Angel Fall's-Chapter 14 The siege of Cordoba part 2

The day was almost serene, if you didn't know the chaos unfolding just beyond the walls. The wind stirred the clouds, swirling lazily across the sky. The only real movement was the occasional falcon soaring high above the battlefield, its sharp eyes scanning the land below for any signs of easy prey. It swooped down now and then, but there were no carrion yet—only the soldiers on the wall, quietly watching, waiting, dreading the oncoming battle.

Jesus sat, his back resting against the cool stone of the battlement, his sword lying across his lap. His followers, the Jesuits, were gathered around him—some resting, some meditating, and others sharpening their blades or watching the smoke rising in the distance. His thoughts were focused, calm, despite the chaos that lay ahead.

The Society of Jesus, now more commonly known as the Jesuits, had been growing in strength ever since Jesus began his journey with them. These were no mere soldiers—they were a brotherhood of warriors, each one bound by their loyalty to Jesus and their devotion to the cause of defending the living against the forces of darkness. They were not like the other soldiers who fought for money or glory; they fought because they believed in something greater.

But now, as the siege tower neared, the battle would test everything they stood for. Every one of the Jesuits knew that this fight was not just about survival—it was about sending a message. A message that would echo across the land, a message that no matter the odds, the light would always stand against the darkness.

The wind tugged at their cloaks as the Jesuits sat against the battlements, their backs pressed against the cold stone walls of the eastern wall of Cordoba. The city was eerily quiet for a brief moment, the tension hanging thick in the air like a storm cloud ready to break. The battle had paused for the moment, but they knew it wouldn't last long. The siege towers were coming, and with them, the bulk of the Ratmen's army.

Jesus sat at the center, sword across his lap, his focus unshakable as he watched the horizon. His eyes were piercing, like a hawk watching for the first sign of prey. Bregi, leaning back against the stone with his eyes closed, had the most weight on his shoulders. His past as a gladiator and his life as a slave still clung to him, though he tried to block it out with cold stoicism. His hands, calloused from years of hard labor, rested lightly on his knees, his body tense and ready for action, but his mind seemed distant, almost detached.

Ledo, ever the calm strategist, sat near Bregi, his eyes scanning the battlefield, calculating every move before it even happened. The noble's mind was sharp, though his demeanor was calm, as if this was just another test, another challenge to face with honor.

Karl, the youngest of the group, sprawled out lazily against the wall, his sword resting beside him. He was the one who broke the silence, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp knife. He had been quiet for a while, just like the others, but now his restless energy needed an outlet. "You know," he said, grinning wide, "I think that last rat was the highest one yet."

The others didn't respond immediately. The sky was filled with the distant sound of more ratmen being flung from catapults, their screams reaching the men atop the wall as the creatures soared through the air. The catapults were flinging their deadly cargo with terrifying consistency. From behind the walls, they could see the rising wall of fire—black smoke curling into the sky as the defenders had set the oil-soaked earth ablaze.

The wall of flames created a barrier between the rats and the city, a grim reminder of what lay ahead. As the flying Ratmen sailed over the walls, the fire churned beneath them, casting long shadows across the field below. The rats were hurled through the air, twisted bodies screaming as they sailed toward the city, their limbs flailing before they collided with the rooftops below, or, in the case of a particularly unlucky one, splattering across the cobblestone streets.

Karl, undeterred by the grim atmosphere, was keeping track. "That one was a real high-flyer, wasn't it? Went a good twenty feet before it splatted!" He pointed toward the skyline where the next Ratman came soaring over, its body twisting in a bizarre, acrobatic way. It let out a shrill scream before hitting a rooftop with a sickening bang. "Number two! That one hit the roof like a wrecking ball!"

Bregi sighed deeply, barely opening his eyes. "Are you really counting them, Karl? You think this is a game?"

Karl leaned back, grinning, oblivious to the growing tension. "Well, I'm not the one who's gonna be facing those siege towers. I've got time to amuse myself, right? Don't tell me you're not a little curious about how high these rats can go." He nudged Ledo, who was now staring intently at the advancing siege towers on the horizon. "What about you, Ledo? Want to join in? We're up to three!"

