Angel Fall's-Chapter 12 Jesus goes to war.

Autumn came, and all of Iberia marched to war.

The harvest was done, the fields cleared, and every forge rang with hammers. Across towns and villages, banners were raised, lords mounted their horses, and peasants kissed their wives goodbye. The drums of war echoed across the land as the grand alliance of Andalusia and Aragon readied itself to face the unthinkable: the twisted union of the Duke of Granada and the Ratmen of the mountains—now calling themselves the Confederacy of Independent Nations, or C.I.N. for short.

Two massive C.I.N. armies were already on the move. One advanced west toward Cordoba, the other east to the gates of Murcia.

The Duke of Granada had tried—poorly—to rally his people behind his monstrous allies. But while many in the region might have tolerated the Ratmen out of fear or ignorance, few were willing to die for them. Support was shallow. So the Duke resorted to forced conscription, rounding up able-bodied men with threats, bribes, and shackles.

And why?

Because the Duke was a certified Rat Simp.

It had all started twenty years ago, on his sixteenth birthday. A hunting trip in the pine-wrapped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. He and his hounds had been chasing game through the mist when the dogs cornered something unusual on a rocky ridge.

It wasn't a boar. It wasn't a deer.

It was her.

A white, child-sized Ratwoman with fur like moonlight, fighting off the snarling dogs with a sharpened stick. But the Duke wasn't stunned by her bravery—no, he was struck by her beauty. Her delicate whiskers. Her silky paws. Her—multiple—nipples.

No human woman, he realized with a thundering heart, could compete with that.

In a haze of first love and deeply confused arousal, he had drawn his dagger—not to scare off the dogs, but to slaughter them.

And so he saved her.

She told him, whispering in broken Gothic, that if she became Queen of Iberia, she would be his bride. The promise had echoed in his dreams ever since. Even now, two decades later, he thought of her every night. Even when he lay with his human wife, it was the white Rat Queen who danced in his mind.

Now he marched for her. Ten thousand conscripted men—angry, reluctant, afraid—and fifty thousand Ratmen, twitching and stinking of rot and steel, all under the banner of the C.I.N. They moved swiftly, hoping to seize Cordoba before the Iberian alliance could fully muster.

The Duke of Faro, understanding the urgency, ordered his forces ahead of the main army to reinforce the city and delay the siege.

Meanwhile, in Sagres...

The town square buzzed with tension as the local levy was called.

Drums pounded as names were shouted and men stepped forward. In the front stood ten mounted riders—among them, the Lord of Sagres and his son. Their armor gleamed under the low autumn sun. Behind them, twenty conquistadors stood with muskets slung across their backs and blades at their hips—elite soldiers hardened by raids in the southern marshlands.

And then came the real army: two hundred peasants, armed with whatever they could afford or scavenge. Rusted helmets, mismatched mail, sharpened farm tools turned into spears. Some wore bits of leather, others nothing but padded tunics.

A few had their wives tie red sashes to their arms—luck charms, they'd say. Most just tried not to look scared.

Bells rang out. Churchmen gave blessings. Mothers wept. And then the march began—toward the blood and thunder that would decide the fate of Iberia.

Apart from the marching levy, another force stood out.

Jesus Colombo and his followers.

He rode at the head of a smaller formation—knights, warriors, and pilgrims in white tabards—silent and resolute. Jesus himself wore a full suit of polished plate armor, its surface gleaming like silver beneath the morning sun. A white cloak billowed behind him, and his tabard bore a red sword pointed downward, stylized like a cross. The same sigil—the Blade of the Risen, as they called it—was painted on his shield.

He rode with his helmet raised, a pointed dog-faced visor jutting up like a knight of old. His face was calm but stern, weathered by years of war and faith. Many whispered he had once served in the Eastern Crusades, and that he had walked barefoot through fire to reach the shrines of Araby. Those who followed him were few but fanatical—some had even begun to call themselves Sons of the Sword.

But what caught most eyes was not the holy man, but his son.

Marino Colombo.

Clad in half-plate of intricate design and draped in a dark blue cloak embroidered with golden thread, Marino stood astride his warhorse with a confidence that seemed to hum in the air around him. His armor was elegant yet brutal—like something forged in another age. His golden eyes watched the marching soldiers not with pride or pity, but with calculation. At his back stood 420 warriors, handpicked from among his disciples and craftsmen. They wore matching dark tunics with a subtle, flame-like insignia—a symbol not yet recognized by the great houses, but whispered about in every port and alley.

He called them the Chosen.

And they were not part of this war.

From atop his mount, Duke Tonel Segres looked back and scowled.

Even as a noble of old blood, he felt the burn of envy. Once, the House of Segres had ruled this coast unchallenged. But now... now the Colombo name was on the lips of kings and merchants alike. Their wealth, born of strange inventions, foreign fabrics, and food no one could stop eating, had eclipsed his own.

Even here—on the eve of war—Jesus wore better armor than he did. And Marino... damn the boy, Marino had refused to lend his four hundred and twenty elite fighters to the defense of Cordoba.

