Angel Fall's-Chapter 18 The siege of Cordoba part 6

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood as the fires raged unchecked across the city. The skies above Cordoba were heavy with dark clouds, thunder cracking and lightning flashing in every direction, adding to the chaos below. In the streets, the sound of frantic footsteps, screams, and the slashing of blades filled the air. The once-proud city of Cordoba, its magnificent walls now broken, was rapidly becoming a ruin.

Amidst the madness, the desperate cries of women and children echoed as they raced toward the castle, their last hope. The streets were choked with bodies, those who were too weak, too old, or too slow to escape. The rats, in their frenzied bloodlust, tore through the crowd with impunity, their razor-sharp teeth sinking into flesh, their claws raking through the soft, vulnerable bodies of the unprotected. The weak fell first, the fat and the old—sacrificed to the bloodthirsty swarm.

Women carrying children screamed for help, but no one came. Their bodies were mercilessly shoved aside by panicked men desperate to save themselves. The rats did not discriminate—every life was prey. Those who stopped to help, to lend a hand to their fellow citizens, were cut down without mercy. In seconds, they were overtaken by the swarm and dragged into the streets to be devoured whole. The rat-men and ogres, relentless and unstoppable, advanced like a wave of death.

The Duke of Faro and his dwindling band of vassals fought fiercely in the streets, holding what little ground they could. Their armor was battered and stained with blood, their bodies bruised, maimed, and broken from the battle. But still, they stood firm. They stood against the inevitable. As the rats poured down from every direction, the defenders fought with desperation. A man with an arm missing swung his sword with his one good hand. Another, his leg cut off at the knee, continued to fight, hobbling forward with sheer willpower. They were surrounded, but they did not break.

"Hold the line!" one of the Duke's captains shouted, his voice hoarse with exhaustion, but unwavering. But the rats were relentless, their numbers endless, and the lines of defense were thinning. Men fell, one by one, torn apart by the rats, their screams lost in the cacophony of war. The lines were shattered, scattered in all directions as the rats overwhelmed them.

On the rooftops, the last remnants of the missile troopers, the few who had not yet been overwhelmed, fought back with whatever they had left. Arrows flew, bolts shot from crossbows, musket balls rang out—each projectile finding its mark, but only for a moment. The rats swarmed over the buildings like an unstoppable tide, climbing walls, tearing through windows, and devouring the defenders with a ravenous hunger. Every time the humans managed to push them back, more rats emerged from the alleys, from the shadows, from the darkness, like an unending plague.

Inside the abandoned buildings, the last stand was being made. Groups of civilians, soldiers, and peasants alike had found refuge in the decaying structures, trying to fortify themselves behind doors, barricades, and broken furniture. But the rats would not be deterred. The Rat-ogres, huge and terrifying, battered down doors with crushing blows, sending the defenseless people fleeing in terror. In seconds, the hideouts were overrun, and the rats swarmed inside, killing those who had tried to hide, devouring them where they stood.

The city of Cordoba had become a slaughterhouse, a hellish landscape where the living were consumed by the dead. There was no escape. The defenders had fallen, the walls had been breached, and now the streets were filled with the stench of death. There was no hope left, only the cold, unrelenting march of the rats as they took the city, one house at a time.

In the distance, the sky had begun to lighten as the storm clouds broke apart, but there was no joy in it. The light brought no warmth, only the bitter truth: the city was lost. The last bastion of hope, the castle, stood high on the hill, but it was too far now. The rats had already claimed everything below, and no one could hold them back.

Cordoba would fall. And with it, the last remnants of resistance would be swallowed by the rat swarm.

The swarm was relentless. Thousands of rats, big and small, poured from the darkness, their beady eyes gleaming with a maddening hunger, their sharp claws clicking against the cobblestone streets. They came in waves, each one faster and more furious than the last, an unending tide of vermin bent on overwhelming the last bastion of humanity in the city.

The Jesuits stood firm, shields locked in an unbreakable line. The air was thick with the stench of rats, sweat, and the acrid smoke of burning buildings in the distance. They could hear the distant cries of those who had been left behind, of those who hadn't made it in time, their voices cut off abruptly by the swarming tide.

