Ricardo and Peterson were in the center of the battlefield, surrounded by chaos and violence. The sound of clashing swords echoed through the air, accompanied by cries of pain and roars of battle. The atmosphere was grim, the sky covered with heavy clouds that seemed to reflect the gravity of the moment.
Peterson attacked first, his sword cutting through the air in a deadly arc. Ricardo dodged with agility, his own blade ready to counterattack. The fight between the two was fierce, a duel of strength and skill.
“Why do you protect this boy?” Peterson growled between blows. “You could make much more money working for me!”
Ricardo blocked a fierce attack, his hands steady on the hilt of his sword. “I’m not doing this for money, Peterson,” he replied, his voice firm and determined.
Peterson let out a cold laugh, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Then why, Ricardo? What’s your motivation? Honor? Duty? Or is it just foolish loyalty to an insignificant baron?”
Ricardo struck with a series of quick blows, forcing Peterson to retreat. “I’m doing this because I believe in something bigger than money,” he said, each word laden with conviction. “I believe in protecting those who can’t protect themselves.”
Peterson narrowed his eyes, his expression darkening. He advanced with a powerful strike, but Ricardo blocked, spinning to avoid the impact's force. The battle between the two continued, each trying to outdo the other.
From Peterson's point of view, Ricardo was an obstacle. He saw him as a formidable opponent but also as someone wasting his talent on a lost cause. Each blow Peterson delivered was an attempt not just to break Ricardo’s defense but also his will.
“You’re fighting for an ideal that means nothing,” Peterson insisted, his words dripping with disdain. “That boy won’t get you anywhere.”
Ricardo responded with a powerful strike, forcing Peterson to defend. “You’ll never understand, Peterson. To you, everything boils down to money and power. But to me, it’s about honor and loyalty.”
Peterson felt anger rising within him. He couldn’t understand Ricardo’s logic, couldn’t accept that someone might fight for something beyond personal gain. His sword cut through the air again, but Ricardo was ready, dodging deftly.
From Ricardo's point of view, Peterson was the embodiment of everything he despised. A man without principles, without honor, willing to do anything for money. Every blow Ricardo struck was a reaffirmation of his own values, proof that he was on the right side of the battle.
The fight continued, the two warriors moving in a deadly ballet of steel and sweat. Every breath was an effort, every movement a battle in itself. The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with the threat of imminent death.
“You’re wasting your talent,” Peterson shouted, trying to destabilize Ricardo. “We could achieve so much together!”
Ricardo responded with a precise blow, forcing Peterson to retreat once more. “I’d rather die fighting for something I believe in than live alongside a scoundrel like you.”
The grim atmosphere of the battle seemed to intensify with every exchange of blows. The darkened sky reflected the seriousness of the combat, as if the world itself were aware of the importance of this duel.
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Frustrated with Ricardo’s resistance, Peterson attacked with renewed ferocity, their blades meeting in a deafening clash. But Ricardo, with resolute calm, held his ground, defending and counterattacking with precision.
The two warriors continued to fight, their bodies tired but their wills unbreakable. The battlefield around them was a scene of destruction and despair, but the fight between Peterson and Ricardo stood out as a confrontation of principles and values, each trying to prove the superiority of their worldview.
The battle was far from over, and both Peterson and Ricardo knew that only one would emerge victorious. With each blow struck and each word exchanged, the tension mounted, making it clear that the outcome of this duel would be decisive for the fate of all around.
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Miguel was fighting a mercenary who was clearly stronger and more experienced. The sword in his hands felt heavy, each blow he struck was a tremendous effort. Even with the memories of the training he had received from Ricardo over the years, Miguel was struggling to hold his ground. The mercenary attacked with precision and strength, forcing Miguel to retreat with each advance.
The sound of clashing metal echoed around, mingled with cries of pain and the roars of battle. Miguel felt the fatigue accumulating in his muscles, the exhaustion slowing his movements. He blocked a heavy blow, but the impact made his arms tremble. Breathing heavily, he tried to counterattack, but the mercenary dodged easily, pressing him again with a series of rapid strikes.
Miguel was holding firm, but with each passing moment, he felt more exhausted. He knew he couldn’t give up, couldn’t let the enemy defeat him. He blocked another blow, feeling the weight of the sword pushing him back. He tried to regain his balance, but the mercenary was relentless, seizing any opening to attack.
A particularly strong strike hit his sword from the side, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. Miguel felt the impact on his back, the air forced from his lungs. He looked up and saw the mercenary approaching, sword raised to deliver the final blow. Fear gripped Miguel, but before the mercenary could strike, a spear pierced his body, impaling him side to side.
Miguel looked in shock at the fallen mercenary, then raised his eyes and saw Arthur standing there, his expression determined. “Are you alright, my lord?” Arthur asked, his voice firm despite the chaos around them.
Miguel felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was exhausted, every muscle aching and his body nearly at its limit. The battle had been raging for hours, and he knew they couldn’t last another day at this pace. The plan had been working well until the mages appeared. If it weren’t for them, they would have inflicted enough casualties on the enemy to even the odds.
Arthur extended his hand to Miguel, who accepted it gratefully. With tremendous effort, he got up, feeling every pain in his body. He picked up his sword again, determined to keep fighting, even knowing the odds were slim.
Miguel was preparing to return to the fight, trying to gather his exhausted strength, when he suddenly saw two large fire blasts flying towards the wooden wall where the archers were positioned. The intense brightness of the flames illuminated the battlefield, creating a sinister contrast with the approaching end of the day.
The archers, realizing the imminent danger, desperately tried to get out of the wall. Some managed to throw themselves out in time, but for most, it was already too late. The fire blasts hit the wall with devastating impact, and the wooden structure couldn’t withstand the force of the attack. The shock wave caused the wall to explode, sending splinters of wood everywhere.
Miguel watched in horror, unable to do anything to help. The screams of the wounded archers mixed with the blast's roar, creating an anguishing cacophony. The sight of mutilated bodies and the flames consuming what was left of the wall was almost unbearable.
He heard a victory cry from the mercenaries, who were celebrating the wall’s destruction. The sound was a cruel reminder of the gravity of the situation. Miguel looked around, horrified to realize that, after hours of battle, their numbers were reduced to only a few dozen soldiers still fighting. Most of his men had fallen, and those who remained were exhausted and wounded.
Miguel's gaze turned to Ricardo, who was visibly tired and injured. Ricardo’s previous shoulder injury was clearly hindering him from fighting freely. He moved with difficulty, each movement an enormous effort.
Despair overtook Miguel. The battle, which seemed endless, was approaching a tragic end. He felt a mix of anger and helplessness, watching his friends and allies fall one by one. The sound of the mercenaries advancing and the sight of his soldiers fighting to their last breath left him with a lump in his throat.
Miguel knew he needed to make a quick decision. The strategy they had devised was falling apart in the face of the enemy mages’ relentless attacks. Without the wooden wall and with their archers out of combat, their defense was practically destroyed. The mercenaries’ victory seemed inevitable.
He looked at Arthur and John, who were still by his side, fighting bravely. He felt an overwhelming responsibility to protect them and to find a way to turn the tide of the battle. But with each passing moment, his options dwindled.
Miguel wanted to scream, wanted to cry out of frustration and sadness, but he knew he couldn’t show weakness. His men needed hope, needed a leader to guide them, even in the worst circumstances. He took a deep breath, trying to muster the courage necessary to go on.
With a final glance at Ricardo, Miguel knew that time was running out. They needed a miracle, something that could turn the game in their favor. But for now, all he could do was fight, keep resisting, and keep hope alive, no matter how small it was.