Ledo's lips twitched ever so slightly, but he didn't turn away from his watch. "I'd rather be ready for the towers than counting rats, Karl."

Karl chuckled. "Fair enough. But just wait until that next one—no way it won't break the city walls when it hits." His eyes darted back to the sky. A fresh batch of Ratmen were being loaded into the catapults. He felt a rush of excitement as the next one was released into the air.

"There we go, four! Look at that one fly!" Karl yelled, his voice lighthearted despite the heavy air. The Ratman sailed through the sky, shrieking in terror as it plummeted down toward the city. "Five! Oh, that one was splat right on the street!"

The others couldn't help but let out a collective grunt or quiet chuckle, even Bregi's stoic expression cracking just a little. His lips twitched, though he quickly returned to his vigilant posture. "I swear, you'll be the death of me, Karl. But fine, keep your count. It'll be a lot more fun once we're in the middle of that mess, won't it?"

Karl winked. "I'm just here to lighten the mood. But seriously, you guys should really try it. Counting flying rats—best way to pass the time."

Bregi raised an eyebrow. "Counting rats, eh? You better hope you've got the stamina for the real fight, Karl. You're not gonna be counting any rats when those siege towers get here."

Karl shrugged, unfazed. "Guess we'll see. But I'm still keeping my count. Six!" He laughed, watching another Ratman fly past them, before his body thudded against a nearby rooftop with a sickening crunch.

The fire behind them crackled, roaring higher as the flames licked at the sky. The smoke from the burning oil swirled into the wind, choking the air with its acrid stench. It was a battlefield, no mistake about it, but Karl's antics provided a strange contrast to the devastation ahead.

Ledo looked at the sky, his face serious now, his focus entirely on the siege towers creeping closer. "Enough distractions, Karl," he said, his voice calm but firm. "The real fight is about to begin."

Karl's grin faded, but the slight twinkle in his eye remained. "Right. Right, focus. But I'll keep counting. Maybe that'll help me keep track of things in the chaos."

Bregi sighed, shaking his head, though there was an underlying respect for Karl's ability to keep the mood light. "You're something else, Karl. Just make sure you're ready when it matters."

Karl straightened, his grin slipping into something more determined. "I'll be ready. But I'm still counting—seven!" He watched as another rat flew overhead, its body twisting in the air as it hurtled toward the city.

The tension on the wall was rising once more, the distant rumble of the siege towers nearing, but Karl's voice kept a thread of levity in the air—at least for a moment longer.

The sound of rocks striking the city walls continued to echo, the relentless barrage of projectiles reverberating off the stone like the pounding of a drum. Yet, in the midst of the chaos, a single voice broke through the tension, sharp and clear.

"22 and 10 seconds."

The Jesuits turned toward the voice, their hearts quickening in anticipation. They had been expecting the usual banter, or perhaps a comment about the flying rats, but the voice that rang out was not that of Karl or Bregi, or even Ledo. It was Jesus, his tone calm but undeniably commanding.

Ledo, taken aback for a moment, raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Wow. Jesus, you were counting too? What do you mean, '10 seconds'?"

Without a word, Jesus rose to his feet, the subtle hum of the Force swirling around him. His movements were measured, deliberate, as though every action was a calculated response to the chaos unfolding. His eyes, once focused on the distant horizon, now hardened, like the gaze of a hawk locking onto its prey.

"They're coming!" Jesus shouted, his voice ringing out over the battlefield. "Draw your swords!"

The words were like a thunderclap. The men snapped to attention, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon their shoulders. In an instant, they were on their feet, swords drawn and ready, their bodies tense with the expectation of what was about to unfold. Every sense was heightened, the air thick with the smell of smoke, the distant rumble of the siege towers, and the relentless howls of the Ratmen below.

