Angel Fall's-Chapter 11 Time skip and a march to war.

Year 1054 After Sighard

The sun shone brightly over the capital city of Aragon, casting golden rays across the soaring spires and white stone courtyards of the royal castle. On this day—like so many others before it—nobility from across the two kingdoms of Iberia had gathered for a grand assembly in the castle's circular Great Hall.

But unlike the many peaceful councils of old, the tone this day was grave.

The world had darkened in recent years. From the east came whispers of conquest and ruin, and the balance of power teetered dangerously close to collapse. Now, beneath vaulted ceilings and before the twin thrones of Iberia's kings, a storm of voices filled the hall. Nobles stood shouting and gesturing, their words heated with urgency and fear.

Seated in regal silence atop one of the great thrones was King Ramiro of Aragon, a silver-bearded man with cold, thoughtful eyes. Beside him, King Uther of Andalusia, cloaked in white and gold, bore the steady, dignified aura of a paladin-king—his presence alone seemed to bring calm, though even he could not soothe the anxious nobles for long.

The Duke of Valencia raised his voice above the chaos.

"We have received confirmed reports—Greenskins have begun massing on the eastern borders of the Sultanate of Araby. The horde stretches for miles. This is no raid. This is war."

The Duke of Murcia nodded grimly.

"Eastern Mesopotamia has already fallen to them. If Araby collapses entirely, what then? They'll sweep across the Levant and strike into the heart of the continent. Jerusalem will be next. Then, perhaps, our own shores."

The Duke of Cordoba slammed a fist into his chest.

"I say we march now! For all our hatred of Araby, they are still men. The Greenskins are monsters—engines of destruction. If we do nothing, we only delay our own ruin."

From the opposite end of the chamber, a sneer cut through the growing sense of unity.

"How dare you suggest we lift a sword for those savages!" roared the Duke of Granada. "Have you all forgotten the raids? The slavery? My own great-grandfather died fighting an Arabyin blade! Let them burn under the Green tide. It is what they deserve."

Murmurs of both agreement and dissent echoed from the balconies above.

Then came a different voice—a colder, quieter one—from the shadows near the inner circle. The Duke of Navarra, a man wrapped in gray furs and known for his paranoia, stepped forward.

"The Greenskins are indeed a problem. But we face another threat... one closer to home. One beneath our very feet."

He paused as the room went still.

"The Ratmen are stirring. My lands along the Pyrenees have been plagued by strange thefts. Entire herds vanish in a night. Grain stores devoured. Villagers found gutted in their beds. They come under the cover of darkness, scurrying from the deep caves of the mountains. These are no mere thieves. They are real—and growing bolder."

A scoff came from a noble in the upper gallery.

"Ratmen? Again with this nonsense."

Others murmured agreement.

"The Ratmen are a myth. Scapegoats for bandits and wolves."

But the Duke of Navarra raised a sealed scroll.

"I've already requested the Church declare a quarantine of the borderlands. If we sever their food supply, they'll be forced into the open. And then we destroy them."

The hall erupted in outrage. Nobles jumped to their feet, shouting over one another.

King Ramiro stood, silencing them with a gesture.

"I will not imprison our own people behind a wall of fear without proof, Duke. Your heart may be in the right place, but I will not plunge my people into panic and suffering on hearsay. Show us these Ratmen, and then we will act."

The Duke bowed his head—grudgingly—but his eyes burned with quiet fury.

King Uther leaned forward.

"And what of Araby? Will we allow them to fall?"

There was a long silence. The weight of history—of raids and grudges, of burned coastlines and enslaved kin—hung heavy over the room.

But then King Uther continued:

"They are fractured. Their Caliph is a puppet, their lords unruly. But despite all, they are human. And the Greenskins care not for bloodlines or borders. If they take Jerusalem... we may be next."

Murmurs turned to nods. Even Granada fell into brooding silence.

As the debate continued, one thing was certain—the world was shifting. Beasts from beyond the mountains stirred. Undead legions marched again in the desert tombs of Egypt. And the Green tide rose in the east.

The fate of Iberia—and perhaps mankind—was about to be tested.

The Great Hall had fallen into an uneasy silence when the sound of heavy iron doors creaking open echoed across the chamber. All heads turned.

From beyond the massive double doors strode two young men—tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in rugged hunting leathers. They moved with the confident gait of those used to blood and hardship. Between them, they dragged a slumped, black-hooded figure with a long, limp rat tail trailing across the polished stone floor.

The murmuring nobles recoiled at the sight.

