Fallout:Blood and the Bull

Any opinion and comments are welcome

----------------

I ordered constant patrols to ensure the elves had truly retreated far from the castle. Groups of three men roamed the surrounding area in regular shifts, watching for any signs of movement or unusual activity. I couldn't afford to trust their word; elves were masters of patience and deception, and a surprise attack was well within their capabilities.

Patrollers returned with reports of calm in the vicinity. There were no fresh tracks near the walls, no signs of hidden camps in the nearby woods. Still, I accompanied every shift change with a warning: "Do not let your guard down. They don't forget, especially when they've lost something valuable."

As each day passed, the tension in the castle slowly began to dissipate. The men were weary, but the constant work kept them focused. The patrols found no new traces of the elves; against all odds, it seemed they had truly left.

The three steel swords were the real prize—a rare treasure in these dark times. I couldn't help but admire them as they rested in the armory. Their edges were flawless, lethal, far more advanced than anything currently forged. In the right hands, these swords could change the tide of a battle. I knew such an advantage couldn't be squandered, so I reserved them for the finest soldiers in my cohort—men I trusted to maximize their potential.

As for the armor, though imperfect, it exceeded my expectations. The loricae hamatae, crafted with rings linked in groups of four instead of five, lacked optimal durability but still offered superior protection compared to the hardened leather most of my men wore. With some maintenance and adjustments, these pieces would serve well in equipping my troops for upcoming battles.

The fortress, however, did not remain peaceful for long. Patrols began reporting movement in the nearby woods: goblins. It was common to see them lurking in these territories, but their presence increased drastically over the following days. They weren't an army but numerous enough to pose a problem. It seemed these creatures viewed the castle as their own and didn't appreciate our occupation.

The goblins attacked in small, swift groups, taking advantage of the night and the wooded terrain to try to wear down our defenses. But my cohort was prepared. The men, now better equipped thanks to the recovered armor and weapons, repelled the attacks with discipline. Archers on the walls formed our first line of defense, eliminating the goblins before they could get too close.

Each goblin assault ended in failure, their bodies piling up before the walls as a grim reminder of our strength. Yet we didn't lower our guard. These creatures were relentless; if their numbers increased, they could become a far greater threat.

Two months passed in the blink of an eye, filled with constant activity. My cohort grew steadily, recovering from losses suffered in numerous skirmishes. New recruits, though inexperienced, were trained with strict discipline. Veterans, hardened by battle, assumed roles as instructors, transforming the novices into useful soldiers for the fortress.

The slaves I regularly purchased played a crucial role. They were essential not only for assisting the legionaries but also for maintaining the functioning of the fortress—construction, mining, and tree felling. Each day, the forest retreated a little further as we expanded our control over the region. Every fallen tree not only provided resources but also cleared our line of sight, making the terrain less advantageous for our enemies.

The personal wealth I amassed during this time was considerable. Goblins and orcs captured in skirmishes were sold to the south, where markets were always willing to pay for them—whether for labor, entertainment in combat arenas, or other purposes. Gold flowed steadily.

The prevailing calm was almost unsettling. As the days passed without signs of elves or significant enemies, my men and I continued strengthening our defenses and extending our control. The castle, now surrounded by a swath of cleared land, stood as a bastion of safety in the midst of a once-endless forest.

During those days, I immersed myself in the books the elves had surrendered, dedicating every spare moment to unraveling their secrets. One book, in particular, captured my attention immediately. Its simple cover concealed something extraordinary: the same kind of mana infusion I had encountered in Bello Gallico, a book that had reshaped my perspective on leadership and strategy. However, this one was different.

The title read Johannes Liechtenauer, a name unknown to me but one that would soon be etched in my mind as unforgettable. Upon opening it, I felt the mana flow through my fingers like a whisper inviting me to join something greater. I didn't hesitate and allowed the book's power to pull me in.

I was immediately immersed in its pages—not as a reader, but as a participant. The book didn't show me a world through new eyes, as Caesar's had; instead, it placed me in the center of the training and teachings of a man who had perfected the art of combat. It was as if years of knowledge and practice were injected directly into my veins. Movements, stances, and the principles of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat were not merely lessons learned—they became a part of me.

In a matter of minutes, I had gained what years of training under childhood weapon masters had failed to achieve. My body, mind, and even reflexes had changed. The sword in my hand was no longer just a weapon; it was an extension of my will—a precise, deadly instrument. I could feel the difference in my stance, the fluidity of my movements, and even the way I analyzed combat. Every angle, opening, and opportunity for attack or defense revealed itself as if they had always been there.

Johannes Liechtenauer didn't just teach me to fight; he taught me to think like a true master-at-arms. Combat was not about strength or speed alone but about control, strategy, and precision. The art of the sword was a dance, and now I knew every step.

When I returned to daily training with my men, they noticed the difference immediately. My movements were faster, cleaner, and deadlier. I disarmed veterans with ease, dodged attacks that would have struck me before, and defeated multiple opponents without effort. I offered no explanation for this transformation; I let them assume my experience and discipline had simply reached new heights.