Jesus, his face set in stone, stood at the front of the shield wall, his glaive in his hands, ready for the blood to spill. His eyes were calm, betraying no fear, only the intensity of a man who knew what was at stake. He knew they were likely to die here, but he also knew that this moment, this fight, would be remembered for generations. If he was to fall today, he would fall with his brothers, fighting for something greater than himself.

Behind him, Ledo shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his youthful face taut with worry. The reality of what lay ahead had fully dawned on him. His heart raced, pounding in his chest as he tried to steady his breathing. He was young—too young, perhaps—to die in such a brutal manner. But the weight of his shield in his hands, the sound of his comrades' steady breathing, and the iron resolve in their faces reminded him of what was important now: holding the line.

"We stand together," Jesus's voice rang out, low but firm, as he turned to address the men. "Our lives are forfeit, but our courage is not. We fight not for ourselves, but for those who cannot fight."

With a roar, the rats came. The first wave slammed into the shields, a wall of bodies and claws, screeching and gnashing, hungry for the flesh of the men holding their ground. The Jesuits gritted their teeth, their feet planted in the dirt, muscles straining against the weight of the attack. They pushed back, each man driving his shield forward, keeping the rats from breaking through.

Ledo swung his sword with a primal scream, cutting through the first rat that dared to climb over the shield wall. The creature's body hit the ground with a sickening thud, but more came. They swarmed over the fallen, more and more of the beasts piling on top of each other, clawing their way forward.

Bragi, ever the warrior, moved like a machine. His shield was like a wall, unyielding, and his sword was a blur, cutting through the rats with brutal efficiency. There was no hesitation in him, no second thoughts. His every movement was guided by the Force—an unshakable certainty in his actions that made him seem more than human.

The Jesuits held their shields steady, stepping forward with each wave, pushing the rats back just a little further. But the swarm kept coming, relentless, never stopping. For every rat they killed, three more seemed to appear in its place. The streets were filled with the stench of blood, the screeches of the rats, and the screams of the brave men who were falling in the struggle.

Behind them, Lord Bispo and his men were still hauling the last of the wounded women and children up the hill, making their way toward the castle. The hill seemed like a distant dream, but the Jesuits knew they had to buy as much time as possible. Their deaths would buy the survivors a chance to live. They had accepted this grim truth. The only thing that remained was to make sure that those they fought for would have a future.

"Steady!" Jesus barked, his voice sharp above the roar of battle. "We are the line. They shall not pass!"

Bragi's battle cry echoed over the street as he tore into the swarm with his sword, his rage a fire that burned hot and wild. "FOR THE CITY!" he roared, his voice filled with fury and resolve.

The men around him responded in kind, their voices growing louder, fiercer, the fear inside them slowly turning into something else—something they could use. "For the city!" they cried, as they pushed forward, their shields creaking under the weight of the rats' assault.

Ledo swung his sword again, his blade cutting through a rat's throat with ease. His fear was still there, buried deep in the pit of his stomach, but it no longer controlled him. He fought, not for glory or pride, but for the people behind him, for the city, for his brothers beside him.

But the rats came faster now. Their claws tore into shields, their teeth gnawing through armor and flesh. One of the Jesuits beside Ledo screamed as a rat sank its fangs into his leg, pulling him down to the ground. Without hesitation, Ledo stepped forward, striking down the rat with a clean strike. But it was clear—the rats were adapting, and soon they would break through the line.

Ledo's mind raced. They couldn't hold forever. But he couldn't let doubt take him now. Not when they were this close.

"We hold!" Jesus shouted again, stepping forward, his glaive cutting down anything that came near. He grinned fiercely, his eyes burning with a fire that inspired his men to greater heights. "We hold for them! We hold for the future!"

The ground shook beneath their feet as the wave of rats and moles surged forward, a feral, frenzied mass of claws, teeth, and screeches. The Jesuits, locked together in a shield wall, felt the first impact as the rats slammed into them like a battering ram. The force of the assault nearly buckled their knees, but they held firm, driving their boots deeper into the cobblestones, using the weight of their armor to brace against the tide of vermin.