Bregi's eyes, usually closed in contemplation, snapped open, his senses sharpened by the growing presence of danger. His fingers gripped the hilt of his blade, his heart steady but his mind racing. The years of his past—his time as a gladiator, the horrors he had endured—flashed through his mind, but there was no fear. Only the familiar, cold readiness that came with battle.

Ledo's hand rested lightly on his sword as he scanned the horizon, his noble blood steeling him for the fight ahead. His eyes were calculating, the weight of command and strategy ever present in his demeanor. He had come to Iberia to prove his worth, and now was his moment to do just that.

Karl, ever the lighthearted one, was no longer grinning. His usual playful demeanor had vanished, replaced by a sharp focus that matched the others. He was ready for the fight ahead, his sword now gripped firmly in his hand, the weight of the blade grounding him in the present.

Behind the smoke, a shadow grew larger, and the men saw it clearly now. The silhouette of a siege tower, its massive frame crawling forward, slowly but surely making its way toward the wall. The ground trembled beneath their feet as it neared, the sound of its wheels grinding against the earth adding to the mounting tension.

The rats below were in full frenzy now, their war cries rising in a deafening crescendo. "Death to humans! Glory to the Underhive! Glory to the White Queen!" The noise seemed to reverberate off the walls of the city, an unsettling reminder of the force they were about to face.

The air felt thick with impending doom, but Jesus stood tall, his posture unwavering as the Force surrounded him like an impenetrable shield. His eyes flared with the power of the Force, the energy flowing through him like a current. "Send these foul rats back into the abyss!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the battlefield, amplifying the rallying cry that would ignite the Jesuits' battle fervor.

The men at the wall felt the call. Every muscle in their bodies coiled, ready for the first clash of the battle. They could feel it in the air—the moment of reckoning was upon them.

With a mighty roar, the Jesuits surged forward, their swords drawn, their eyes fixed on the approaching siege tower. The first of many would be upon them in moments, and the time for waiting had passed.

Karl's voice was a sharp contrast to the urgency of the moment, yet it was steady with determination. "Let's show them what we're made of, boys!"

And with that, the men charged forward to the edge of the wall, the clash of their boots against the stone battlements echoing through the chaos. They stood ready, their bodies tense but their hearts alight with the fire of battle.

The first siege tower, a hulking mass of wood and iron, was nearly upon them, its shadow casting a long, dark pall over the city. The ground beneath their feet rumbled as the rats below shrieked, their chants growing louder and more frenzied with each passing second.

It was now or never.

The Jesuits had made their stand. They would fight not just for their survival, but for the soul of Iberia.

The thick ramp of the siege tower crashed down onto the stone battlements with a deafening bang, sending shockwaves through the defenders. The immense weight of the ramp crushed the stone beneath it, splintering the once sturdy battlements and sending shards of rock flying in every direction. A cloud of dust and debris erupted from the impact, obscuring the view of the battlefield for a moment, as the defenders instinctively recoiled.

Through the haze of dust and the shifting smoke, figures began to emerge, the first wave of Granadan peasants surged forward from the siege tower, their cries of bloodlust mingling with the shrieks of the dying. A sea of poorly armed men—ragged and unkempt, with little more than crude pitchforks, broken swords, and improvised weapons—charged at the defenders with a raw, desperate frenzy. Their lack of armor left them exposed, their thin, rusted weapons barely glinting in the pale light of the smoke-filled air.

The Jesuits, by contrast, stood firm at the front of the wall. They were a small force—only twenty of them—each one a seasoned warrior of the Force, their swords gleaming in their hands and their shields held high, ready to meet the oncoming tide of peasants. Behind them, Jesus, Ledo, Bragi, and Karl stood like silent sentinels, each in their own way focused and ready. The Jesuits had little more than their swords and shields, but they were far better prepared than the Granadans who now came charging toward them.

The first wave of peasants crashed against the wall like a flood of bodies, and the clash of weapons filled the air with a deafening noise. The Granadans struck with all their might, pitchforks and broken blades swinging wildly, but the Jesuits were a wall of steel. Their shields met the blows with a resounding clang, the poor weapons of the peasants unable to break through the solid defenses of the warriors. Each strike was turned aside, the weapons of the peasants bouncing harmlessly off the polished steel shields or being deflected by the expert swordplay of the Jesuits.

