Chapter 114 (From engineer to Conqueror)

Miguel felt a wave of water trickle into his mouth, fresh and unexpected. He opened his eyes abruptly, confused, and leaned back, his senses still disoriented. He realized he was lying on something soft, and soon felt the texture of grass under his fingers. A sense of relief washed over him, but he remained on guard, still unsure of where he was.

A familiar voice emerged beside him, calm and reassuring. "It’s alright. We got you out of there... you're safe now," the man said.

Miguel looked at him, still uncertain, and then recognized him. Erondir. Erondir, the mercenary he had once spared. "It's me, Erondir," he said, offering a water flask. "You need to hydrate."

Miguel let out a long sigh and accepted the flask, drinking the water thirstily, his throat dry and sore. Around him, he noticed other figures. They were beast-men — specifically, foxes. They watched him in silence, and one of them, a female figure, approached. It was Lysandra, the fox warrior and a member of the elected council of the beast-men he knew.

"I'm very glad to see you'll survive, sir," Lysandra said with a slight smile. Then, in a gesture of respect, she knelt to pay him reverence.

Miguel waved his hand, too tired for formalities. "It's alright," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Lysandra continued, "We also managed to save one of your soldiers from Drakmoor." She gestured for him to look further, to the shadow of a nearby tree. Even in the night’s darkness, Miguel recognized the still figure. John. The young man was leaning against the trunk, his head down. Miguel saw that he was badly injured, with his right arm amputated and one of his eyes covered by a cloth bandage. The sight was painful.

"My God," Miguel thought, a knot tightening in his throat. "What did they do to him…"

Erondir, noticing Miguel’s gaze, explained with a grave expression, "We stabilized his injuries, but he’ll only be completely well after receiving proper treatment in Drakmoor."

John sat in silence, his face turned toward the ground. Erondir continued, "We saved him while he was being… tortured to reveal how your firearms worked."

Miguel felt a deep ache in his chest. John was just a young man, loyal and brave, yet someone who should have had a different life. A life away from the pains of war. The sight of John reminded him of the cruel reality of that world, and he couldn’t help but feel responsible for what his friend had endured.

Miguel looked away, taking another sip of water, and finally asked in a hoarse voice, "How far are we from Drakmoor?"

Erondir sighed before answering. "About two weeks of travel. I managed to get some horses, which we’ll take at dawn, and we’ll follow the lesser-guarded routes through the duchy. Lysandra and her foxes will protect us against any bandits or spies that cross our path." He looked at Miguel seriously. "But for now, what you need to do is rest."

Miguel nodded slowly, feeling the weight of Erondir’s words. He knew the man was right, but there was something he needed to do first. "I will..." he said, in a low voice.

He slowly stood, his legs still weak and trembling, and walked over to where John was sitting. Carefully, he lowered himself beside his friend, both silent for a moment. The moonlight illuminated John's face, marked by suffering. Seeing him, Miguel felt deep sadness and guilt.

"Glad you're alright, my king," John said with a tired voice, forcing a small smile. He looked weary but also relieved to see Miguel safe.

Miguel sighed, looking at him with a sorrowful gaze. "What did they do to you, my friend…?"

John shrugged slightly, as if the matter wasn’t important, and tried to avoid the question. "I'll be fine," he replied, his voice resigned. "Your life is what matters here, my king. If you had fallen... we all would be lost."

Miguel shook his head, his eyes fixed on John's. "No, John. You’re all important. No matter what happens to me, what truly matters is that my ideals continue to live on. And they live through people like you."

John remained silent, seeming to absorb his king’s words. Miguel looked away to the starry sky, and a sense of bitterness filled his chest. He knew he was not in his homeland. The harshness of that world was brutal, and each sacrifice seemed to have a greater cost than he had imagined. The thought that all of this wasn’t a dream, but rather his reality, filled him with sadness.

