A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

With that, Eric turned to leave. He had barely taken a few steps when something suddenly flew toward him.

Eric caught it with precision. The throw lacked any real force, so it clearly wasn’t an attack.

It was an exquisite Viking Sword.

A string of cryptic Runic Runes was carved down the center of the blade.

Even in the gloom of the overcast, rainy day, one could sense the blade’s biting sharpness.

Its material was unlike that of any Longsword Eric had ever seen.

In short, it was an exceptionally fine Sword, superior in both its material and craftsmanship.

Eric looked at Ansebel.

”It’s Uz Steel,” Ansebel said.

”Uz Steel?”

Eric mulled over the unfamiliar name.

A distant memory surfaced in Eric’s mind.

Uz Steel was a forged alloy that first originated in India. It was an excellent material for forging weapons, particularly Longswords. Blades made from it were renowned for being both sharp and resilient, making them priceless.

It later made its way to Damascus, giving rise to the fame of the Damascus Steel Knife.

In the 10th century, the Vikings controlled the trade route from the Volga River to Persia, allowing them to import Uz Steel from the Middle East to forge Viking Swords. Even so, they remained incredibly expensive to produce.

”This Sword once belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and then me. Now, it belongs to you. Don’t refuse it; take it. As you said, I am no longer worthy of possessing it.

It is a fine Sword. It should be in the hands of a true Warrior...”

Ansebel rose to his feet, his expression turning tragic. He folded his arms, turned his back to Eric, and continued to ramble on.

”For a fine Sword, the greatest agony is...”

Ansebel must have felt these words should be spoken face-to-face, for he turned around. But there was nothing behind him. Eric was long gone.

...

「Southampton City.」

An argument was underway, and Baron Sari Velen was not enjoying it.

In Velen’s mind, playing with words and rhetorical tricks was the domain of boring, self-important Priests.

For a Warrior, dwelling on such things wasn’t exactly a disgrace, but it certainly wasn’t a point of pride.

But now, he had no choice.

The castle was a mixed wood-and-stone construction. Given enough time, it could be breached. But time was precisely what he lacked.

After their victory, Count Moretan’s offensive had been halted, and the many castles he had conquered had been returned to their original lords. Now, Velen’s task was to capture as many castles as possible before Prince Robert’s reinforcements arrived.

On one hand, he needed to force Count Moretan to surrender. On the other, Southampton’s strategic location was paramount. If he failed to take it, Prince Robert could use the city to attack Winchester, even if Velen had already seized most of Count Moretan’s domain.

”My Lord Baron, sheathe your Longsword. It is by no means God’s will to brandish a sharp blade against your fellow Christians.”

The speaker was Dean John of the Southampton Monastery. His monastery was located within the city walls.

Fearing his Monastery would be plundered, he had volunteered to act as an envoy for Southampton City. After all, when this sort of bloodthirsty Knight ran amok, they seldom stopped to consider whether the property they were looting belonged to God.

”And is it God’s will to have the King sit idly by while his Kingdom falls to ruin? Dean John, come to your senses! The Kingdom is facing a rebellion, yet you, Dean John, are obstructing the King’s will over trivial matters.

You must understand that the King is God’s vicar on earth. Your so-called ’God’s will’ is nothing but an excuse to protect your own private property.”

Velen was growing impatient.

He had been arguing with Dean John for what felt like half the day, but the man was completely intractable. He just kept repeating the same phrases about God’s will, Longswords, and sheaths.

In short, he wanted Velen to take his army and get the hell out.

Even though Velen had promised that the Monastery would not be touched, the old man refused to trust him, insisting that he lift the siege on Southampton City.

”I am fighting for the rights that God has granted us! Is it wrong to defend what is rightfully yours? Everything in this world belongs to God, and everything in the Monastery is an offering to God. I am defending God’s property!

I believe that if His Majesty the King himself were standing here, he would agree with my words and be appalled by your arrogant speech, my Lord Baron. Twenty years ago, when the King was still a Duke, he promised the former Pope Alexander that all of God’s properties throughout Normandy would be protected, that war would never touch them!”

As if struck a nerve by Velen’s words, Dean John shot up from his chair and rebuked him loudly.

”I recall promising that the Monastery would not be harmed in any way, Dean John.”

”All who seek sanctuary in the Monastery should also be blessed by God’s grace! The Lord grants peace to all, at all times and in all places! The Lord is with us always! This, too, was a promise made by His Majesty the King! It is a law enacted by His Majesty the King!” Dean John’s voice rose.

”His Majesty the King has already granted me full authority to crush the rebellion in Dorset! I have the right to do whatever is necessary! That is the newest law!”

Velen strode quickly toward Dean John, closing the distance in an instant. He glared, his eyes wide with fury, his sheer presence overwhelming the old dean.

The dozen or so personal guard knights at his side all drew their Longswords.

The hall fell silent at once. The Clergy on Dean John’s side fell quiet.

Velen was pleased with the effect. A grin spread across his face, his frustration melting away.

’So it’s true,’ he thought. ’Violence is the only language these prattling Priests understand.’

Just as Velen was about to smugly declare his victory, a voice rang out.

”When articles of law conflict, if the King has not explicitly decreed otherwise, the older law holds more authority than the newer one.”

The speaker was a lean, middle-aged man. His eyes were deep-set, but his gaze was firm and resolute.

He ignored the blade pressed against his neck and walked slowly toward Velen.

The Knight who held the blade to his neck was startled by this action and quickly pulled back, but not before the edge left a bloody line across his throat, cutting the skin. Blood trickled down his neck.

”I believe the Lord Baron would agree with this point.”

”What?”

”My Lord Baron, what do you believe the law to be?”

”It is, of course, made by the King... no, it is the will of God, conveyed by the King through divine revelation,” Velen hastily corrected himself.

”Do you believe that the almighty God would change His will on a whim? God is omnipotent. He does not err.”

”Of course, I know that,” Velen grumbled.

”If, when judging a ’sinner’ by current law, he is found to be blameless and cannot be charged with any crime, can the lawmaker then fabricate a new decree specifically to condemn this ’special sinner’?”

”Of course. All sinners should be punished, should they not?”

”And who is it that defines this ’sinner’? You? Me? Or the King?”

”The King, of course!” Velen answered without a moment’s hesitation.

”And the lawmaker?”

”Also the King, of course.”

”And the Judge?”

”The King.”

”Very well. The Judge, the lawmaker, the one who defines the crime—they are all the King. So I ask you, my Lord Baron, what if one day the King takes a disliking to you? What if he fabricates a law specifically stating, ’It is a crime for the Baron to breathe’?

In that case, I ask you now: would you still feel that the new law holds more authority than the old?”