Four years had passed. Marino—now sixteen—stood proud and imposing, his once-boyish features hardened. His golden eyes burned with unnatural intensity, and three faint scars crossed his right brow like claw marks, a trophy from a past left unspoken. At his side was Tadeo, second son of the Duke of Faro, equally muscular but more reserved in demeanor.

When they reached the center of the circular hall, the two boys dropped to one knee, bowing before the thrones of Kings Uther of Andalusia and Ramiro of Aragon.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" King Ramiro barked, rising slightly from his throne, his voice ringing with indignation.

"Forgive us, Your Majesties," Tadeo said calmly, "but we bring urgent news—a revelation that may decide the fate of the kingdoms."

Without a word, Marino reached forward, grabbing the hood of the corpse and yanking it back. Gasps erupted throughout the hall.

Beneath the hood was a grotesque, twitching snout—a face not of man, but of beast. Wiry whiskers, yellowed teeth, black beady eyes—there could be no mistake.

It was a Ratman.

The nobles recoiled in their seats. Even battle-hardened knights muttered prayers.

Marino stood tall. "Four years ago, a farming family in my village was slaughtered by a creature with red eyes and a black cloak. At the time, no one believed me. But since then, livestock near the Granadan border have gone missing, and there have been whispers—strange eyes in the dark, scratching claws on barn doors. Last week, we went to investigate ourselves. This is what we found."

He planted his boot on the Ratman's chest.

"This abomination was not alone. Tracks, symbols, tunnels—we found signs that more of them live in the southern peaks. I believe these Ratmen are the true cause of the disappearances and killings in my village. And I believe they plan far worse."

Laughter cut through the tension—sharp and dismissive.

"Preposterous," King Ramiro scoffed. "Are we to believe the tales of a merchant's son and a second-born noble?"

"No, Your Majesty," Tadeo replied, rising to his feet. "Not just our words."

He reached into the Ratman's cloak and pulled free a stained parchment sealed with wax. Unfurling it, he placed it on the cold stone floor for all to see.

The nobles leaned forward. The seal depicted two opposing crests—one half bore a pomegranate, unmistakably similar to the sigil of Granada. The other displayed a crude horned rat, painted in dark blood-red ink. Below, jagged script in a foreign tongue sprawled like claw marks across the page.

"What language is this?" King Uther of Andalusia asked, frowning. "What does it say?"

"I am no scholar," Tadeo admitted. "But I believe the writing speaks of a Confederacy of Independent Nations—some kind of alliance. It refers to reconnaissance operations on the Dukedom of Faro. A scouting mission, perhaps... for war."

He bowed his head respectfully, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.

The Great Hall fell into stunned silence.

And then someone noticed—the balcony of the Granadan delegation stood empty.

Gone. Every last seat.

King Ramiro's eyes flared with fury. "Where is the Duke of Granada? Guards, find him! Bring him before me at once!"

A guard burst into the hall moments later, panting. "Your Majesty, the Duke has already departed the city. His household rode out an hour ago. He is likely halfway to his fief by now."

Chaos erupted. Nobles shouted over one another, accusations and demands flying like arrows.

"Traitor!"

"Heretic!"

"Send the armies after him!"

In the western kingdoms, mere speech with a Ratman was heresy. To ally with one? Unthinkable. The creatures were not seen as animals—they were vermin of the soul, monsters in flesh, the very image of corruption.

Amidst the pandemonium, Marino and Tadeo exchanged a knowing glance. Their work was done.

Quietly, without fanfare, they turned and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving the storm behind.

As Marino and Tadeo walked away from the roaring chaos of the Great Hall, a smug grin curled at the corner of Marino's mouth. His golden eyes gleamed in the fading light as his thoughts drifted back—back to how it had all begun.

The last few years had been... eventful.

Jesus, his adoptive father, had proven to be far more than just a simple fisherman. In truth, he was a former crusader, a master of sword and shield, and a man with demons of his own. Under his brutal training, Marino had grown strong—not just physically, but deadly. Swords, bows, shields—he mastered them all.

But strength wasn't enough. Not for Marino.

So he built a place. A gym—the first of its kind. An open training ground for the townsfolk, the traveling mercenaries, the curious. He called it a gift to the people... but really, it was a stage. A place to be seen.

And seen he was.

That's where he met Tadeo—the second son of the Duke of Faro. Tall, proud, and hungry for power. They sparred together, trained together, and quickly found they shared more than just a love for swordplay. They shared ambition.

Tadeo wanted to be Duke. Marino wanted to be a noble. And so they struck a pact.

Together, they would climb. No matter the cost.

Around this time, Marino had invented yet another marvel: the world's first toothbrush—crafted from carved wood and the coarse bristles of wild boars. It was a revelation in hygiene, and an absolute nightmare to manufacture. So, naturally, he began hunting boars in the surrounding forests.