Miguel looked at John again and gave a slight smile. "We’re going to get out of here," he said, trying to convey a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. "We’ll return to Drakmoor, and we’ll rebuild. Together."

John nodded, and the two remained seated in silence, side by side under the moonlight, each absorbing the reality of that moment.

The war against Drakmoor was at a standstill. The soldiers of Árdia, despite their relentless attempts, could not advance against Ricardo’s defensive trenches. For weeks, they launched heavy attacks, trying to break Drakmoor's defensive line, but the trenches had been skillfully constructed and guarded. Every advance by Árdia’s army was quickly repelled, the enemy troops being forced to retreat. Over time, Drakmoor’s soldiers began to claim small but significant victories in gaining ground. This setback for Árdia offered Drakmoor an increasingly solid advantage, providing time and morale for the army to resist and expand its position.

Meanwhile, on Drakmoor’s coastline, John commanded the defense of the beaches with an impeccable strategy and fierce determination. His defensive plan had been meticulously prepared, with seaside fortresses, cannons, and heavy artillery positioned to deter any invasion attempt. Since the start of the maritime campaign, he had committed to not allowing the enemy to gain a foothold on the coast. The waters around the beach were silent witnesses to the power of his strategy — thirty ships and dozens of barges had been sunk under his commands.

Each approaching enemy vessel encountered a rain of cannon fire, bullets, and arrows. The soldiers who managed to land faced relentless resistance from his men, suffering devastating losses. The enemy tried, but their numbers dwindled with each attempt, and the idea of establishing a foothold began to crumble. The resilience of John's forces forced Árdia's army to reconsider its strategy, realizing they were unprepared for a prolonged siege on that coast. With ships running low on supplies and soldiers weakened by the lack of reinforcements, the order to retreat came as a last resort.

Miguel lay on his bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as the pain in his body reminded him of the horrors he had lived through in the previous weeks. It had been two weeks since he returned safely to Drakmoor, but the exhaustion seemed to refuse to leave him completely. Every muscle still ached, every wound was still healing. And, at the same time, his mind gave him no rest — it was filled with reflections on all that had happened and the future of his kingdom.

Upon his arrival, one of his first actions was to meet with Lysandra to give her the blueprints for firearms and ammunition. He knew these plans would give the beast-men the chance to produce the weapons they so desperately needed, ensuring a stronger defense against the human armies of the coalition. With the war stalled at the front lines, Miguel believed that within a few weeks, when these weapons were in the hands of allies, the tide of the battle would turn. He wanted more than just to hold Drakmoor's position; he wanted to advance, to push the coalition back to the original borders and secure a true peace.

In his bed, he pondered the future and the dangers still looming. Aurelio. His brother continued to be a menacing shadow in his life, the central figure of a threat that seemed to grow by the day. The kingdom of Árdia was increasingly inclined to destroy what they were building in Drakmoor, and Miguel knew that as long as Aurelio remained in power, peace would be just a dream. Ending this war meant defeating more than just soldiers and generals; it meant putting an end to Aurelio’s reign of terror and the tyranny of Árdia.

He rose from the bed, feeling his muscles protest with the movement, and walked over to the nearby table where a bottle of wine rested. Miguel filled a glass, and as he looked at the ornate mirror in front of him, he noticed something different. His face. The expression that stared back at him in the reflection was hard, mature, but also cold. It was as if he was looking at a version of himself he didn’t fully recognize. The war, the betrayals, and the responsibility for so many lives had changed the young dreamer he once was.

Miguel raised the glass, observing the reflection of his eyes, and in one gulp emptied the wine. The drink went down bitter, yet invigorating. Feeling more resolute, he set the glass aside and walked over to his formal uniform, putting it on calmly. He knew his allies were waiting for him in the meeting room, and that they shared the same concerns and hopes.

Leaving the room, Miguel walked down the long corridors of the Mansion. The soldiers and servants who crossed his path greeted him with respect, bowing slightly as a sign of reverence. He nodded in return, acknowledging the gesture but without diverting his gaze from his destination.

