—famed for downpours—permits no free movement in the wet, man or beast. Their prime loot—livestock, monastery gold—lines the riverbanks, which are little more than wetlands. Even without rain, they're muddy; with it, they're swamps without levees.
One solution conquered all this: paved roads. Well-maintained with gravel, stone, dressed stone, and cement, flanked by long drainage ditches linking to rivers and acting as levees. In Britannia, building and maintaining roads is tantamount to flood control. Romans always prioritize digging: moats for forts, drainage around even overnight camps.
Barbarians can't fathom this Roman diligence, which enables unbelievable march speeds. Rain or snow, Roman soldiers move swiftly from city to city, fort to fort.
Spot them early, light the beacons, use the roads—and by the time the howling barbarians beach and surround a fort, I appear at their rear.
As my forces' command structure solidified and they grew battle-hardened, I gained more freedom of movement. Leading to our current form.
[Clop! Clop! Clatter— clatter—]
“Magister militum! There! Do you see!? By the river!”
At some point, Caius—now styling himself my squire—shouted, one hand steadying his ill-fitting helmet on his small head, the other pointing far off toward the Camulodunum river.
The clatter of my chariot wheels plus the dozen riders behind made quite the racket, so he bellowed. His voice, caught between boy and youth, whined like a brat, so I glanced back. Sure enough, there: two rowboats drifting down, three total with those trailing? The barbarians' evolving anti-Artorius tactics shifted from scattered raids to concentrating force, looting like thieves—one group ransacks, another watches—while diligently using scouts. Those three boats were likely an extension.
Rivers favor attackers with land on both banks, but not in our Britannia—at least my southeast. North of the Camulodunum is marshy swamp. Land there? You'd just get mosquito-bitten. Foolish barbarians.
So if they dare disembark, it'd be south along the rich farmlands below our military lines. My name terrified them as much as theirs did us, so sixty raiders wouldn't dare dock where I defend. But just in case.
“Whoa! Whoa!”
[Neigh!]
I easily reined in the four horses hating to stop once galloping, extending my right arm to Caius. Quick as ever, he slapped a spear into my hand.
“Caius! Take the reins.”
“Yes!”
Can't risk damaging the precious chariot wheels. I leaped down, took a few running steps toward the clear river view, and hurled the spear.
[Whoosh!]
[Crack!]
[Splash! Gwaaak! Hwanit!? Kwam nit!?]
[Wodan!!!]
A thunderous explosion far off: mast shattered, sail dropped, barbarians screaming into the river or ducking frantically.
“Spear!”
I watched wide-eyed, arm back. Someone slapped another into my palm.
“Hm?”
Feels different from ours, but no time for that.
“Hah!”
[Whoosh!]
This 5th-century railgun—my javelin throw—silently erased space, magically shredding their mast.
[Boom!]
[Kyaaak!]
[Wodan! Wodaaan!!]
[Ut! Uut—t! Parut pantis!]
Again, same scene. The sailor-warriors panicked, screaming cluelessly. Fools. Without sails, row away—why jump in the water?
“Spear!”
One fleeing barbarian boat madly rowed off without looking back.
“Here! Spear!”
Trembling vibrations through the shaft; I glanced back. A barbarian—no, Angle chieftain Wolfmaer—followed me. He'd sworn oaths, vowed anything; I brought him gladly, as he and his four guards provided instant cavalry.
His snow-white Santa beard couldn't hide his shock—same as any first-time battlefield viewer. Difference? He's our barbarian now.
No wonder the wood felt off. I nodded to Wolfmaer, checked the enemy: they rowed desperately away, ignoring drowning comrades' cries.
My railgun range could reach, but letting them live profited more. Fear is the most efficient counter, even with solid defenses and roads. They'll spread word of this anomaly, spreading my infamy further.
“Let that one go.”
“Yes! Magister militum!”
“Understood!”
First from Caius, second Wolfmaer. Such deference? Puzzled glance back: Wolfmaer, once proud chieftain, stood at rigid attention like a raw recruit. Foederati experience shows—veterans differ.
Impressed by this new ally's discipline, I returned the spear.
“Here, well used.”
“An honor! I mean, yes!”
His Angle guards stared skyward at 45 degrees, statuesque. My six Avalonia riders matched them. Everyone reacts thus to my fights now. Nothing new.
I strode back to the chariot, pointed at one rider.
“If those barbarians infiltrate villages, it's trouble. Tell Beduerus behind us: detach one or two contubernia—your judgment. Search and capture river jumpers. Kill resisters.”
“Yes! Magister militum!”
“Rest, keep moving.”
“Yes!”
“Yep!”
Satisfied eyeing the Angles' vigorous replies—Avalonia style—I took the reins. The now-docile horses pulled strongly.
“Hya!”
“Go!”
[Snort snort! Snort!]
[Clop clop—]
Beyond faint barbarian screams leftward, a thickening blood scent wafted from the east. Soon, the blood of barbarians I'd scatter everywhere.