Chapter 113 (From engineer to Conqueror)

Erondir ran through the alleys and streets of the duchy's capital with his heart racing, his quick steps echoing in the silence of the narrow passages. The city, with its tall towers and imposing walls, felt oppressive under the gray sky. He knew he was risking everything by venturing to the central square, but the rumors were too disturbing to ignore. A captured rebel. Not just any rebel, but Miguel, the young man who once proclaimed himself king of Drakmoor and, more importantly to Erondir, had spared his life.

Miguel was not like the other warlords or nobles Erondir had encountered throughout his life. When Erondir was captured by the men of Drakmoor, he expected death, like so many other prisoners of war. But Miguel treated him with respect, even civility, something Erondir had never experienced as a prisoner. Now, hearing that Miguel was imprisoned, on the verge of execution, made something boil inside him. Anger. A discomfort grew in his chest, and he knew he couldn’t stand by.

Finally, as he reached the square, Erondir paused for a moment, panting. In front of him, at the center of the busy square, was a cart. Surrounded by two guards in rough attire, the wooden cart held a cage made of steel bars. Inside it, even from a distance, Erondir recognized him: Miguel.

The young king, now reduced to a miserable prisoner, was huddled in the cage. His clothes were rags, and his body, once full of energy and vigor, seemed fragile and worn. It was hard for Erondir to believe that the man in front of him, imprisoned like an animal, was the same one who had treated him with dignity and honor during the war. The image filled him with revolt. He had never been a man who cared about the fate of prisoners, but Miguel had changed that. And now, the same person who had spared his life was on the brink of death.

The thought of Miguel being executed in less than a day was unbearable for Erondir. But what could he do? He knew that trying to face the guards there, in the crowded square, would be suicide. Even if he managed to defeat the two guards, the duchy's troops and those of Árdia were everywhere, ready to crush any rebellion. He needed a plan, but how?

Lost in thought, Erondir felt a chill run down his spine. Instinctively, he brought his hand to the hilt of the sword at his waist and quickly turned around. His eyes narrowed as he saw a figure emerging from the shadows. A woman, with lupine features, a fox, hooded and moving with the silent grace of a predator. She raised a finger gently, asking for silence, her yellow eyes fixed on him.

Erondir hesitated, ready to draw his sword. However, something in the way the woman moved, the confidence in her gesture, made him stop.

She approached slowly, her voice low and controlled. "Do you want to save the young king?" The question was asked calmly, but it carried a palpable weight. "Then follow me, Erondir."

The sound of his own name on the lips of this strange woman unsettled him. He had never seen her before, but she knew him. Who was she? How did she know so much about him, and more importantly, why was she willing to help him?

His mind raced for answers. Only one explanation made sense: she was one of Miguel's allies, perhaps part of the small circle of resistance that still believed in the young king. Or maybe she was even one of the warrior foxes who fought alongside Miguel. There were many rumors about the beast men and their alliance with the rebel king.

The woman waited patiently as Erondir processed everything, her eyes never leaving his. He finally relaxed his hand on the sword, convinced that he wasn’t facing an enemy.

“How do you know my name?” Erondir asked, his voice hoarse, more out of curiosity than distrust.

She smiled, an enigmatic smile, and answered calmly, “I know many things. But we don’t have time for that now.” She nodded her head, signaling for him to follow. “If you really want to save Miguel, come with me.”

Erondir looked once more at the cage where Miguel sat, helpless, watched by the crowd, and then made his decision. Without another word, he followed the hooded fox, leaving behind the square, but not the determination to save the man who had once given him his life back.


---

Alistair walked slowly through the makeshift camp near the small village, feeling a rare sense of relief. The gentle wind swayed the canvas tents, and the sounds of the countryside were interspersed with the low conversations of the villagers. He watched the people around him, seeing the hopeful expressions that had recently been replaced by despair. His unusual solution seemed to be working.

The mana disease, a mysterious plague that attacked mercilessly, was finally being fought. Alistair, after long days of research and experiments, had found a simple but effective cure. The idea had come after numerous frustrated attempts. He realized that, although most humans lacked mana, people who had even the slightest trace of magical energy were immune to the disease. It was then that he had the idea of the capsules.

Capsules of mana powder mixed with honey. Something so simple, yet so effective. A single capsule was enough to immunize a human. The healing process, however, was somewhat dramatic. When an infected person took the capsule, they began to vomit violently. It wasn’t because the body was rejecting the cure, but because the mana was expelling the disease. Mana and the disease were opposites, repelling each other. It was as if the magical energy purified the body, expelling the evil.