The peasants were no match for the disciplined, well-armored defenders. As the battle raged on, the Jesuits cut down the first wave with brutal efficiency. Swords flashed in the air as they cleaved through the unprotected bodies of the peasants, each swing carving through flesh like a hot knife through butter. Blood sprayed the air, staining the cobblestones and the walls as the peasants fell in droves, their cries of pain quickly silenced by the cold steel of the Jesuit blades.

Among the chaos, one Granadan peasant leaped forward, his pitchfork raised high, aimed straight for a Jesuit warrior's chest. The Jesuit parried the blow with his shield, and before the peasant could react, the warrior's sword cleaved through the air, cutting him down in a single, clean stroke. The man crumpled to the ground with a soft thud, his body twitching before it went still.

Despite the rapid slaughter, the peasants kept coming, driven by desperation and the frenzied chants of their comrades behind them. The smell of blood and sweat filled the air, and the sound of clashing metal was deafening. But it was clear that the Granadans were fighting a losing battle.

At the back of the line, the Lord of Sagres' men—archers and spearmen—watched from their positions, ready to reinforce the front lines when necessary. The spearmen stood with their weapons raised, waiting for the moment when they could thrust their poles forward to clear the remaining attackers, while the archers loosed their arrows, their shafts flying over the heads of the Jesuits and striking down any peasant who dared to remain in the open.

It was then that a particularly brave Granadan peasant, driven by pure rage, hurled himself from the siege tower's ramp, his pitchfork held high. He was met mid-air by two Jesuits, their spears poised and ready. The peasant's eyes widened in disbelief as they thrust their spears into his chest with a sickening crunch, impaling him through the heart and lifting him from the ground.

Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering onto the Jesuit's shields, staining the once-pristine metal red. The man's body jerked once, twice, before going limp, his last breath escaping in a gurgling hiss. With no more strength to hold himself up, he was tossed aside like a ragdoll, his body flying over the wall and plummeting to the ground below, where it splattered on the cobblestones in a grotesque display.

The battle continued in a blur of flashing steel and the sounds of agony. More peasants poured forward, only to be met with the deadly precision of the Jesuits. They had no chance. The disparity in skill, armor, and weaponry was too great. Every time a Granadan peasant charged, they were met with a wall of shields and blades that cut them down without mercy.

Karl, grinning through the bloodshed, glanced over at Bregi, who was carving through the peasants with a grim focus. "This is like cutting weeds, eh?" he called over, his voice oddly light-hearted amidst the carnage. Bregi didn't respond, his eyes hard as he cleaved through another attacker. The sound of his blade slicing through the air was almost a rhythm, a deadly dance that he had mastered through years of battle.

Ledo, standing beside them, nodded grimly. "It's not over yet. But we'll make them pay for every inch they try to take." His sword was stained with blood, but his posture remained steady, his eyes sharp.

And still, the Granadans came. But the walls of Cordoba were not to be breached—not by this rabble. Not today. The Jesuits stood resolute, their resolve unshaken by the blood that soaked the ground beneath them. It was a battle they could not afford to lose, and they would fight to the last man to make sure of it.

At the same time a Granadan man was tossed off of the wall by the Force push of Jesus thrown off the wall, a second man had hopped down from the ramp and engaged the Jesuit warrior.

As the battle raged on, the air thick with the smell of blood and the sounds of clashing steel, Jesus, Bragi, Karl, and Ledo stood in a line before the ramp of the siege tower. The four warriors, their shields and swords momentarily lowered, turned toward each other. There was no need for words; they knew what was coming.

The Force was with them, as always—powerful, swirling, and alive. Their breathing synchronized, each of them drawing on the dark and light sides of the Force to prepare for what was coming. In this moment, they weren't just soldiers. They were something more. Together, they stood as a single, unified presence of raw power, their focus sharp, their intentions clear.