Ledo's breath came in quick, shallow gasps. His muscles screamed as the impact reverberated through his body. The rats were relentless, pressing against the shields with all their might, and the stench of sweat and blood was overwhelming. His sword was gripped tight in his hand, ready to strike, but for now, all he could do was stand fast, pushing his shield into the wave of monsters.

"Don't move!" Bragi's voice was a low, thunderous command, and Ledo could feel the heat of Bragi's presence beside him. The warrior had no fear. The Force had already consumed his doubts.

Ledo glanced sideways. Bragi stood unshaken, his shield raised high, his sword swinging in smooth, decisive arcs whenever a rat ventured too close. Every movement was calculated, every strike purposeful. Ledo could feel the calm of the man next to him and tried to absorb some of it. It was clear Bragi had already accepted death as a fact of life, but he fought not to escape it, but to make his death count.

The shields groaned as the swarm pushed harder, the rats screeching, their claws scraping against the metal. With every new wave, the line pushed back just a little, inch by inch, the strain pulling at their resolve. Sweat soaked through their armor, and the stench of death—both man and beast—mixed with the burning air.

"Hold the line! Hold it!" Jesus roared from the front, his glaive cutting through any rat foolish enough to come too close. His eyes were wild, filled with the fire of a leader who would never let his men falter, who would not let his brothers fall in vain.

The cries of the rats were joined by the terrifying shrieks of the blind moles, who used their long claws to tear at the men, swarming over the shield line with savage fury. They were faster than the rats, stronger, and deadly in their own right, ripping through any opening they could find. The claws of the mole riders scraped and dug at the shields, their grotesque, eyeless faces twisted in hunger as they tried to claw their way in.

"Push them back!" Jesus shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. His men followed his command, their shields moving with unison and strength, pushing the rats back just a little more with each strained breath.

Ledo felt the pressure on his shield increase. His arms ached, and his legs burned with the weight of the assault. But in the back of his mind, he heard Jesus' voice, steady and resolute. Remember this day, for it will be yours for all time. It was more than just words; it was a promise, a reminder that they had the chance to make their mark, to be part of something greater.

The rats were relentless. Their claws raked against shields, and their gnashing teeth sought flesh. One of the Jesuits beside Ledo was struck—a mole's claws ripping through the side of his shield and into his arm. He cried out, but there was no time for pity. Another Jesuit immediately took his place, closing the gap, shoulder-to-shoulder with Ledo. There was no room for hesitation now.

Ledo's shield buckled as another mole slammed into it. His legs quaked, but he stood firm. He had no choice but to stand firm.

"Steady!" Jesus shouted again, and this time it felt as if the very earth beneath their feet solidified. The pressure from the rats eased just a fraction, and it was enough to give them the edge.

"Now!" Jesus bellowed, and in an instant, the Jesuits surged forward, their shields raised high. The rats faltered for a split second, unprepared for the sudden movement. It was all the opening the Jesuits needed. With a collective roar, the shield wall surged forward, pushing back the rats, driving them into the moles who were right behind them.

The rats screeched in alarm as they were shoved into their fellow creatures, the moles snarling as their claws and teeth scraped across each other in confusion. The line held, the Jesuits' resolve never wavering as they used their shields as both weapon and defense. The rats stumbled, momentarily disoriented, and the Jesuits used that moment to push them back, giving the swarm a taste of their own chaos.

"Form up again! Steady!" Jesus yelled as he took his place once more at the front, his glaive cleaving through any rat that dared approach. "They will break, men! We just need to push them harder!"

Ledo felt something in him shift. The fear was still there, but now, it was edged with something else: the need to protect, to survive, to make sure that they would not be remembered as cowards. He wasn't going to let his fear dictate his fate. Not here. Not today.

He tightened his grip on his sword. His shield felt heavier, but it was a part of him now, and he wouldn't let it fail.

"Hold! Hold for them!" Ledo shouted, his voice breaking through the fear, his heart now swelling with pride and purpose. He was ready to fight. He would not let the line break. Not today.

