A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

[Chicken with Snapped Neck +1]

[Chicken with Snapped Neck +1]

[Chicken with Snapped Neck +1]

[Slightly Rotten Apple +3]

[Improperly Risen Bread +4]

[Pretzel +9]

[...]

[Congratulations, Player. Daily Minor Evil complete: Steal goods worth 10 silver pence (1/1). Thieving Experience +50, Agility Experience +30, Exchange Points +20.]

The system’s retro electronic voice chimed endlessly in his mind. ’Er, although right now, there’s probably nothing more ”retro” than the Middle Ages.’

At that moment, Eric was rummaging through the storage cabinet of some unlucky shop master. With every electronic chime, the object in his grasp would vanish.

This was one of the system’s few bonus features—spatial storage. It was extremely useful and had greatly improved the quality of his work. However, the storage space was limited. If he wanted to expand it, he’d have to buy a horse.

Eric smoothly emptied the storage room and walked out, immediately entering a room thick with an amorous atmosphere.

A steamy scene was playing out on the bed.

In fact, it had started half an hour ago, right when he first entered the house.

”Oh, you damned witch, I’ll wring your neck.”

”Oh, you stupid ass from a cesspit, I’ll tear your face to shreds.”

”I came, I saw, I climaxed!”

The pair, engaged in the primal act, were murmuring all sorts of vulgarities.

’How... kinky...’

What was even more interesting, however, was that the man currently in the heat of battle on the bed was not the owner of this house.

Eric crouched by the bed and watched for a moment before walking out of the room, having lost interest.

The couple in the room seemed completely oblivious to Eric’s presence. This was partly because they were too engrossed, and partly due to [Scent Concealment], a special Skill available to a Junior Priest of Lucifer’s Servant Society.

As long as he didn’t make a sound, he wouldn’t be noticed even in a dense, noisy crowd.

Eric felt no guilt whatsoever for his thievery. The owner of this house was one of the masters of the Xialing Shoe-making Guild, and he was already notorious on this street.

Guilds were one of the main administrative bodies in Middle Ages cities. Due to their exclusive and regional nature, guilds would reject outside merchants and craftsmen, even ostracizing locals who moved to the city from the countryside. Becoming a master in a guild was a remarkable achievement.

Most apprentices remained apprentices for their entire lives. Promotion was extremely difficult, which was, of course, a deliberate move by the masters to exploit cheap apprentice labor. And this particular shoe-making master was a ”shining example” of the practice.

Practically none of the apprentices who worked under him ever successfully advanced.

Besides, for a player of P-games, theft was just a minor transgression. Eric felt no psychological burden at all.

Becoming a master in a guild was a remarkable achievement.

Although Xialing was a large city in the Wales Border Region, its total population didn’t exceed ten thousand. Moreover, a large portion of the city’s population only came during market days, spending the rest of their time working in villages. After all, surviving solely on city life was still quite difficult in the eleventh century.

The thin layer of snow on the bricks had mostly melted under the few rays of sunlight.

A Monk’s attire was generally standardized: a gray, hooded robe, with the hood being a lighter shade than the lower part.

Therefore, a Monk in a Monastic Robe walking alone on the street early in the morning was particularly conspicuous. However, any passing pedestrians would bow and greet him, and Eric would also stop to offer them a blessing.

Although he had always felt he wasn’t cut out for this job, considering the skill level of many Priests (who couldn’t even smoothly recite the Latin form of a common prayer) was lower than his, he didn’t dwell on it.

Eric took a bundle from his coat. He remembered the vice-abbot saying he had drawn a map for him. It would let him enter the castle via a small path, saving him some trouble and avoiding being solicited for favors or extorted by the castle Guards.

Inside was a Priest’s temporary pass and the old market permit. He shook the bundle forcefully but couldn’t find a third piece of paper.

A moment later, he realized that the old bastard had actually drawn the map on the temporary pass. ’That old codger is too stingy.’

He glanced briefly at the crude map, then wrapped it up. Just as he was about to put it away, he felt a sudden impact. It seemed something had bumped into him.

The bundle flew out of his hands.

However, due to his physique, the thing that had bumped into him was sent flying. The person fell onto the muddy path. It was a very young woman, or perhaps ”girl” would be more fitting.

The first thing Eric noticed was her deep red hair, which fell to her shoulders, looking very neat and capable. She wore a short leather tunic made of some unknown animal’s hide, rather than the short skirts common for women, and was wrapped up tightly from head to toe.

”N-no, it’s fine. It’s my fault. The Priest shouldn’t feel bad about it.”

The girl kept her head down, hurriedly waving her hands at Eric. Her red hair covered the upper half of her face, while the lower half was splattered with a bit of muddy water.