The ramp of the siege tower creaked under the weight of the charging peasants. They were coming, wave after wave of them, desperate to break through the wall of steel and stone that stood before them. But these peasants—poorly armed, unarmored, and weak—were no match for the combined might of the Jesuits.

The four warriors stood tall, their hands raised in unison, their eyes glowing with the energy of the Force as they reached out with their minds, feeling the turbulence of the battle all around them. Then, in a single, fluid motion, they thrust their hands forward.

A mighty wave of telekinetic energy surged from them like a tidal wave, a shockwave of pure Force that shot out in all directions. The ground trembled, the air pulsed with raw power as the Force push hit the charging peasants like a hammer. The air itself seemed to crackle, a roaring blast that echoed across the battlefield, throwing the peasants back with terrifying speed.

The top of the siege tower was obliterated in an instant. The ramp cracked and splintered, collapsing under the pressure of the Force. Peasants and debris alike were thrown into the air, their bodies flung high above the walls, twisting and tumbling through the smoke-filled sky. Screams filled the air as they were sent plummeting downward, crashing into the Ratmen army below in a horrific cascade of bodies and limbs. The sound of their impact was like thunder, echoing through the chaos.

For a moment, the battlefield fell silent—at least on the eastern front—save for the horrified gasps of the defenders and the eerie silence of the destroyed siege tower.

But then, amidst the falling bodies, one peasant—a man named Tao—miraculously managed to leap out of the way in time. His body twisted mid-air, his arms flailing as he avoided the worst of the Force blast. He landed with a roll on the wall, his feet hitting stone instead of dirt. Tao's eyes were wild, but there was something different about him—he was no ordinary peasant. Unlike the others, he had the strength of will, the skill, and the determination to fight back.

He rose from the ground quickly, his eyes scanning the chaos around him. The peasants had been wiped out, their forces shattered, but Tao's resolve remained unbroken. He wasn't like the others who had fallen in a heap of broken bodies. No. Tao was still standing, and he was hungry for battle.

With a swift motion, he drew a rusty but well-worn sword from his side and advanced. His eyes locked onto a Jesuit warrior standing nearby—one of the chosen few who had fought so fiercely at the front. The Jesuit warrior stood tall, his sword still dripping with the blood of his fallen enemies. But as Tao approached, there was no fear in his eyes. He knew that this was a duel unlike any he had faced before.

The two men squared off, and in that moment, the battle around them seemed to fade into the background. Tao wasn't just a peasant anymore. He was a man with purpose, a man with the fire of survival burning in his chest. And he was determined to take down one of the Jesuits—no matter the cost.

As Tao clashed swords with the Jesuit warrior, the rhythmic clang of steel on steel resonating through the chaos of battle, his mind wandered back to that strange night at the inn. The heat of combat, the clash of bodies, and the adrenaline of the moment all seemed to fade as his thoughts drifted to Xixi, the woman who had changed everything.

The memory hit him as sharply as the blow from the Jesuit's sword. Inside the dimly lit inn, he had witnessed an argument at the front counter. The innkeeper, a stout woman with an air of indifference, was refusing to serve a small, hooded figure standing before her.

Tao's eyes had narrowed in curiosity as he walked toward them, hearing a soft, feminine voice speak from under the hood. "Please, I do not ask for much. Just some food, water, and a warm bed for the night. Why can't you accept my coin?"

The innkeeper's response was harsh, a sneer in her voice. "It's simple. We don't serve your kind here. You're nothing but trouble, bad for business. And besides, we don't have many rooms left. I'm definitely not giving you one of them."

Tao, hearing the bite in the innkeeper's tone and the clear discrimination, was taken aback. But more than that, he was enraged. He couldn't stand it—how could anyone treat someone like that?

Without a second thought, he stepped forward, standing between the hooded figure and the innkeeper. His voice was steady, though his blood was boiling. "I'll pay for her. Whatever she wants, it's on me."

The woman looked up at him, her tear-streaked face hidden behind the hood, but her red ruby-like eyes pierced through the darkness. The innkeeper, flustered, sneered, "Oh? And are you also going to give her your room, and sleep on the street yourself?"

