Chapter 43 Reconquista (1)

The bells of Chirk Castle tolled into the night, "Torches," one of them muttered, voice tense. "Look at the lot of them. They've all come to die."

The bells continued their relentless call to arms. Men scrambled along the walls, shouting orders as the flickering line of fire snaked closer.

Inside the castle's hall, Sir Richard paced, his boots clapping against the cold stone. "Are they attacking!? Fools...." he sneered, his breath visible in the chill air.

A messenger burst through the door. "The Welsh are coming, sir—marching from the valley!"

Sir Richard froze, disbelief washing over his stern features. "This is suicide," he muttered, shaking his head. "How could they muster the nerve? rouse the archers!" His voice boomed as he turned toward the gates. "Let's remind these dogs why they've never taken Chirk."

Rhys Ddu and Gwilym ap Tudur led 700 Welsh rebels up the winding paths toward the castle. The men moved in grim silence, torches casting flickering shadows across their determined faces. Gwilym shifted uneasily, his eyes darting to the castle that loomed against the starlit sky.

Gwilym whispered, gripping the hilt of his sword. "This is not right....how do we fucking fight unprepared?"

Rhys unflinching, gave a low chuckle. "We won't need to fight, did you not hear him? He said he'd take the castle alone." He glanced sideways, his teeth bared in a grin. Gwilym muttered a prayer under his breath, gripping his cross.

Ethan hovered above the castle, his massive white wings spread wide, casting a ghostly silhouette against the moonlit sky. The cold wind howled through the battlements, carrying the scent of damp stone and burning torch oil. Below him, the guards stood frozen, their breaths hitching in their throats as they stared at the impossible figure above.

One of them, his voice thin with terror, whispered, "What… what in God's name is that?"

Another, gripping his spear with trembling hands, squinted into the dark. "A giant eagle? No look… it's… it's a man—" His breath caught as his mind rejected what his eyes confirmed. "It can't be! A devil!"

The moment shattered like glass.

Shouts erupted as men scrambled for their bows, their swords, their prayers. One man, clutched his cross and dropped to his knees, muttering desperate pleas.

Then Ethan dove.

The force of his descent sent a howling gust across the walls, snuffing out torches and throwing men off balance. A soldier lost his footing, his body slamming against the cold stone before tumbling into the courtyard below with a sickening crunch.

A door burst open, and Sir Richard stormed onto the walls, his face pale, his sword already drawn. His eyes locked onto the winged figure above, and his stomach twisted. What is that thing? This can't be....

His voice was iron. "Shoot it! Archers, loose your arrows!"

The men, shaken but trained, obeyed.

A dozen arrows soared through the night, their steel tips glinting in the moonlight. Ethan didn't move. He let them strike.

The shafts slammed into his skin—then snapped like brittle twigs. The impact barely stirred him. Some arrows ricocheted entirely, clattering harmlessly against the stone below.

Sir Richard's grip tightened on his sword. God help us. He screamed, "Come down here! And taste my sword lucifer's brethren!"

"No," Ethan said, his voice calm, mocking. "You'll watch as i bring ruin, from above to the walls you built."

He raised his hand.

Inside his body, the nanobots stirred.

They surged through his bloodstream responding to his intent. His muscles, coiled like springs, generating kinetic force. His fingertips split open—not from pain, but from purpose.

From the fingers, shards of metallic bones erupted, sleek and sharp as razors. They were no ordinary growths.

Then he fired.

The muscles in his forearm contracted violently, launching the shards forward with terrifying speed. Each shot carried a huge force. They were Ethan's enhanced bones, propelled by the enhanced strength of his altered flesh.

The first shard struck a soldier in the mouth, exploding through the back of his skull. His helmet clattered to the ground an instant before his body followed.

Another pierced through a man's eye, embedding deep into his brain. He let out a single, pathetic whimper before his legs gave out beneath him.

A third soldier raised his shield just in time—only for the shard to punch straight through the wood and metal, tearing into his chest. He fell backward, gasping, blood bubbling from his lips.

The walls became a slaughterhouse.

Blood sprayed across the stone, pooling in the cracks, dripping onto the bodies below. Some men died instantly. Others lay writhing, clawing at their wounds, choking on their own lifeblood.

A torch fell, landing in a growing puddle of crimson. The flame hissed and sputtered as it drowned.

"Fall back!" Sir Richard roared, panic cracking his voice. "To the keep! NOW!"

The survivors fled.

Some threw down their weapons and ran, abandoning all sense of pride and duty. Others collapsed to their knees, raising their hands in surrender, their faces streaked with tears and filth.

Outside the castle loomed before them, its stone walls stained by moonlight, its gate yawning open like the mouth of a beast. Smoke coiled from unseen fires within, the scent of charred wood mingling with the iron tang of blood.