The chaos around them seemed endless. The rats, relentless in their fury, pushed forward as if their very existence was tied to this moment. The Jesuits' shields groaned under the weight of the enemy's assault, their arms growing heavy as they fought to keep the line intact. Blood, sweat, and dirt caked their armor, but their resolve was as solid as the stone beneath their boots.

Jesus, standing at the front, his eyes narrowed in determination, commanded his men with a voice that could cut through the storm. "Push them back, men! Don't let them through! They want our lives, but we will take theirs first!"

At his words, the Jesuits roared in unison, a primal battle cry that echoed off the stone buildings. They pressed forward, forcing their shields into the rats' ranks with a collective strength that sent ripples through the swarm. Each blow was a dance of death—swords slicing through rat flesh, shields knocking rats back, and every Jesuit pushing with all their might to break the tide.

But even as they gained ground, the rats adapted. Some climbed over the bodies of their fallen kin, leaping onto the shields of the Jesuits and landing with sharp, cruel blades aimed for the gaps in the armor. With their short, wicked knives, the rats fought with a ferocity born of desperation.

The formation was beginning to crack. Rats were crawling over their shields, slipping into the backline, and forcing the men to break their shield wall to defend against the encroaching swarm. Ledo, still fighting beside Bragi, was shoved backwards by the weight of the rats pouring over the fallen bodies. His sword swung wide, cutting down two rats before another managed to land on his shield and jab at him with its blade. He shoved the rat off with a grunt, but it was clear their time was running out.

"Hold, hold!" Jesus' voice rang out through the chaos. His glaive slashed through a rat's skull as he yelled, "Do not let them have the road! Not one step!"

But the rats were not just fighting for survival—they were fighting for vengeance. They threw themselves into the fray, determined to break the shield wall. A thick line of rats began to climb over their fallen comrades, using their own dead as stepping stones. Each one was a weapon, a tool to get closer to the heart of the defense.

Then came the shout from Lord Bispo, cutting through the madness like a clarion call.

"Pull back! The rats are coming from the left!" His voice was gruff, urgent, a warning Jesus could not ignore. He turned his head sharply, his eyes locking on Bispo and his men as they fired their muskets toward the left street, where the enemy was closing in. The smoke from their guns mingled with the pouring rain, creating a fog of death that hung heavy over the battlefield.

Jesus knew what needed to be done. If the rats surrounded them, it was all over. They would be trapped in a meat grinder of claws, teeth, and desperation. There was only one chance left.

"Men!" Jesus shouted, his voice cutting through the clamor. "We cannot stay here! We push forward one last time! On my command, we break for the street behind us! Create space and run!"

The Jesuits nodded, their faces grim. There was no more time for hesitation. The swarm pressed in from every side, and Jesus could feel the tightening noose. The rats were closing in, but there was one last moment of defiance left in them.

"Push!" Jesus roared, and with all the strength they could muster, the Jesuits heaved forward, shoving their shields into the rats' faces. A sickening crunch filled the air as bodies were sent tumbling into the street, rats falling in a wave of broken bones and shredded flesh.

For a brief moment, the pressure eased. But it was only a moment. The rats surged forward again, pushing the fallen bodies aside like they were nothing but obstacles. The Jesuits fought desperately to hold the line, but the weight of the enemy was too much.

Ledo, feeling the strain of the relentless assault, fought with every ounce of his strength. His shield was battered, his sword slick with blood, but he was still standing. He could see the road behind them—narrow, surrounded by buildings—and he knew that if they didn't get there soon, they would be doomed.

With a sharp cry, Jesus gave the final order. "Fall back! Move! NOW!"

The Jesuits turned, their shields forming a protective wall as they fell back toward the narrow alley between the buildings. The rats, still howling, tried to pursue, but the Jesuits had created just enough space to retreat. They moved as one, pushing through the streets with their backs to the enemy, the weight of their armor and the cries of the dying ringing in their ears.

As they reached the alley, Jesus stopped, turning to face the swarm one last time. His eyes, filled with fierce resolve, scanned the line of men behind him. "This is it, men. This is where we make our stand. We will hold them here. For the people of Cordoba. For Iberia!"