It was on one of these hunts—mud-streaked and blood-covered—that fate smiled.

They found it. A creature unlike any other. A Ratman scout, cloaked in black and armed with a crude blade, prowling the forest shadows. The fight was quick. Brutal. They gutted it under the pale moonlight, then rifled through its belongings.

That was when they found the seal. The paper. The strange, foreign sigils.

They stared at the parchment in silence.

And then they looked at each other—and laughed.

An opportunity like this came once in a lifetime.

If they could convince the kingdoms that a Ratman uprising was near, war would be inevitable. And with war came chaos—and with chaos, opportunity.

Tradition dictated that dukes send their firstborn sons to the front. Tadeo's older brother would go. So would the Duke himself. And if they both happened to fall in the bloody fog of war?

Tadeo would inherit the title. No questions asked.

As for Marino? When war broke out, lands would be seized, territories reshuffled. If Tadeo became Duke, he could legitimize Marino—strip the aging Lord of Sagres of his claim and hand the town to Marino as a noble reward.

It was perfect.

Or so they hoped.

Sure, Ratmen could be killed in open battle—but deep underground, in the black, winding labyrinths of the Pyrenees? That was another matter. There, the beasts held the advantage.

But that wasn't their concern.

As they left the city gates behind, the stone towers of Madrid shrinking on the horizon, Marino let out a low, gleeful chuckle.

Tadeo joined in.

And soon, they were cackling like the scheming villains they were.

"Muahahahaha!"

They laughed at the storm they had set in motion.

Soon, Tadeo would wear his father's title.

Soon, Marino would be Lord of Sagres.

Or at least... that was the plan.

After the lords of the two kingdoms—Andalusia and Aragon—returned to their lands, the call to arms echoed across Iberia like a warhorn through the mountains.

In the cathedrals, the priests of the Light delivered fiery sermons. War was not only coming—it was holy. The Ratmen were not just a threat, they were a blasphemy, a crawling, heretical infestation born in the deep places where the Light did not reach. To kill them was a righteous act, a cleansing of the world.

The bells rang out.

In the villages and towns, heralds read royal edicts aloud in the marketplaces. All able-bodied men between fifteen and forty were to report to their local militia wardens for inspection. Names were taken. Those who could afford to bring their own weapons and armor were honored—those who could not were issued rusted spears, padded jerkins, and wooden shields bearing the faded sigils of older wars.

The nobility raised their levies, gathering banners and knights. Each lord was responsible for providing a set number of troops, and failure to meet the quota meant land confiscation or worse. Old war tents were dragged from storage, stained with the blood of past campaigns. War wagons were loaded with crates of bolts, rope, dried rations, and pitch.

Blacksmiths worked day and night, their forges roaring. Sparks lit up the sky in every town like fireflies. Apprentice boys were pressed into service to carry coal and hammer rivets. Sword blades were quenched in barrels full of sacrificial lamb's blood—an old superstition meant to ward off daemons.

Banner women embroidered new war flags bearing the sigils of their lords and saints. They wept as they stitched, for it was known that war devoured sons faster than harvests.

In the deep south, the Templars of the Golden Sun—a militant order of warrior-monks—marched from their cloisters in gleaming plate mail, singing hymns in old Andalusian. They vowed to exterminate the ratspawn, to drive them back into the shadows of the Pyrenees, or die upon their sacred blades.

All across Iberia, preparations turned to prayer. No man went to war without receiving a blessing. The faithful received holy oil on their foreheads, and the faithless—well, they were buried quietly before they could spread doubt.

Meanwhile, in Sagres...

Where most trained in muddy courtyards or behind castle walls, Marino trained by the sea.

The waves crashed like drums of war against the jagged rocks below, mist curling in the wind as gulls circled overhead. The sky above was bruised with clouds, a storm threatening the horizon—but Marino welcomed the storm. He thrived in it.

He and his father stood barefoot on the wet sand, surrounded by broken boards and deep grooves in the earth. Their wooden training swords were scarred from countless duels, though neither moved like mortals anymore.

Jesus Colombo, once a crusader of the Old Faith, stood calm and upright. His sun-worn face was lined with scars, his gray eyes patient and unreadable. He had fought in the burning sands of Araby, seen horrors and miracles, and returned home a man of few words and many ghosts. Now, he trained his son with the same silence.

Across from him stood Marino, shirtless, muscles taut with tension, his eyes glowing faintly gold even in the gray daylight. Power shimmered beneath his skin like a coiled beast. His breathing was steady, but his rage bubbled just beneath the surface.