She quickly picked up the dropped bundle and handed it to Eric.

’Red hair... a Celtic person? No, I should call them Welsh.’

Before Eric could say anything, the girl had already scurried off down another alley.

”Did she recognize me as a Norman? She ran off like she’d seen a ghost.”

He suddenly felt something was wrong. The texture of the bundle was off. He opened it again; it was full of cotton fluff and wood shavings.

’Fuck, a fellow professional!’

...

The Monastery Eric belonged to was called King’s Bridge Monastery, one of the largest in Western England.

The Abbot of the Monastery was named Warren Beard. For a Priest, this was a rather good name.

The Abbot of King’s Bridge was only a secondary position for Warren. His most prominent office was that of Vice Bishop of Hereford, a very senior post.

Therefore, he didn’t reside permanently at King’s Bridge Monastery. After all, monastic life was too austere, which was somewhat unsuitable for a Bishop. This was especially true recently, with a group of Cluniac Monks on the continent being very active on the topic of monastic life, demanding strict adherence to Saint Benedict’s monastic manual.

This trend had spread through Normandy and was now severely impacting Church life in the marginal region of England.

His palace stood on a south-facing slope in a lush valley, a full day’s journey from the cold, gloomy Cathedral and those mournful-faced Monks.

He preferred to live separately, as going to the Church too often would interfere with his other duties: collecting rent, enforcing laws, and socializing at court. The Monks also found this arrangement suitable, because the farther away the Bishop was, the less he interfered with them.

This Bishop, rather than studying theology or law, was more interested in joining circles of Nobility and socializing with powerful figures. Eric didn’t understand why Philip had such wonderful illusions about a Bishop like this. ’Perhaps distance lends enchantment?’

Although the snow had stopped, the sky remained gloomy, though the weather in England was always like this.

The dim yellow light of the bonfire made the palace seem even colder. Bishop Warren was wearing a thin white shirt, his upper body prostrated over an exquisite Bible. The white shirt was covered in long, thin bloodstains—blood seeping from the wounds left by a scourge.

The dim yellow light of the bonfire was the only color on the unpainted Holy Image.

This was Warren’s daily ”required course.” He could no longer remember when he had started doing this.

BANG!

The cold atmosphere was instantly shattered. The doors to the palace hall were kicked open.

A young, gorgeously dressed, and quite handsome man rushed in, his face contorted with fury.

”Sacrilege!”

Warren instantly rose, strode over to the young man, and slapped him directly across the face.

”How many times have I told you not to disturb me at this hour!?”

”S-sorry, Uncle.”

The young man clutched his stinging cheek, holding his breath, but he had calmed down somewhat.

He then knelt before Warren.

Warren clenched his fist, turned away, and took a deep breath to calm himself. He then turned back to face his nephew.

He made the sign of the cross over his chest and finally placed his palm on the young man’s head.

”In the name of the almighty Lord of Heaven, and of all the faithful, I forgive your trespasses in thought, word, and deed. Your sins, your grave sins. For this, I ask the ever-virgin, Holy Mother Maria, the Angels, the Saints, and all the faithful to pray for you to the Lord, our Lord of Heaven. Amen.”

”Amen,” the young man said, lowering his head.

A moment later, the young man stood up.

Warren sat down in a nearby chair.

”What is it this time, Ede.”

”It’s infuriating just talking about it. You know the Count of Hereford?” The young man named Ede sat in another chair, resting his forehead in his hand.

”Impious, self-righteous, greedy, and corrupt. All Counts are like that. Why do you ask?”

”You should know that I have a marriage contract with his daughter, Emma. It was all arranged. But just yesterday, in front of everyone, his daughter threw me out of the castle! She even claimed she would never marry a woodcock! A woodcock, she called me!?

It’s utterly outrageous! And that Count actually let his daughter get away with such outrageous behavior.”

”That’s how the Normans are. Cunning, greedy, doing whatever they please with their military might. They claim to be devout but see faith as nothing but a tool,” Warren replied nonchalantly, flipping through the Bible.

”...”

Ede was speechless for a moment. After all, he was a Norman too.

’Great, now he was an outsider on both sides.’

”Er, ahem. Your mother is English, and your father has a quarter English blood. You’ve spent far more time in England than in Normandy. By all standards, you should be considered English.

Besides, your Norman French is quite poor.”

Warren seemed to have realized his nephew was also a Norman and tried to defuse the awkward atmosphere.

”...”

”That Count’s daughter... is she very beautiful?”

”Her temper is foul, but she is indeed a beauty.”

Ede slapped his own head and clenched his fist.

”Of course, what I really care about is Lanceston Castle! That was the promised dowry!”