Instead, Marino had spoken of a "greater mission." Some nonsense about the future, the sea, destiny, and the stars. What made it worse—far worse—was that Segres's own son, Tadeo, had chosen to follow Marino on this mad quest. He had ridden off two days earlier, with only a sealed letter of farewell left behind.

The Duke ground his teeth and tightened his grip on the reins.

"Blasphemous," he muttered under his breath. "Deluded."

But deep down, what he felt was fear.

The war ahead would be bloody. He could lose everything. But Marino Colombo... that boy would still have his strange army, his gold, his shipyards, and his secrets.

And maybe—just maybe—that would make him more dangerous than the Ratmen themselves.

As Jesus prepared to depart, the wind carried the scent of salt and iron from the nearby sea. The town of Sagres stood still. His horse stamped the dirt beside him, restless—but not half as restless as the hearts left behind.

He knelt before his family for one last embrace.

"I know it's hard for you all to watch me go," Jesus said with a soft smile that masked the weight on his shoulders. "But fear not. I promise I'll return soon. After all—it's only rats we're facing. How hard could it be?"

He laughed lightly, trying to ease the mood.

Then he turned to Mary, his wife. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she held them back, lips pressed tight. Jesus reached forward, gently wiping the wetness from her cheek with a gloved thumb.

"My wife," he said warmly. "Do not cry. You must be strong in my absence. Watch over the children. Keep our home bright."

Mary nodded, unable to speak without her voice cracking. She placed her hand over his as he pulled away, reluctant to let him go.

Then Jesus turned to Marino.

Father and son locked eyes for a long moment. The wind tugged at their cloaks, the silence between them heavier than any armor.

"I have disappointed you," Marino said finally, lowering his gaze. "I haven't been grateful for your teachings. I've been arrogant... self-centered. I've focused only on my goals. I'm sorry."

Jesus's expression softened with pride, not disappointment.

"You are strong and wise, Marino," he said. "I've taught you everything I know... and you've become a far greater man than I could ever hope to be. You've chosen your path—walk it boldly. Fulfill your dreams. Be patient. And then come home."

He stepped forward and clasped Marino's shoulder with firm pride.

"I have no doubt you will succeed."

As Jesus turned to leave, Marino bowed his head, fists clenched at his sides. Not in shame. In resolve.

Just before mounting his steed, Jesus looked back one final time—this time calling out over the crowd with a teasing grin.

"And you, Missy!" he called toward Lara, who stood just behind Marino, "Behave yourself! And give me as many grandchildren as possible!"

Lara blinked in surprise, her face turning red as a summer apple. She looked down shyly, but couldn't stop the smile that curled at her lips.

Marino, beside her, chuckled under his breath.

Then the horn blew.

"Formation! Forward, march!" came the call from Lord Segres.

The soldiers began to move—leather boots and steel soles thudding against the dirt as dust rose from the road. Jesus walked at the front of his faithful twenty.

His plate armor gleamed beneath the morning light. White tabard. White cloak. Red sword-shaped cross over his chest. His visor was raised for now, but the solemnity in his expression made it clear—he was going to war.

His followers marched beside him—twenty men bearing only partial plate: a single shoulder, gauntlets, boots, and T-visored helmets. The rest of their armor was hardened leather, flexible for movement. They carried heater shields on their left arms and short swords at their hips, moving in unison like monks on a pilgrimage of steel.

And so, they began the long march toward Cordoba. Toward war. Toward legend.

And somewhere behind them, Marino watched.

He would not march with them.

Not yet, not in this war, or well it depended on how long it would take.

Everyone in the village stood still as the small army vanished into the distance. Dust hung in the air long after the men were gone.

When the last glint of armor disappeared over the hill, the people began to drift back to their routines—plowing fields, mending nets, tending livestock—as if pretending war hadn't just passed them by.

But for Marino's family, another farewell remained.

Today was not just the day Jesus marched to war—it was also the day Marino would leave for the New World.

At the docks, six ships stood tall in the water, sails furled, rigging creaking in the sea breeze. Crates, barrels, livestock, and bundles of supplies were being hauled aboard by sweaty, disciplined men. The journey across the sea—ten weeks by his old world's standards—demanded preparation, and Marino had made sure there would be no shortage of food, medicine, or weapons.

Standing like black-clad shadows among the chaos were his 420 Chosen and the 7 Hands. They wore no family crest, no holy symbols—only black leather armor, dark cloaks, and cold discipline. They looked like specters of death, a contrast to Jesus's shining white-cloaked order.

As the last of the cargo was secured, Marino turned to face his family.

"Mother," he said, bowing his head slightly, "I thank you for everything. Without your support, none of this would have been possible. And I swear to you—when I return, it will be with wealth beyond imagining. Enough to raise our family to nobility."

Mary tried to smile, but her heart was heavy. "All that matters," she said, "is that you come back safely. If you manage that... then I'll be more than satisfied."

"I will," Marino promised with confidence.

Then he turned to Lara.