They bowed.

And then they moved.

Inhumanly fast.

Their blades cracked through the air like thunderclaps. Jesus sidestepped with barely a whisper of sand shifting beneath his feet, parrying each strike with elegance and economy. His blade was like water—deflecting, flowing, never clashing harder than necessary. Every movement was practiced, effortless, efficient.

Marino was pure force. He struck like a wolf lunging for the throat—low, high, diagonal. A spinning feint turned into a downward smash. He used his whole body in every strike, twisting at the waist, stomping into the earth. The air rippled with each attack. Pebbles scattered when he moved. His strikes weren't just fast—they were charged.

Jesus ducked under a sweeping arc and tapped Marino's ribs with the flat of his blade. "Dead again."

Marino growled and surged forward, his body blurring. His next blow cracked like lightning—Jesus caught it, twisted, and spun away.

"You're pushing again," Jesus said, circling. "You try to dominate. But the blade is not an extension of your will. It's a bridge between you and the world. You don't force it. You feel it."

Marino answered with a roar and a full overhead strike, two hands gripping the hilt. The ground beneath him cracked as he pushed off with unnatural strength. Jesus deflected it at the last second, turned his body, and with a swift movement, drove a foot into Marino's chest.

WHUMP.

Marino flew back five meters and crashed into the sand, rolling until he slammed against a driftwood log. He lay there, gasping, chest rising and falling, the sword still in hand.

"Focus, boy." Jesus's voice was firm but not cruel. "You're strong. But strength without discipline is a torch in dry grass. You'll burn everything—yourself included."

Marino stared at the sky, the gray clouds swirling above him. His muscles ached. Blood dripped from a cut on his brow. But inside—inside he could feel it. That thing. That power. That force that pulsed around him like a living storm.

He thought of the chickens he had killed. The men he had gutted. The fear in Neymar's eyes as the knife slid in. He remembered the smell of blood, the heat of rage, the feeling of power.

His father didn't understand.

He didn't want to be calm. He didn't want peace. He wanted more.

A breeze swept over the beach. Jesus began to approach—cautious, but calm, his blade lowered.

"You don't have to go down this path," he said. "It will consume you."

Marino's lips curled into a smile. "I don't want peace."

The Force surged.

Suddenly, a blast of invisible energy erupted from Marino's core—a Force push, wild and unrestrained. It hit Jesus like a battering ram, staggering him back several steps, almost knocking him off his feet. Sand exploded outward in all directions.

Jesus narrowed his eyes, now on guard. "So that's your answer."

Marino stood, eyes glowing gold, breathing hard. "Strength is my answer."

They clashed again. This time harder. Faster. Their swords blurred. The Force danced between them—each move enhanced by unseen hands. Jesus used the Force to anticipate, to redirect, to evade.

Marino used it to strike harder, to move faster, to overwhelm.

Then it happened.

A feint. A twist. A low slash.

Jesus misread it—just barely.

Marino saw the opening and lunged, the sand exploding behind him. With a snarl, he struck his father's leg with a crushing sweep. Jesus stumbled—not down, but off-balance.

It was all Marino needed.

He roared, stepped in, and delivered a shoulder slam that sent Jesus skidding backwards. Before the old man could recover, Marino was already behind him. One final, brutal blow landed against his father's ribs and brought him to the sand.

The duel was over.

Jesus coughed, propping himself up on one elbow. Sand clung to his robes, his breath shallow but steady.

Marino stood over him, his chest rising and falling, sweat trailing down his back. His golden eyes still burned faintly with power, the wooden blade now resting gently against his father's throat.

He could end the duel. He had won. The Force thrummed around him like a wild, beating drum. The power was his.

But instead of pressing the blade further, Marino smiled.

Not a cruel smile. Not a mocking one. Just... playful.

He extended a hand.

Jesus looked at it for a moment. Then up at his son's face.

And slowly, he took the hand.

Marino pulled him to his feet with a grunt. Jesus brushed off his clothes and met his son's eyes. There was pride there—but also concern. Still, he nodded.

"You've grown strong," he said. "Stronger than I expected."

"I know," Marino replied with a smirk. "Scary, huh?"

Jesus shook his head, exhaling with something between a sigh and a chuckle. "Terrifying."

They stood for a beat in silence, the waves breaking behind them.

Then Marino threw an arm around his father's shoulders and grinned. "Come on. Let's go home before your old bones freeze. Or before you have a heart attack realizing your son's cooler than you."

Jesus rolled his eyes. "Cooler? You broke three ribs last month trying to flip over a goat."

"That goat was possessed," Marino shot back.

