Miguel was sitting at his desk, his fingers resting on the edge of the letter he had just opened. The paper was rough to the touch, as if it had been handled many times before finally reaching his hands. He took one last sip of wine, the red liquid slowly trickling down his throat, warming him from within as the snow continued to fall outside, painting the world in a white, silent mantle. He took a deep breath and began to read.
Elnar's words leaped off the page with remarkable clarity. The handwriting was firm and precise, reflecting the meticulous mind of its author. Elnar began the letter with an update on the technological advances he and the beastmen had achieved over the past year, using Miguel's inventions as a foundation.
“I have been working tirelessly, adapting and improving many of the inventions you taught us,” Elnar wrote. “The catapult with explosives, for example, has become a formidable weapon, capable of turning the tide of a battle when used correctly. The crossbows you designed have also proven to be of great value. We've developed a more compact version, a hand crossbow that can be reloaded and fired again in just five seconds. This advancement has given our archers a significant advantage in combat.”
Miguel couldn't help but smile, feeling a twinge of pride. He remembered the hard work he had put into developing those weapons, and now, seeing his creations not only used but improved upon, was a reward in itself. He continued reading.
“We've also improved the iron casting process, using the technique you taught us, adding coal during the process. This resulted in stronger, more durable iron, ideal for making weapons and armor. Furthermore, the launching system for the bamboo ‘rockets’ has been optimized. Now, we can unleash a barrage of projectiles more efficiently, causing even more damage to the enemy.”
Miguel paused for a moment, imagining the battlefields covered by a storm of makeshift rockets, tearing through the night sky and illuminating the darkness with devastating explosions. He could almost hear the sound of screams and the thundering impacts, a deadly symphony played by the invisible hand of war.
Elnar continued to describe the situation on the front lines. “During this year, the combined human kingdoms managed to expand their control over 20% of the beastmen's territory. The first four months were the hardest, with human forces advancing rapidly and causing great devastation. This created a wave of refugees, forcing many to abandon their homes in search of safety. However, after this initial advance, the war turned into a battle of attrition. Thanks to your inventions and the improvements we've made, we've been able to halt the enemy's advance and, in some cases, even reclaim some of the lost territory.”
Miguel felt a weight on his chest as he read those words. Even with all the progress, the reality of war was always grim. He knew that, although the numbers were in their favor, every inch of reclaimed land came at the cost of lives, both beastmen and humans. Elnar proceeded with an optimistic yet cautious note.
“The beastmen are fighting well, and with the determination we've seen, I don't believe it will be long before all our territories are reclaimed. We are using all our forces, and currently, more than 70,000 fighters are in the field. We believe the humans number twice that, but we don't have an exact estimate.”
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Miguel frowned. Seventy thousand was an impressive number, but against double that? Victory was far from guaranteed. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting for a moment as he tried to imagine what those battles could mean for the future of Drakmoor.
Elnar ended the letter with a tone of uncertainty. “The war continues, and we all hope that soon we can turn the tide definitively. But we are aware that if we fail, the humans will not stop. They will continue to advance, and Drakmoor will be the next target. We must be prepared for the worst, even if victory seems within our reach.”
Miguel finished reading the letter, folding it carefully before placing it back on the table. His eyes turned to the window. The snow continued to fall silently, covering everything with its cold, indifferent layer. He took another sip of wine, tasting the bitterness mixed with a hint of fear.
If the human kingdoms defeated the beastmen, he knew that Drakmoor would be in grave danger. And what was even more unsettling: the fact that, throughout this year, the kingdom of Ardia had not launched an attack against him. This deeply worried him. He wondered what his brother might be planning and why he had waited so long.
The silence of the snow outside seemed to intensify his thoughts, making him feel that the peace he so desired was still distant. Once again, Miguel realized that in this cruel and unpredictable world, he would have to fight for every bit of hope.
---
Miguel was in a spacious room inside the mansion, a space he had set aside exclusively for his training. The winter outside was relentless, but inside that room, the air was pleasant, warmed by the system he had designed himself. The heat enveloped the environment, creating a comfortable atmosphere, far from the snow and biting cold outside.
Shirtless, Miguel was completely focused, his defined muscles glistening with sweat as he trained with a sword against a wooden dummy. Each movement was precise, every strike delivered with strength and determination. The sound of the steel blade cutting through the air and striking the dummy reverberated through the room, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm.
He moved with agility, his legs firm, his body leaning forward in an offensive stance. The blows varied between diagonal cuts and quick thrusts, followed by defensive maneuvers where he spun the sword in his hands, blocking imaginary attacks. Sometimes, he would pause for a moment, just to catch his breath, his eyes fixed on the dummy in front of him as if it were a real opponent.
John, the young servant, and Lila, the little mage, were sitting in a corner of the room, watching the training with admiration. John was especially enthralled. He had never seen anyone as dedicated and skilled with a sword as Miguel. Every time Miguel paused to catch his breath, John noticed the determination in his eyes, a flame that did not extinguish even in the face of the adversities they were facing.
After a long training session, Miguel delivered a final blow to the wooden dummy, a precise thrust that embedded the sword deeply. He stood still for a moment, his muscles tense, his eyes fixed on the dummy, before finally stepping back, taking a deep breath. Sweat was dripping down his chest and back, and he felt his entire body pulsing from the exertion.
John, who was holding a water jug, quickly approached. Miguel took the jug and brought it to his lips, taking long sips, feeling the cold water slide down his throat and refresh his exhausted body. He handed the jug back to John and gave him a tired smile.
“You're incredible, sir,” John remarked, admiringly, looking at Miguel with bright eyes.
Miguel laughed, a soft and friendly laugh, and ran his hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “Thank you, John,” he replied, still catching his breath. “But with enough training, you can become strong too. Maybe one day I'll train you.”
John smiled at the prospect, imagining himself one day wielding a sword with the same skill that Miguel demonstrated. He was filled with determination, resolved to follow in his master's footsteps.
Lila, who had remained silent during the training, watched Miguel with curious eyes. She was not a warrior, but she could sense the willpower emanating from him, something she also aspired to have in her own magical abilities.
Miguel looked at the two young people and felt a wave of responsibility. It wasn't just for himself that he fought, but for all those who depended on him, who saw in him a hope for the future. He knew that every drop of sweat, every strike, was part of a greater effort to protect what he had built and those under his protection.
After a brief moment of silence, Miguel stood up, picked up the sword, and placed it back on the stand. He turned to John and Lila, giving them a nod. “Let's go, we have a lot of work to do,” he said, the determination clear in his voice.
The three of them left the room, leaving behind the wooden dummy marked by the strikes, a testament to Miguel's commitment to becoming stronger and stronger to face whatever the future might bring.