Dawn of Destinies

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{Status} {Abilities} {Troops} {Technology} {Enhancements} {Equipment}

Recruits:

Durion - (status)

Zephyrion - (status)

Equilan - (status)

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In front of the {Troops} interface that stretched before his eyes, Richard found himself faced with three unfamiliar names. He hadn't bothered to ask the names of the young men who had become his pieces on the chessboard of war, but something told him that the functionality next to each name, marked as (status), must be similar to the one that outlined his own physical and mental attributes. With curiosity as sharp as a blade, he speculated about the hidden capabilities behind those names, information that could be as vital as the edge of a sword in battle.

"Now, you are recruits, understand?" Richard's voice cut through the silence with the precision of a scalpel, not raised, but filled with unquestionable authority. "From now on, you will be forged under my tutelage. The training that awaits you is a baptism of fire and blood, a journey through the deepest shadows that the land can offer. However, listen to me well, survive this, and even the creatures that lurk in the darkness below will hesitate before crossing your paths." Richard's words were not just a prophecy but a promise carried in his gaze, one that knew no doubt.

In the chess game of war that this medieval world would become, Richard was the player, and the recruits, his finely carved pieces. His arsenal of modern military training knowledge was an unquestionable advantage, a secret hidden under the cloak of night that would turn each of these boys into belligerent entities, gears of a relentless war machine. He foresaw their future, not as mere soldiers but as titans on the battlefield, every move a reflex of meticulous and ruthless training.

The environment was filled with an expectant silence as Richard asked, "Your names?" His voice quieter than a falling leaf but equally striking. "Durion," the first replied, his sturdy build, in the future, he would be like an ancient oak. "Zephyrion," came the second's sound, slender like the wind that lent part of its name. "Equilan," the third completed, balanced in presence as the name suggested. Richard engraved the names in his memory, each one representing new potential to be molded.

"Go home, come back here tomorrow when the sun rises," instructed Richard, his voice calm but imbued with a weight that demanded obedience without room for questions. The boys nodded, realizing that night was already settling over the world, and the days in this new reality didn't wait for the indecisive. They departed, leaving Richard alone with the starry mantle of the night, the moon silently observing the preparation for the impending trials.

Alone, Richard allowed himself a brief moment to contemplate the starry sky, his mind as clear and open as the vastness above. "I need to plan the best way to train them," he pondered with strategic calm, his gaze lost in the celestial infinity. "Tomorrow, the first lessons will be the basics of combat and discipline—right and left, the foundation of order and formation." He already glimpsed the transformation of the recruits into soldiers, a process that would begin with the simple steps of obedience and evolve into the intricate dance of war.

As the dawn broke the silence of the night, the kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of breakfast prepared by Margaret. Richard awakened at the signal of the first rays of sunlight, marking the beginning of a new day. He now sat at the table, awaiting the porridge that had become part of his routine. He distracted himself, his fingers dancing on the rough surface of the rustic wooden table, manipulating a splinter that came loose with the same skill he used to plan his next moves.

The sound of the door opening announced Robert's arrival, whose face still carried traces of a morning visit to the nearby stream. Upon entering, his eyes found Richard, and with a voice devoid of haste or concern, he said, "Son, you have some friends out there." The tone was casual, but the words captured Richard's attention. Friends, or pawns awaiting their commander's orders? He pondered for a moment.

But his mother's words interrupted his thoughts. "Friends? My little boy has friends? How wonderful!" Richard and Robert looked at her with the same look, a look that said, "Could you stop this?" But Margaret continued, "Are you going to play with your friends, dear?" as she served the porridge. Margaret's words flowed with innocent sweetness, contrasting with the usual tone of the house. She looked at Richard with bright eyes full of maternal enthusiasm, as if the idea of budding friendships were a new and pleasant melody filling the room. Nevertheless, there was something in the way Richard and Robert exchanged glances that spoke of mutual understanding, a play of expressions that gently redirected Margaret's loving concern. "Playing is not on the agenda today, Mother," said Richard, his voice calm but firmly grounded in the reality he had built, a realm where the game was one of power and skill, not laughter and carefree play.

"I will train them to become war machines in the future," the calm in his voice couldn't represent the weight of his words, which surprised Margaret. "What do you mean, son? You're not planning to go to war when you grow up, right?" Margaret's insecurity was evident, but no one would blame her; after all, she was Richard's mother. Richard's response to his mother's inquiry carried the weight of naked truth, a resolution cast in words that contrasted with the serenity of the domestic setting. "They are more than friends, Mother. They are the steel I will temper for the approaching strength," he said, the calm in his voice not revealing the seriousness of his purpose. Margaret withdrew, the porridge spoon suspended in the air, a drop of milk trembling on the edge as if hesitating to fall. "War? But you still have so much life ahead of you," she said, the fear of a mother evident in every syllable, the uncertain future reflected in her eyes. It was a fear that Richard recognized, but he knew that the protection of his family and the destiny he had chosen required sacrifices—he would be the sculptor of destinies, not the sculpted.

Robert, witnessing the subtle duel of wills, decided to intervene with his voice tempered by years of wisdom. "Dear, we've talked about this already. A man must chart his own course, and only he can discern its contours," he said, wrapping Margaret's hand in a comforting gesture. As the silent consolation unfolded, Richard finished his porridge with his usual composure, the spoon touching the ceramic with the precision he applied to all his actions, the noise? Imperceptible. Rising, he didn't let the whirlwind of thoughts about the approaching training show. His step was resolute, determination marked in his bearing as he prepared to turn the raw flame of potential into forged steel, ready for the heat of battle.