After a week of testing and implementation, Alistair felt confident. He had found the cure. Several lives had already been saved, and the village where he was now was a clear example of his success. But as he walked, he couldn’t help but wonder: Did the church already know about this? It didn’t seem like such a complex concept. The idea of using mana against the disease was obvious when thinking about mana’s properties. Perhaps the church had been hiding this solution, or maybe they simply hadn’t realized the simplicity of the cure.

As he walked, some villagers approached to thank him. They came with smiles of relief and tears in their eyes. “Thank you, master mage,” said a middle-aged man, his voice choked with emotion. “You saved my family.”

Alistair smiled back, a modest smile. “It was nothing. I just did my job. From now on, I and some other mages from the kingdom will be serving Drakmoor more actively.”

The villager almost cried with happiness at hearing this, thanking him repeatedly before saying goodbye. Alistair watched him leave, his heart heavy with thoughts of what the future held.

When the villager disappeared from sight, Alistair turned his attention to the horizon. Miguel. He wondered what the young king of Drakmoor was doing at that very moment. It had been weeks since he had received any news from the capital, and not even the soldiers accompanying his healing team knew anything concrete. The silence was unsettling, but Alistair knew he couldn’t be distracted. For now, his mission was to continue distributing the capsules and ensure the cure reached all nearby villages.

He sighed and returned to work. There were still many lives to save.

---

The night enveloped the duchy's capital in a silent darkness, with the moon as the only witness to the shadows moving through the alleys and streets. The air was heavy, and Miguel, trapped in his cage at the center of the square, was so weak he could barely keep his eyes open. Exhaustion had taken over his body, and every muscle ached unbearably. He heard one of the guards speaking to someone trying to approach his cage, but he lacked the strength to look directly.

For some reason, the soldiers allowed the man to pass. The voice that reached Miguel’s ears was unmistakable: Peterson, the mercenary. The same man who had tried to kill him countless times under Aurelio’s orders.

"You look like shit," Peterson said with a cynical laugh. "Who would’ve thought that the young man who gave me so much trouble would end up in such a deplorable state? If I were you, I would’ve preferred to die by my hands."

With great effort, Miguel turned in the cage. His vision was blurry, but he managed to focus on Peterson's figure, his gaze tired and empty. Peterson, noticing Miguel’s weakened state, continued his cruel speech, savoring the prisoner’s humiliation.

"You know, Miguel," he began, his voice dripping with contempt, "I used to be like you. A young man full of dreams and morality. But over time, life taught me that it’s all nonsense. If I had stuck to those illusions, I would’ve ended up exactly like you are now." He stepped forward, the dark smile never leaving his face. "I must admit, I’m very pleased to see you like this. It’s even better than watching that coward Augusto beg for his life."

Augusto. Miguel had already suspected that something dark had happened to him, but now Peterson was confirming the murder. The mercenary, it seemed, had been responsible for Augusto’s death, at Aurelio's command, of course. Augusto wasn’t a good man, but hearing his death confirmed by someone serving an even worse master brought a pang of sadness and anger to Miguel. Aurelio wouldn’t stop there.

Peterson looked at Miguel again, noticing his extreme weakness. "Seems like you can’t talk, huh? Bastard king." He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with the situation. "I think it’s time for me to go. Take care, Miguel. Or better yet, don’t."

As Peterson turned to leave, something unexpected happened. The two guards, who had so far allowed the mercenary to pass, were lying on the ground, dead. Peterson’s eyes widened, shocked by the speed at which it all occurred. As he tried to draw his sword, he barely had time to react before feeling a strong blow to the back of his neck. The hilt of a sword struck him with precision, and his consciousness faded in an instant. His body collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Miguel, still trapped and exhausted, could barely comprehend what was happening around him. His eyes struggled to focus on the darkness surrounding him. The only natural light came from the moon, casting shadows through the city streets. Amid the silver light, a silhouette stood out, moving with grace and precision.

He tried to make sense of who the approaching figure was, but his body and mind were too tired to think clearly. Two other figures soon appeared, approaching the cage with light, almost silent steps. They seemed different... not human. Their features and movements were more reminiscent of foxes than anything else. Miguel, in his weakened state, fought to keep his eyes open. All he knew in that moment was that something had changed.