She stood with their daughter Eve in her arms, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes.

"My love," Marino said gently, "do not shed tears for me. My return is not a matter of if, but when. Be strong... and take care of our child. I'll return before you have the other."

Lara said nothing at first. She stepped forward and wrapped one arm around Marino, holding Eve in the other. The child looked up, blinking in confusion, unaware that her father was about to vanish across the world.

After a long embrace, Lara finally whispered, "You better not break that promise."

Her voice wavered, but she didn't cry.

Over the past few years, her clinginess had shifted from Marino to their daughter. Eve had become her world. That shift had made it possible—for Marino to finally leave.

Marino kissed Eve on the forehead, held Lara for one more heartbeat, and then turned toward the gangplank. The sea air pulled at his cloak like a silent call.

His ships waited.

His destiny waited.

The deck was already busy with the black-clad Chosen moving about with discipline and speed. But two figures stood out among them.

Waiting at the top of the ramp were two of his Hands: Sloth and Gluttony, the physically strongest of his entire exploration force.

Sloth was massive—well over two meters tall, with the body of a godless sculptor's statue. Muscles rippled beneath his black armor, and on his back hung a colossal two-handed sword, nearly as long as a man was tall. His helmet was tucked under one arm. He had short black hair, a thick neck, and dull gray eyes that looked half-asleep.

As Marino approached, Sloth raised a hand lazily in salute and spoke in a flat monotone.

"We greet you, master. Can I go sleep now?"

Marino smirked. "Soon. Once we hit open sea. For now, help with the preparations."

Sloth didn't respond—he simply nodded and trudged away. He wasn't clever, and he certainly wasn't motivated. But he listened. As long as someone gave him orders—someone he trusted—he was a perfect machine. Tell him to train, and he'd train. Tell him to kill, and he'd kill.

Then a voice chirped up beside him—cheerful, dumb, and far too eager.

"When can I eat?"

Marino turned to see Gluttony, waddling up with a stupid grin. Bald, obese, and barely sixteen, Gluttony was a monster of a boy—almost as tall as Sloth but twice as round. He carried a massive stone maul slung over his shoulder, since even he knew a sword would be too dangerous in his own hands.

His eyes were the same dull gray as Sloth's, but his grin made him look like an oversized child.

Marino chuckled. "Soon. In about ten weeks we'll reach new land. There, you can eat as much as you want."

Gluttony's eyes widened in awe. "Anything? Can I even eat the soft flesh of children and women?"

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Marino let out a dry, forced laugh. "Yeah, sure. Why not. Just... don't cause problems."

Satisfied with the answer, Gluttony happily waddled off to help Sloth, humming some nonsense tune as he went. Like Sloth, Gluttony was useful—not for his mind, but for his raw, terrifying strength and unwavering loyalty. They were both far too dangerous to be left unsupervised, which was why they were assigned to Marino's own ship. Better monsters at your side than behind your back.

Marino stepped up to the wheel of the ship as the last of the mooring ropes were hauled aboard.

He took a deep breath, eyes gleaming with anticipation, and raised his voice with sharp authority:

"Raise the sails!"

With a thunder of movement, the great white sails unfurled—emblazoned with crimson crosses, and on each cross a black skull, painted with cruel precision.

The wind caught them. The hull groaned as the ship turned to face the open sea.

And with that, the six ships of the Colombo fleet surged forward, cutting through the waves, leaving the old world behind.

Toward riches. Toward glory.Toward conquest.

As the fleet pulled away from the port, Marino turned one last time toward the distant shore.

There they were—his family, waving from the docks. Mary, holding little Eve in her arms. Lara, clutching her cloak tight in the wind. Their figures grew smaller by the second, but Marino raised his hand high and waved back, a proud smile tugging at his lips.

And then he saw it.

Just beside them, nestled near the edge of the dock, stood his food wagon—the humble beginning of his empire. Brightly painted, wood polished to a shine, with a little awning flapping in the breeze.

Two young girls—barely teens—were behind the counter, cheerfully shouting at passersby.

"Come and get your fresh and tasty—Colombo bread!" they sang out in unison, their voices bubbly and innocent, full of joy.

Marino's smile twitched.

Then it twisted.

His heart sank. His eye twitched. A vein pulsed in his forehead. He looked away, face suddenly grim.

"Full speed ahead!" he barked, gripping the wheel like it had insulted his mother.

As the sails snapped in the wind and the fleet began to pick up speed, Marino stared forward into the ocean, jaw clenched.

God... what have I done?

He thought back to that one perfect invention. That sacred, divine creation of meat and bread and ambition.

He hadn't wanted this. He never meant for it to happen.

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But now... now the word had changed. The world had changed.

There were no more sandwiches.

No longer would a man say:

"Bitch, shut up and make me a sandwich."

No.

Now they would say:

"Bitch, shut up and make me a Colombo."

And somewhere, deep in the depths of his soul...

Marino wept.

Not for glory. Not for riches. Not even for the blood to come.

But for the sandwich.

Forever lost.