Bragi was beside him, his sword raised in defiance, his voice like a rumbling storm. "For the future! For the glory of the fallen!"

The Jesuits formed their final line, standing tall in the shadow of the buildings, their shields raised, their swords gleaming in the rain. The rats would come for them. But Jesus and his men would not yield.

The earth trembled beneath Jesus's feet as he stood over the fallen Rat-Ogre, his sword still buried deep in its neck. Blood poured from the massive wound, and the creature's lifeless body crumpled to the ground with a thunderous crash. The rats around him hesitated for a split second, a brief moment of confusion at their leader's death.

But then the war cries of the remaining Jesuits rose up, piercing through the storm. The men, battered and bloodied, shouted as one. "For Cordoba! For Iberia!" The cry echoed through the alley, bouncing off the stone walls and drowning out the screeches of the rats.

Jesus, breathing heavily but with a fire still burning in his eyes, stood tall in the center of the chaos. The remaining Rat-Ogres, furious at the loss of their comrade, charged forward with even more violence, their enormous fists swinging through the air like battering rams. Their heavy steps caused the ground to quake, and the rats around them grew emboldened, surging forward like a crashing wave.

But Jesus was not finished. With a roar, he sprinted forward once more, his sword held high. "Come and meet your death!" he shouted, as he leaped at the next ogre. The creature swung its massive clawed fist, but Jesus was faster. He ducked under the swing, rolling to the side, and then, with the precision of a master swordsman, he drove his blade deep into the side of the ogre's abdomen. The creature howled in pain, but Jesus was relentless. He pulled his sword free and spun, launching himself toward the next ogre.

Ledo, still in the tight defensive formation with Bragi, watched in awe. The speed and power with which Jesus moved seemed almost unnatural. His heart raced as he struggled to comprehend what was happening before his eyes.

"Is this... is this the force he's spoken of?" Ledo murmured to himself. "How can a man do such things?"

Bragi, ever stoic, simply nodded. "He is not just a man anymore. He is a force to be reckoned with."

As Jesus continued his fight with the ogres, each strike more lethal than the last, the rats around him began to falter. They had no leader left to guide them, no monster to rally behind. They were nothing more than mindless creatures, driven by instinct and the hunger for destruction. And that hunger, like all things, would eventually be sated with death.

The remaining Jesuits, bolstered by the sight of their leader's ferocity, renewed their effort. They fought with renewed vigor, slashing, stabbing, and pushing back the rats with the strength of men who knew they had nothing left to lose. The rats were overwhelmed. The shield wall held firm, and for every rat that fell, another took its place. But with the ogres distracted by Jesus's assault, the momentum shifted. The tide was turning.

A scream echoed through the alley as one of the Rat-Ogres, its belly split open by Jesus's blade, fell to its knees. Jesus leapt onto its back, driving his sword into its skull with a final, brutal thrust. As it died, the rat swarm faltered, confusion spreading like a disease.

Ledo and Bragi, seeing the opening, charged forward. With their swords raised high, they cleaved through the last of the rats that remained in the circle. The bodies of their enemies piled high around them, a testament to their will to fight. The storm resumed, the rain falling heavily as the battle came to its bloody end.

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"FOR CORDOBA!" they roared once more, this time in triumph. The final shout rang out through the street as the last of the rats were driven back. The sound of victory, though hoarse and ragged, carried with it the weight of sacrifice.

The battle raged on, the sound of clashing metal, screams, and the horrible shrieks of the rats filling the air. The battlefield was a macabre sight, as the once-mighty charge of the horsemen devolved into chaos. Daroba's death was a brutal reminder of the enemy's strength—a cruel omen that threatened to sap what little courage remained in the hearts of the soldiers. His body, broken and twisted, lay amidst a sea of trampled rats and fallen men, his dreams of glory reduced to blood and death.

Jesus, his eyes grim, watched from the hill as the disorganized soldiers hesitated. Fear was like a sickness, spreading from man to man as they stared at the endless tide of rats descending upon them. Their morale had broken, shattered by the sheer scale of the slaughter.