Tao hesitated, unsure what to do. But before he could form a response, the hooded figure tugged at his shirt. He turned to her, startled. Her voice was barely a whisper, a soft, shy murmur that sent an unexpected chill down his spine. "We c-could, sleep t-together. I don't mind."

Tao stood frozen for a moment, his mind racing with the unexpected proposition. His gaze flickered to the woman in front of him, the soft flickering light of the candle casting shadows across her features. Xixi's expression was a mixture of shyness and uncertainty, as if she, too, was unsure of the awkwardness between them.

Her words lingered in the air, carrying with them an unspoken tension. Tao cleared his throat, trying to focus. "One room, then," he said, his voice low but steady. "A meal for two."

The innkeeper, looking more than a little surprised by Tao's offer, eyed him for a long moment before nodding begrudgingly. "Fine. It's your choice," she said, clearly skeptical of the unusual arrangement.

As Tao led Xixi to the small room, the reality of the situation began to settle in. The bed was far too small for both of them, but the idea of sharing it with her didn't seem nearly as strange as it had moments ago. In truth, he'd never met anyone like her before—her graceful, yet vulnerable presence captivated him.

Xixi stepped into the room, her tail flicking nervously behind her. Tao noticed how the dim light seemed to dance across her delicate, yet striking features. She was unlike any woman he'd known, human or otherwise, and the weight of that realization hit him as he watched her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Xixi seemed unsure how to proceed, glancing at the bed and then looking away, as if lost in thought.

Tao turned away from her for a moment, trying to give her some space, but his curiosity got the better of him. "So... we make do with what we have," he muttered, trying to make light of the situation. "I suppose we'll have to figure out how to fit in this little bed."

Xixi hesitated, then gave a small, quiet laugh—a sound that was almost as foreign to him as her presence. It was soft, almost self-conscious, but there was something warm in it that caused Tao's heart to flutter.

"I didn't expect things to be like this," she admitted, glancing at him as she reached for her cloak. "But... perhaps it's better this way, no? To share what we have, for tonight."

Tao nodded slowly, unsure of what to say, and watched as she untied the cloak that had hidden her figure from him. He wasn't used to seeing someone like her, someone so different, and yet, in that moment, he felt drawn to her—not out of desire, but out of a deep, unspoken understanding.

Her movements were gentle, even graceful, and as the cloak fell away, Tao couldn't help but notice how her form was unlike any human's. Still, she held a quiet strength in the way she carried herself. There was no shame in her posture—no fear. Just the quiet dignity of someone who had been through things Tao could not imagine.

She glanced up at him, catching his eye for a brief moment, before turning away to begin undressing. Tao turned his gaze away out of respect, even though he couldn't help the flicker of curiosity in his chest. They were strangers, after all, and there was no need to make things awkward.

But as she sat at the edge of the bed and looked at him, Tao felt something shift. He didn't know what it was, this connection that seemed to grow stronger by the second, but it was undeniable.

"I'm glad you helped me back there," she said quietly, her voice breaking the silence. "I've never had someone stand up for me like that before."

Tao met her gaze, his chest tightening. "You deserved better than that. No one should be treated like that. Especially not you."

She smiled softly, the warmth in her expression surprising him. "Thank you," she whispered. "Maybe... we're not so different, after all."

As the night stretched on, the air in the small room grew warmer. Tao lay on his back, eyes closed, trying to ignore the increasingly uncomfortable tension in the space between them. But it was hard to ignore the subtle shifts from Xixi. Her tail, normally still, was now moving with an unfamiliar energy, twitching slightly against the bed. Her body seemed to radiate warmth, and the soft scent of her fur, mixed with something more alluring, drifted toward him.

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Tao shifted uncomfortably, his chest tightening as he tried to understand what was happening. He could feel his heart beat faster, not from fear, but from the change in the air—something unspoken, yet powerful, simmering beneath the surface.