Though I had not yet fully explored my newfound abilities, I wasted no time in testing them. I ordered an orc captive to be brought in—a furious creature snarling and swinging its sword with blind rage. To it, I was just another target to destroy with brute strength.

As the orc charged, its strikes were clumsy but powerful. The first time it raised its sword, I deflected it with ease, twisting my body to avoid the rusty blade. Each of my movements was fluid; every dodge and parry was a reflection of the mastery Liechtenauer's book had granted me. The orc grew increasingly frustrated, unable to land a single blow as I danced around it, evading and countering with precision, always keeping its weapon out of position.

I could feel the difference. This wasn't just skill—it was something more. The sword in my hand felt alive, as if it knew my intent before I acted. The orc, strong as it was, was completely outmatched. It couldn't touch me or react fast enough to defend itself. It was only a matter of time before it fell, a testament to the power of knowledge gained through the book.

As I sidestepped another clumsy swing from the orc, a fluid motion brought my blade to its throat. With precise, effortless timing, I slit its neck. The creature collapsed with a guttural choke, a dark pool spreading beneath it on the stone floor. I allowed the weight of the sword to rest as I turned my attention to the messenger who had burst into the courtyard.

The man, still panting from his sprint, gave a slight bow before speaking. "My lord, I bring a letter from your father. It's an invitation to your cousin's coming-of-age ceremony. It will be held at the family villa in three weeks."

I frowned, wiping the blood from my blade with a cloth. My relationship with my family had always been... functional. Respect and obligation outweighed any emotional bonds. Though this ceremony held no personal appeal, declining my father's invitation was not a lightly considered option.

"Anything else?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral as I took the letter he offered.

"No, my lord. Your confirmation is requested to prepare the journey."

I nodded and unfolded the parchment. As always, my father's words were formal and direct. Attending this ceremony was not merely a family matter; it was a political event. My cousin would be presented to other influential families, and my presence would bolster our standing among potential allies or rivals.

"Inform them of my attendance," I said finally, folding the letter neatly. "But the castle will not be left unattended during my absence. The cohort will remain vigilant, and patrols will continue. I will speak with my officers to ensure everything is in order."

I ensured my bastion was secure, entrusting a full cohort to maintain the garrison while I departed. My father, brothers, and I convened to travel together as a united family. It was uncommon for us to journey this way, but the significance of the ceremony for my uncle's fourth son required such a demonstration of strength and unity.

The journey was long, traversing landscapes that ranged from open fields to dense forests. Formal conversations and stretches of silence punctuated the days. My father, ever the strategist, used every opportunity to evaluate the political climate and discuss how this event could strengthen our position with other families. My brothers, in contrast, adopted a more relaxed tone, though their comments carried the familiar undercurrent of rivalry.

After several days of travel, the horizon offered the first glimpse of the family bastion. I couldn't suppress a flicker of awe at the sight. The fortress was a masterpiece of defensive architecture, its towering walls and spires casting a shadow that seemed to stretch beyond time. It was not merely a place; it was a symbol of our legacy.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by a procession of impeccably dressed servants, their meticulous attention to detail a testament to my uncle's wealth and influence. As we walked through stone halls adorned with tapestries and polished bronze chandeliers, the contrast between his life and ours was striking. Where winters in our bastion sometimes demanded austerity, here abundance was a constant.

The storerooms were surely full, the servants well-fed, and the luxuries of daily life evident in every corner. Though I showed no outward reaction, the opulence ignited a spark of discontent within me. How could others suffer while some lived in such excess, untouched by winter or war?

Two days passed before the ceremony, during which the fortress filled with other nobles, all relatives or allies of the family. Meetings began early in the mornings and stretched into late nights, every conversation revolving around the state of their respective regions.

At one dinner, as plentiful dishes were served and wine flowed, I listened intently to the stories shared by others:

Some nobles boasted of holding their fronts, battling tirelessly to repel daily assaults from orcs and goblins.Others proudly recounted their successes in driving back the orcs, reclaiming lost territory, and consolidating defenses.Yet not all had triumphant tales. Some spoke bitterly of defeats at the hands of goblins, of villages burned and troops decimated.

Despite the varied emotions, all the stories shared a common thread: the constant war was wearing everyone down. Even those who spoke of victories knew the precariousness of their situations.

My father and brothers contributed measured comments to the discussions, while I observed, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of our relatives and allies. Each story underscored how fragmented the fight against our common enemies had become. Orcs, goblins, hunger, and winter seemed equally formidable adversaries.

By the end of those days, one thing was clear: while each fought their own battles, the unity among our houses was fragile—held together more by tradition than any genuine effort to collaborate. The ceremony would be more than a family event; it would be a stage for power plays, alliances, and rivalries that could shape the future of our family and our lands.

Any opinion and comments are welcome

----------------