"Get up, you cowards!" Jesus bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the battle. "Daroba's death wasn't in vain! If we fall, we fall fighting. If you want revenge for him, then fight. Fight for the city, for your families, for the Duke—no matter how weak he was!"

But the soldiers, battered and exhausted, hesitated. They looked over their shoulders, torn between the dead weight of fear and the desperate need to survive. Some of them lowered their weapons, shaking their heads in disbelief, as if trying to deny what they were seeing.

"Jesus, what do we do?" Lord Bispo asked, his voice hoarse. The once-proud knight looked as if he had aged ten years in a matter of minutes, his face etched with deep lines of sorrow. "The rats are too many. We're not going to win this."

Jesus stood tall, his jaw clenched, his eyes steely with determination. "Then we don't need to win. We just need to hold them off long enough for the people to escape. We have to give them time."

He turned to his men, his gaze hardening. "Form ranks! Shield walls! Those who fight now are the ones who will be remembered. The ones who die here, they will die as men, not as rats."

With a rallying cry, he began to move forward, his sword raised high. The soldiers around him hesitated for only a moment longer before they fell into step. The line of men, shaking but determined, slowly began to form, shields interlocked, weapons ready. They weren't going to win. But they could make the rats pay for every step they took.

Meanwhile, above the chaos, the sky seemed to grow darker, clouds swirling in ominous patterns. As the rats charged forward, they were met with a wall of steel—men who had been cowards only moments ago now found their courage. With each slash and thrust, the rats' numbers began to dwindle, their blood soaking the earth beneath them.

But Jesus knew the truth. The rats were relentless. Their numbers were infinite. Every rat that fell was replaced by ten more. No matter how long they fought, it wouldn't be enough.

Then, just as the walls seemed to close in around them, a voice rang out—a deep, guttural roar that shook the very earth beneath them.

The rat-ogres.

Jesus looked up in time to see the hulking forms of the monstrous creatures lumbering toward the center of the battlefield. Four of them, each one larger and more terrifying than anything he had ever faced. Their eyes were bloodshot, frothing at the mouth, and their massive fists pounded the ground with each step. The sight of them made the men falter, their resolve cracking just a little more.

Lord Bispo cursed under his breath. "We're not going to survive this, are we?"

Jesus didn't answer. Instead, he shouted to his men, rallying them once more. "Hold the line! Hold the line, no matter what!"

But even as he said it, he knew that victory was slipping through their fingers like sand. The rats were closing in from all sides, and the ogres—those giant, mindless beasts—would soon break through their defenses.

It was then that something unexpected happened.

The ground trembled, and the sound of drums began to rise in the distance—low, thunderous, and unmistakable. At first, the soldiers thought it was just the battle's noise echoing through the city. But it grew louder, closer.

"Is that... reinforcements?" Lord Bispo asked, eyes wide.

Jesus squinted into the distance, trying to make sense of the strange noise. And then he saw it—like a wave of death crashing upon them.

A line of cavalry, flanked by archers and foot soldiers, charging from the far side of the city, their banners flying high. The army of Andalusia.

A surge of relief swept through Jesus's chest, but he didn't allow himself to hope just yet. They were still too far away. And even with their reinforcements, the sheer number of rats would still overwhelm them.

"We have to hold them off until they get here!" Jesus barked, his voice cutting through the air. "Don't let them take the walls!"

With a final push, Jesus and his men lunged into the fray again, their blades flashing in the dimming light. The rats were everywhere, but so were the soldiers. A vicious, bloody tide of steel and death that filled the air with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear.

Time seemed to slow as Jesus swung his sword, cleaving through the bodies of rats that tried to climb over the barricade. His breath was ragged, his muscles aching, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

" You Fuking idiots! Get back into the castle if you don't wanna die! " Jesus yelled to the soldiers.

From the castle window, the Duke watched all of this happen with mixed emotions. He felt Frustrated, angry, scared, disappointed, betrayed and despair as tears and snot ran down his old face.

The courtyard fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of the Duke's burning flesh as his charred body slowly smoldered in the grass below. The people, who moments ago had been full of panic and fear, were now frozen in stunned disbelief. The Duke, the symbol of their leadership, had given up. His dramatic and horrifying exit left no hope in its wake.