Upon reaching the imposing wooden doors that led to the grand meeting hall, Miguel took a deep breath. He pushed the doors open and entered, his eyes taking in the group awaiting him. Amelia, John, Ricardo, Erondir, Lila, and several other leaders and barons of Drakmoor were there, all seated around the table. They observed him in silence, each gaze carrying a mixture of expectation and respect.

Miguel let out a sigh, taking a moment to reflect on the weight of this meeting. Let’s begin, he murmured to himself, and then walked to the center of the table.
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Amelia watched her younger brother enter the meeting room. Miguel. He almost seemed like a stranger, a version of him she had never imagined seeing. His face was more severe, with lines of fatigue and experience marking his expression. And his gaze… that once lively look now seemed empty, hardened by the weight of so many responsibilities and battles. He had changed.

The attire he wore only reinforced his new demeanor. The uniform was striking, inspired by ancient military styles, with touches reminiscent of the uniforms of great leaders of the past. Impeccable white, adorned with blue and gold lines that crossed the fabric at precise angles. The Drakmoor crest was embroidered over his chest, symbolizing the kingdom he now defended with all his life. He seemed more than a young warrior; he looked, indeed, like a king.

Miguel sat in silence at the table. Amelia noticed him picking up a glass of wine before him and taking a sip calmly, but without any visible pleasure. He looked prepared, each movement made with care. Then, he began to speak, and the words came clearly, loaded with a conviction Amelia had never before heard from his lips.

"As you all know, we are at war with Árdia," he began, his voice firm, echoing through the hall. "And not just them. The coalition of human kingdoms is trying to destroy everything we've built, driven by fear and prejudice against races they consider inferior." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the table. "During my time under their rule, I realized something important: now, we have the moral duty to end everything they stand for. At first, I wanted to create a peaceful kingdom, far from the world's problems. But I admit I was naive. They would never allow that to happen."

Amelia felt the weight of those words. She had never heard him speak like this before. Miguel was different. He was no longer the young, idealistic brother she once knew; he was someone shaped by the pains of war and betrayal. He was a leader with the maturity of a king.

Miguel continued, his voice filled with determination. "They come to us, not we to them. We did not seek war; they did. But we will not back down until we have destroyed everything — absolutely everything — they stand for." He looked around, and Amelia noticed the intensity in his eyes. "They are genocidal scum who hide behind their prejudices, using them to kill and stay in power while oppressing their own people."

Miguel paused, and Amelia saw that he was gathering even more strength. "An example is how they dealt with the mana disease in recent months. They killed thousands of their own people, while we did not. We found the cure, thanks to the very mages they banished. Here, those mages found a home." He shifted his gaze to Lila, who nodded in response, visibly moved.

"But that changes today." He raised his voice, a palpable energy building in the air. "We will not stop. If they refuse to accept us, then we will bring change to them. From now on, we are the ones who will impose our will upon them."

Amelia felt a wave of pride wash over her. Every word Miguel spoke was filled with unbreakable strength, and she realized she was smiling without noticing. At that moment, she saw the brother she once underestimated become the leader Drakmoor needed. And then, from the other side of the table, she heard a strong voice echo.

"I am with you, my king," said Erondir, a determined gleam in his eyes.

Miguel nodded in gratitude, and soon after, Ricardo did the same, bowing his head in a show of support. One by one, the leaders around the table confirmed their loyalty to Miguel, reaffirming their commitment to him and to Drakmoor.

Amelia then leaned forward, watching her brother’s face. She waited until he looked directly at her and held his gaze steady. "What a fine speech, my king," she said with a slight smile. "I will stand by you until death. Brother."

Miguel looked at her, gratitude in his eyes, and smiled. "Thank you," he replied, and the simple tone of his voice made it clear that his thanks went beyond words.