Rhys clenched his axe, his knuckles white. "The gates... they're open," he muttered, though his voice carried no triumph.

Beside him, Gwilym felt bile rise in his throat. His fingers twitched over the hilt of his sword as he whispered, "By God… what has he done?"

His throat was dry, his lips cracked. He made the sign of the cross, but his hands trembled.

Rhys wasted no time. He lifted his axe high and roared, "Forward! To the castle!"

The men surged ahead. Their boots pounded against the earth, their breaths turning to mist. As they entered the courtyard, the charge slowed, then faltered.

Bodies lay strewn across the stones like discarded dolls, twisted into shapes that should not be. Some had died with their eyes open, their faces locked in expressions of agony, mouths stretched in silent screams. Others had been torn apart—their chests caved in, limbs twisted unnaturally.

At the center of it all stood Ethan.

His wings, ghostly white, glistened with fresh blood. They flexed slightly before folding behind him, shadows clinging to their edges.

Rhys slowed beside him, his breath coming hard. His axe dripped with the blood of men he'd slain earlier, but even he hesitated at the sight before him.

"Where are the rest?" he asked gruffly.

Ethan barely turned his head. His voice was quiet, indifferent. "Hiding inside."

Rhys exhaled sharply, then turned to his men. A jerk of his head. Go.

They obeyed without hesitation, swords drawn. The wooden doors of the keep groaned before shattering inward, figures emerged—the last of the English garrison.

Their faces were pale, their grips white-knuckled on their swords. Their armor, clinked with each cautious step.

Sir Richard led them. His jaw was tight, his breath heavy. Blood matted his hair, a gash trailing down his cheek.

Then he saw Ethan.

His eyes widened. Just for a moment. Then he masked his fear with rage. "What in God's name are you!?" His voice cracked slightly, though he steadied it. "God is with us, this abomination will fall by our hands."

Sir Richard wiped the blood from his brow with the back of his trembling hand. His sword felt heavier than it had ever been, the weight of inevitability pressing down on his arms, his chest—his very soul. Around him, the last of his men stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes darting between the Welsh warriors who had flooded the keep.

There was no escape. No relief. Only the certainty of death.

He had known war, had seen men break before. But never had he felt this—this slow, creeping dread, like a noose tightening around his throat.

Sir Richard exhaled sharply. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped his lips.

"This is how it ends, then," he muttered, barely audible. He turned to his men, their faces drawn tight with exhaustion, but there was no cowardice in their eyes. They would die.

He tightened his grip on his sword. "No surrender."

Sir Richard raised his blade. If this was to be their last stand, then they would meet death with steel in their hands.

Ethan took a slow step forward, but Rhys lifted an arm, barring his way. "No," he said, his voice cold. "This blood is ours to spill."

Then, to his men, he bellowed, "Kill them! Leave none alive!"

The Welshmen descended.

Steel clashed, torches flared, shadows danced as battle erupted within the keep. Blood splattered the walls, thick and dark in the firelight. Rhys was a force of nature. His axe split through mail and bone with sickening ease, each swing carving through men as if they were cattle at slaughter. He moved with practiced brutality, hacking through flesh, his breath coming in ragged snarls.

An Englishman lunged, sword aimed for Rhys' throat. He pivoted, swinging his axe up—the blade caught the man beneath the ribs. A wet crunch. A gurgled scream. He yanked the weapon free, viscera spilling onto the stone.

Gwilym stood at the edge of it all, his breath shallow. He had fought before—had killed before. But something about this was different. It was annihilation.

An English soldier staggered toward him, wide-eyed, barely more than a boy. His sword shook in his grip. A plea in his eyes.

Gwilym's fingers tightened around his hilt. His body moved before his mind could stop it.

Steel met flesh.

The boy gasped, choked, fell at Gwilym's feet.

His hands trembled. He did not know if it was from the battle—or from something deeper, something colder.

The fight was over in minutes.

Bodies lay in heaps, the flames licking hungrily at the walls. The castle reeked of death.

Sir Richard, wounded, gasping, dropped to his knees. His face was smeared with blood and dirt his chest rising and falling in ragged heaves.

Rhys loomed over him.

Sir Richard lifted his head, his eyes dark with loathing. He coughed, spat red. "You sold your souls....Welsh filth," he rasped. "To the devil himself. Y—ou will all burn in hell for this."

Rhys said nothing.

Gwilym did.

He stepped forward, his face pale, his sword still slick with blood. He met Sir Richard's gaze for a moment—then drove his blade into his throat.

The Englishman jerked. A wet gurgle. Then silence.

Gwilym pulled his sword free. As Sir Richard slumped forward, lifeless.

For a long moment, no one spoke.