Jesus watched the scene unfold, his heart hardening with every second. The Duke's actions—burning himself alive in front of his people—had sealed his legacy not as a leader, but as a coward. His death was not a martyr's sacrifice, but a desperate escape from the responsibility he had abandoned. The city, his people, were now without a leader. And that was the worst possible outcome in a time like this.

"May he rest in peace..." Jesus muttered, though there was no real prayer behind his words. His eyes, full of resolve, flicked over to Lord Bispo, who stood beside him, mouth agape in shock.

"Well, that's it then..." Lord Bispo said, his voice quiet, bitter. "Our Duke is gone."

"Yes," Jesus replied softly, his gaze never leaving the smoldering corpse. "And now, the rest of us must step forward, whether we're ready or not."

Lord Bispo looked at him, his face etched with concern. "What now, Captain? The people... they've lost everything. Without leadership, without hope... How can we stand a chance against those rat-things?"

Jesus breathed deeply, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him like an iron mantle. His mind raced through the possibilities—retreating into the city's walls, regrouping, fortifying, or perhaps finding a way to strike back. But the options all felt too hollow, too incomplete. The rats were coming in waves, and the people were broken. But they still had one thing left to fight for.

He turned to Lord Bispo, his voice low but firm. "We fight. That's what we do. We don't have the luxury of surrender. We'll make the city strong again, rally what we have left, and defend what's ours."

"But the people—" Lord Bispo started, but Jesus cut him off with a sharp look.

"They're scared, yes. But they're still breathing. As long as they're alive, we have a chance. What do you think will happen if we just sit here and wait for the rats to come and finish the job? We need to give them something to believe in again. A reason to fight."

Lord Bispo nodded slowly, his face hardening with resolve. "You're right. I'll rally the remaining soldiers. We still have enough men to defend the walls, at least for a while."

"And I'll work with the people," Jesus said, looking out across the courtyard where the broken families and wounded soldiers were gathered. "We'll give them strength. We'll give them hope."

With that, Jesus took a step away from Lord Bispo, his eyes scanning the crowd. It wasn't much, but it was something. A few hundred men, a thousand peasants, and a thousand wounded. They were broken, but not gone. There was still a chance.

He walked towards the people, his movements slow but purposeful. As he passed through the courtyard, he caught the eyes of the men sitting with their heads down, the ones who had lost all will to fight. He stopped for a moment before one of them, an older man with a weathered face, who stared at the ground, his hands shaking.

"Get up, old man," Jesus said quietly, but with enough force to make the man look up. "The fight isn't over."

The man blinked, clearly not recognizing Jesus at first. "What... what are you talking about? The Duke is dead. We've lost. There's no hope."

Jesus crouched down beside him. "You've got something more important to fight for now. Your children, your families, your city. You're not just fighting for yourself, you're fighting for them. We all are."

The man's eyes softened, though the doubt was still there. "But how? How do we fight when all is lost?"

"Together," Jesus replied simply. "We fight together. We may not have the Duke anymore, but we have each other. And as long as we stand side by side, there's a chance. We can make the rats pay for every inch of ground they take."

For a long moment, the man said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I... I'll fight."

Jesus stood and moved on, speaking to others, encouraging them, building what little morale was left. Each word, each action, was a seed of resistance, planted in the fertile soil of fear and despair.

The sounds of the courtyard shifted. Whispers of hope began to rise, murmurs of courage began to stir. The rats had taken much, but they had not yet taken everything. Not yet.

Lord Bispo approached again, his face set with grim determination. "The men are ready. We'll hold the walls. What's your plan?"

"We need to create a strong defense, but we can't just sit back and wait," Jesus replied. "We have to strike at their weaknesses, force them into a position where they can't win. It's not going to be easy, but we have no choice."

He looked toward the distant horizon where the black and gray swarms of rats were still gathering, an unstoppable tide of destruction.

"We'll fight," Jesus said, his voice steady. "And we'll win. For Cordoba."

With that, he turned and began making his way to the battlements, his resolve unshakable. The Duke was dead, but the city still had life. And as long as there was breath, there was a fight to be fought.