Xixi, her breath soft but rapid, glanced over at him. She met his eyes for a moment, and Tao saw something there—an almost desperate look. Her gaze softened, her lips parting slightly as she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"It's... it's okay," she murmured. "You can... hold me, if you want."

Her words, although quietly spoken, carried a weight that made Tao's heart skip a beat. She was asking for something more than just a physical connection. It was a plea, a silent admission of her own vulnerability. Tao could feel it—the quiet desperation, the need for safety and comfort.

Xixi had been cast out from her home, a wanderer in a world that rejected her, just as he had been rejected by his own people. Her isolation mirrored his, and Tao realized then that they were both seeking something—something he hadn't realized he was missing until now. She wasn't just seeking refuge from the world; she was seeking him, someone who could offer her the trust and security she had never known.

For a long moment, Tao lay still, caught in the intensity of her unspoken plea. He could see the fear in her eyes—the fear that he might turn her away like everyone else had. But something inside him broke at the thought of rejecting her. He had always been the protector, the one who stood up for the underdog. And now, here was someone who needed him, just as much as he had once needed someone.

Slowly, he turned toward her, his eyes locking with hers. There was no hesitation this time, only a deep, quiet understanding. His strong arms reached out, pulling her gently towards him. "You don't have to be afraid," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."

And with that simple promise, the walls between them crumbled. Xixi didn't resist; instead, she melted into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. In that moment, she found something she had longed for—peace.

The night stretched on, and the world outside seemed to disappear. They lay together, tangled in each other's arms, not driven by mere physical need but by a deeper bond that was slowly, quietly, growing between them.

Years Later:

Tao and Xixi's relationship became the foundation of something more profound than either could have imagined. Over time, they grew closer, their love blossoming into something unspoken but powerful. They married secretly, away from the judgment of a world that would never fully understand them.

Their union created offspring—some that were a perfect blend of both human and rat-like traits, others that appeared more human, with only hints of their heritage. There were challenges, as they both faced the prejudice of others. Some of their children were rejected, while others flourished, becoming symbols of the unity that could exist between different peoples.

Tao, who had always fought for those who were cast aside, eventually found his place in the Duke's multiracialism movement. He knew firsthand what it was like to be feared and rejected for being different. But through Xixi, he had found something far more valuable—understanding, love, and the quiet power of acceptance.

Together, they built a family, a legacy of unity that transcended the divisions of race and species, and Tao carried that lesson with him into the future, always fighting for the acceptance of those like Xixi—those who, despite their differences, had as much right to peace and belonging as anyone else.

****

Back at the walls of Cordoba, Tao's grip tightened around his sword as he lunged forward, swinging with all his might from the left. His aim was precise—he targeted the gap in the Jesuit's armor at the neck.

But the Jesuit was no novice. With swift reflexes, he raised his right shoulder, and Tao's sword met it with a resounding clang, sending a shockwave up his arm. The Jesuit's armor held firm, but Tao wasn't done.

With a swift counter, the Jesuit thrust his sword toward Tao's torso, aiming for a crippling strike. Tao reacted quickly, raising his wooden shield just in time to deflect the blow. The force of the strike rattled his shield, but it held, and he immediately shoved it forward, using his weight to try and push the Jesuit back.

The Jesuit anticipated the move, however, and countered with his own shield. With a deafening bang, the two shields collided, their owners locking eyes in a moment of shared hatred. Both men stood firm, chest heaving, the weight of their opposing beliefs heavy in the air between them.

Tao's eyes burned with defiance as he met the Jesuit's glare. The air was thick with the tension of years of animosity. In a low, venomous growl, the Jesuit spat, "You fucking traitorous rat lover."

Tao's lips curled into a bitter smile as he straightened, eyes cold. "Fucking conservatives," he shot back, his voice thick with disdain. He could feel the heat of the battle rising, the clash of their ideals as much as the clash of their steel.

The battle raged on around them, but in that moment, it was only the two of them—their hatred and their cause fueling every swing of the sword, every clash of metal. Tao knew this was more than a fight for survival. This was a fight for the future. And he would fight to the bitter end for what he believed in.