Time Flies, Three Years Later.
"Yah!" A young boy, riding a chestnut-colored horse, raced across the Gobi Desert, his figure a blur against the vast, barren landscape.
Sweat dripped down his face, but his excitement was palpable as he let out a loud cheer, fully embracing the thrill of the ride. With perfect synchronicity, the boy adjusted his posture with each rise and fall of the horse, maintaining their high speed.
On the endless stretch of desert, a battered wooden post suddenly appeared in his path. Spotting it, the boy swiftly drew a spear from his saddle and raised it high.
"Clop, clop." The rhythmic sound of hooves echoed as the boy controlled his breathing, his raised arm steadying the spear.
With a flash of his eyes, he stood up in the stirrups, and in one fluid motion, launched the spear with all his might. The heavy weapon cut through the air with a sharp whistle, crashing into the post with a burst of splinters, shattering its decayed frame.
"Yoh-hoo!" The boy cheered again, his joy uncontained. Spurred by his success, he circled the horse and made another pass, bringing it closer to the post.
This time, he leaned far to the right, his left hand gripping the reins while his right arm reached out. Estimating the distance with care, he reached forward and, using the horse's speed, effortlessly pulled the spear from the splintered wood.
With a grin, the boy returned the spear to his saddle and galloped toward the distant manor.
The guards at the manor gates spotted the rider from afar and quickly opened the gates. Slowing his pace, the boy dismounted and lifted his mask, revealing the familiar face of twelve-year-old Mike Bai.
By now, Mike had grown over 1.5 meters, his limbs showing subtle hints of muscle. His face, gradually taking on more defined features, was framed by soft yet determined eyes, giving him an air of quiet strength.
Sassan and Adilay, who had been waiting, immediately handed him a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Meanwhile, his horse, "Carrot," affectionately nudged Mike's shoulder, its large eyes pleading for a treat. Mike sighed but smiled, pulling a carrot from his saddlebag and feeding it to the horse.
"Still so greedy, Carrot," he chuckled, patting the horse's head. Carrot shook its head and resumed munching happily.
Once the treat was finished, Mike instructed the stableman to return the horse to the stables before heading into the manor.
The estate had been expanded once again and now boasted twenty windmills, each taking turns at work. The workshop, once bustling, had grown even more vibrant. Weavers worked tirelessly, their faces flushed and content, creating fabric from the wool Mike's business had come to dominate.
Upon seeing Mike's arrival, the workers nodded in respect, some even pausing to chat with him. Mike smiled warmly, taking time to greet a few before heading toward the training hall.
The training hall was lined with weapon racks: longswords, short swords, scimitars, and spears, each placed with careful order. The worn weapons told the tale of countless hours of training and effort.
As Mike entered, his instructor, Patrick, stood ready, bowing respectfully.
"Will it be the longsword today, my lord?"
"Of course, Uncle Patrick," Mike replied, his voice full of enthusiasm.
Two attendants presented two blunt longswords, wrapped in cloth. Mike took one, raising it high and surveying Patrick carefully, his feet light on the ground as he began to pace.
When the distance was right, Mike suddenly lunged forward, bringing his sword down in a powerful strike. Patrick, unfazed, merely sidestepped and countered with a backhanded swipe.
Prepared, Mike pulled back just in time, dodging the slash before reversing his grip and attacking with rapid, alternating strikes. Patrick's calm demeanor never wavered, and each strike was expertly blocked, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the hall.
As they continued, Mike's breathing began to quicken. He took a step back, trying to catch his breath. But Patrick, ever observant, closed the gap and pressed the attack, his sword stabbing forward like an eagle's strike.
Mike's eyes widened, and instinctively, he took a large step to the side, narrowly evading the thrust. Using the momentum, he spun and slashed at Patrick's left. But with a smile, Patrick withdrew his sword, deflecting Mike's blow with effortless precision.
With a flick of his wrist, Patrick disarmed Mike in a fluid motion, the sword bending under the force of his block, the tip of the blade hovering dangerously close to Mike's face.
"Another loss!" Mike grinned, showing no sign of frustration.
"My lord, you've done very well. Not many your age can match you," Patrick offered.
"You don't need to comfort me, Uncle Patrick," Mike responded, flashing a bright smile. "After all, my enemies won't go easy on me because I'm young."
"At your current level, you could probably compete in sword tournaments in smaller cities," Patrick continued, his tone light but impressed.
"Uncle Patrick, since when did you become so full of compliments?" Mike teased, raising his sword once again.
Patrick merely smiled, his silence a signal that the practice was far from over.
Outside, William observed the sparring session with a shake of his head. "How did Mike end up picking up so many bad habits from Patrick? He used to follow me around all the time when he was younger."
Sighing, he turned away. "Alright, back to training the soldiers."
Nearby, two infantry formations were closing in, each soldier armed with helmets, spears, and shields, their silver chainmail gleaming under the sun. Veteran soldiers stood at the sides, watching as their newer comrades prepared.
William picked up a limestone and tossed it toward one of the formations.
"Shield wall!" the commander shouted, and in an instant, the soldiers raised their shields, protecting themselves from the incoming rock. It shattered harmlessly against their defenses.
"Defensive charge!" William called out.
The first rank of soldiers crouched low, their shields and spears forming a tight barrier. The second rank thrust their spears forward, while the first used their shields to cover them.
The formations closed in again, both sides jostling for dominance. Spears clashed against shields, soldiers shifted positions, and some were forced to step back after being struck.
William observed, nodding with approval as his soldiers fought on.
Afternoon. In the Study.
The once modest study had now been transformed, decorated with red curtains and pale yellow drapes. Velvet carpets from the Kingdom of Franka covered the floors, and statues from Byzantium and Milan adorned the corners.
Mike sat at his desk, flipping through ledgers while the faint sound of children's reading reached his ears. His thoughts turned to the past three years, to the growing fortune in his coffers.
With the expansion of his textile business and the near-monopoly on wool production in the Holy City and Crusader Kingdom, his fabrics were now in demand across the kingdom, even attracting merchants from the Byzantine and Persian Empires.
His financial success meant that his business had also thrived. Each week, traders arrived to buy wool at a price slightly above the local guild rates, contributing to his ever-expanding wealth.
With over 20,000 gold nobles in savings, Mike thought to himself that he could probably afford the decadent lifestyle of a nobleman.
Two knocks at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"My lord, your maid Adilay is here to see you."
"Come in."
Adilay entered the room, and after a moment of silence, Mike asked, "Where's your mentor, Sassan?"
"Sassan is training new recruits," Adilay replied calmly.
Mike couldn't help but notice the growing resemblance between Adilay and Sassan, a thought that made him uneasy.
He remembered asking Sassan once why she had taken Adilay, a former enemy, as her pupil. Sassan's response had been simple: "Hatred makes her the perfect avenger."
"My lord, the kingdom's court has sent an invitation," Adilay said, breaking into his thoughts. "They request your presence at tomorrow's banquet."
"Me? A banquet?" Mike took the invitation, reading it carefully to confirm the details.
"I only know the commander of the knights," he muttered, puzzled. "Why would the court invite someone like me, a foreigner, to a banquet?"
"Well, it's official, so it can't be bad," he reasoned.
"Please prepare me a proper court outfit, Adilay. And inform Dogo to ready the carriage."
"As you wish, my lord," Adilay replied.