Well, I've had this idea gathering dust since my beloved EU5 came out, and I also got my esteemed friend SANGY to draw me a beautiful cover (WIP, he literally drew it in front of me, it's his book), so starting this story was a must. I hope you like it.
-----------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------
It was a beautiful, sunny day, not a single cloud in the sky. The heat was already intense, made even stronger by the complete absence of shade in the surrounding area.
The sound of metal striking metal dominated the air. Beside a busy road, a tournament was taking place, one that had drawn both participants and onlookers from nearby areas, all gathered to witness an uncommon event. Groups of people stepped away from their daily routines for a while to have fun, imitating medieval knights in group battles and single combats filled with energy.
Blows with falchions, two-handed axes crashing against armor, swords rebounding off shields. The clash of metal accompanied two competitors fighting fiercely, grappling, searching for the right moment to bring the other down. Shouts erupted when one of them was thrown to the ground using the opponent's own strength.
The atmosphere was jovial. Laughter, cheers, and celebration surrounded that adrenaline-addicted group as they struck arms, torsos, and legs, exchanging blows to the face, the liver, or the knees, using elbows or even the blunt edge of an axe to hook an opponent's legs and bring him down. Food passed from hand to hand, and everyone enjoyed the moment.
As the hours passed, the sun slowly began to descend. The improvised camp started to be dismantled, and little by little, people returned to their homes.
Near the road, in the parking lot, a man in his fifties was packing away his armor while talking on the phone. He adjusted bags that rang with an unmistakable metallic clatter.
"Yes… yes, Mom, nothing happened to me, don't worry. It's completely safe. There's nobody here who's a psychopath trying to kill someone. I've just got a slightly swollen lip and a bruise on my back, but it's nothing, I swear. I really like this," he said with a smile as he finished stowing his gear.
"I'll let you go, Mom. I'll be home soon… yes, I got you that German beer you like so much," he added with a grin before hanging up.
Without making a sound, someone approached him from behind as he put the phone away.
"Lieutenant," said the newcomer, giving a military salute.
The older man raised an eyebrow without turning around.
"I'm retired, idiot. I'm just a civilian now," he replied, glancing sideways at the one who had greeted him.
"I know. I missed the fight. They didn't want to let me leave the barracks, but I managed in the end, even though I arrived late. Next time," said the younger man, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
"Bah, don't worry. They do something like this every three weeks. Everyone will heal their bruises, laugh about what happened, and repair their armor. I've got plenty to do," he replied, tapping one of the bags that jingled with the metal inside.
"Speaking of that… do you think you could forge one for me? I heard you work as a blacksmith now, since you stopped practicing in court," the young man commented.
"It's more of a hobby than anything else. The state pension is more than enough to give me a few luxuries and take care of my saint of a mother. Besides, my legal specialization would force me to be physically present in criminal courts, which would mean going to the capital and breathing all that filthy air. Still, I could make something. I'd need to take your measurements. I'm no master smith, but enough to keep your head from getting cracked open on the first hit," the older man replied.
"That's the captain's job—cracking my head. So, can I come with you?" the younger man asked.
"Sure, let me—"
A thunderous crash cut him off.
From the road, a car made a reckless maneuver. A truck, trying to avoid it, slammed into the guardrail and was launched forward at tremendous speed, sent directly toward the parking lot.
The massive vehicle lifted, lost stability, and began to overturn within seconds. It was on top of him before he could react, his mind barely able to process what was happening.
Without hesitation, the older man shoved the younger one with all the strength he could muster. When he tried to move out of the truck's path, the impact came first. Tons of steel struck him head-on, granting him an instant death.
A pool of blood formed immediately. Some fragments of the body were still recognizable, motionless, while the hands continued to clench and the fingers twitched in their final spasms—mere nervous reflexes, devoid of consciousness.
The younger man, covered in dust, slowly shook his head as he took in what had happened.
Death had been so fast that there was no pain. Only silence and darkness enveloped him completely.
When his senses responded again, he was no longer where he had been. His massive body, covered in scars, wounds, and bruises, had become nothing more than the soft hands of a baby.
This time, he was surrounded by people, but it was no welcoming committee. He heard only sobbing, agonized screams, and words that meant nothing to him—sounds filled with desperation, incomprehensible yet impossible to ignore.
He immediately noticed that a woman was holding him tightly against her chest. She cried as she tried to look away, unable to hide her horror as a group of armed men in armor brutally beat a man lying on the ground. They kicked and struck him until, bored, they finally stopped.
At last, the man managed to stand. He wiped the blood running from his nose and mouth, clutched his ribs in obvious pain, and staggered toward the woman, wrapping his arms around her as desperate screams echoed throughout the place.
The scene left the child completely bewildered. He did not understand what was happening, or why.
Days passed, and the acts became repetitive. He heard women screaming in desperation again and again. He did not understand their words, but the suffering in their voices was unmistakable.
More than once, as his mother rocked him back and forth through the camp in search of water, he saw armed men impale someone like a pig and leave them to bleed out in full view, in the middle of the camp.
Even so, he did not fully grasp what was happening. The words his parents spoke to him made no sense, just as he could not understand what his captors shouted.
A few days later, a long march began. Along the way, he watched people begin to die as they moved forward. He saw his father struggle to walk, just as his mother did, carrying him most of the time and trading the burden when exhaustion became unbearable.
Many did not survive the journey. Walking with bound hands along a long, rocky road destroyed most people's feet. The rags that covered them fell apart, leaving flesh exposed. Wounds became infected quickly; some feet turned black with gangrene before their owners collapsed and never rose again.
The journey was long, and of the massive group that had set out, a considerable number died along the way.
After that march—which nearly cost his parents their lives—something even worse occurred. To their captors, they were not people, but merchandise. They were soon taken to a market, where they began to be sold to the highest bidder.
Fortune smiled on his family—if it could even be called that. Someone with enough money, or perhaps a shred of consideration, bought the entire family from among the captives.
They finally arrived at their destination. It was a large estate devoted to grain cultivation and livestock. A small hut became their new home. The child desperately tried to understand the language his parents spoke in order to make sense of what was happening around him, but he was far too young to grasp everything.
As days passed, watching the abuse his parents and the other slaves endured, he began to recognize a few words. Even though he had learned multiple languages in his previous life, these sounds were completely alien to him. He could not understand them no matter how hard he tried or how he attempted to connect them to any language he already knew. For a long time, the language he heard every day remained incomprehensible.
After a year of slavery, he finally began to grasp full sentences and understand the reality around him. His parents spoke Greek. His captors spoke Bulgarian.
That was when he understood where he was and what his place was meant to be. He understood that his life had no inherent value—only the value his master decided it had.
-----------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------