"Possessed with better footwork than you," Jesus muttered.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

They both laughed—genuinely. Warmly. Like father and son again.

As they walked back toward the town, the sun finally began to break through the clouds. The sea behind them churned, the sand now scarred with the proof of their battle.

Two men. Two philosophies.

But still, one family.

Two years ago, Marino had made a decision that would change everything: to create the world's first toothbrush, crafted from the coarse hairs of wild boars. But what began as innovation soon turned into obsession.

He discovered something strange. The more brutal and sadistic the method he used to kill the boars, the more powerful he felt. It was as if some invisible current of energy stirred around him—something ancient and terrible. The first time he had felt it was back at the Lopes farm, when he had slaughtered the chickens and the family in a blood-drenched frenzy. That moment of primal violence had awakened a force within him.

Now, he could move objects with his mind, leap further, strike harder, and sense things others could not. Marino had finally discovered his isekai power—the Force. Or something like it.

But he wasn't alone.

He began to notice that others had a trace of this power, a faint spark deep within their souls. One of these people was his father, Jesus. Marino had taken it upon himself to train his father, teaching him how to tap into the same power. But where Marino's strength came from anger, fear, and desire, Jesus's path was very different. He calmed his mind, cleared away emotion, and let the power flow through him rather than bend it to his will.

And so, two philosophies were born.

Marino, the self-proclaimed Grandmaster, led a cult of followers who embraced their emotions—rage, pride, lust for power—and used those feelings to twist the Force to serve their ambitions. Jesus, meanwhile, taught his disciples serenity, focus, and harmony with the Force. He was a blade of balance; Marino, a storm of fire.

As the father and son walked home from another grueling sparring session, they passed their respective followers. Jesus's group practiced silent meditation and disciplined sword forms in perfect unison. In contrast, Marino's cult trained like beasts in a gym of wooden weights, harsh discipline, and bare-knuckle fights. Blood painted the sand where the strongest beat the weak into submission, screaming mantras of strength and will.

Back home, the scent of roasted bread and herbs filled the air. In the kitchen, Lara and Mary stirred bubbling pots while two toddlers played on the stone floor, giggling as they chased one another in circles.

Two years ago, both women had given birth—Lara to a baby girl named Eve, and Mary to a boy named Adam. It was a miracle, in truth. In an age plagued by miscarriages, bad water, and infection, their children had survived and thrived. Marino credited their healthy lifestyle, intense physical training, and the wealth of the Colombo household. That... and genetics. He took no small pride in the fact that both women now had "birthing hips" and "firm butts," sculpted through exercise—an odd point of pride, but one that amused Marino endlessly.

Now, both women were pregnant again.

In a world where more mouths to feed often meant poverty and suffering, the Colombo household prospered. Thanks to Marino's ventures, the family was one of the richest in Iberia. The rise of SubColombo, the world's first fast food restaurant, had transformed them. Its success had exploded, spreading across Andalusia, Aragon, and even into the Empire of Araby.

The restaurant wasn't the only enterprise. Marino's Colombo Clothing & Cosmetics empire had become the talk of noble courts and merchant cities. Victorian-inspired gowns, modern-styled underwear, lace stockings, shampoo, soaps, even nail polish—luxuries unheard of in this age. While the brand catered mostly to women, a few hygiene products like the boar-hair toothbrush were marketed to men. Still, most men of the time remained stubbornly indifferent to bathing and scent.

Marino didn't care. He didn't build these brands to uplift the masses. He did it to get rich—and it worked.

But profit came at a cost. Production methods were crude. Accidents were common. Materials were unreliable. And the overhead was immense. Despite all his wealth, Marino had only managed to construct six exploration ships, double what Columbus had used in the Old World—but not nearly enough.

He had no royal blessing. The crown still saw him as a vulgar merchant's son. And with war on the horizon, support from the nobility would soon vanish.

But he had something better: a cult.

Thanks to his dark charisma and the power of the Force, Marino had built a fanatical following. He was the Grandmaster, and beneath him were his Seven Hands—seven powerful Force-users, each embodying one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Envy, and Wrath—each of them fiercely loyal, deadly, and devoted to his vision.

Together, they had recruited a navy of 420 chosen cultists, believers who would sail across the unknown sea for their Grandmaster. Each ship would be captained by one of the Hands, with Marino's vessel led by two of the strongest.

He could wait no longer.

With war approaching and age creeping in, Marino accelerated his plans. He would not die forgotten. He would sail into legend, conquer wealth, achieve glory—and perhaps, if he became powerful enough, attain immortality.

That was the goal. That was the dream.

And nothing would stand in his way.