A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

The flames at his feet still hesitated, producing more smoke than heat and choking the spectators closest to the Execution Pillar.

He opened his eyes and looked to the sky. ”Look to the Bible,” he said hoarsely, ”not to men. Do not look to the Bishops or the Pope, or anyone at all, myself included. Look to the word of God.”

Another stone flew, and then another.

”I came to see a burning, not a stoning,” a peasant roared. ”Let him rant!”

The crowd agreed, and the stones stopped.

He did his best to oblige them.

His ’blasphemy’ continued, but his voice grew weaker until almost no one could hear him.

The Monk leader glared angrily at the executioner, as if the heat of his gaze could help the wretched man light the fire.

The situation was clearly deviating from his plan, and he felt his authority being challenged.

However, just as the flames seemed about to die out again, a gust of wind blew.

It began in the canals that drew water from the Po River, its path marked by ripples on the water’s surface.

It moved up the steep street toward the square, gathering into a small whirlwind that kicked up dust, stinging the eyes of those it touched.

It passed through the crowd and kissed the flames, which finally grew stronger.

Seeing the flying debris and feeling the wind, the Monk leader was instantly smug. He stood up straight and brazenly declared in a loud voice, ”It is the breath of God.”

Awe-filled whispers rippled through the people. The Monk leader read from the Bible, his booming voice nearly drowning out the pained sounds coming from the poor prisoner’s throat.

The fire caught the kindling, greedily licking at the wood, which CRACKLED and quickly began to burn.

The heat drove back those closest to the fire. They shielded their faces with their hands, but their eyes remained fixed on the scene.

”The Lord’s mercy! The Lord’s justice! Pray for the lost soul of Jesuade...”

The Monks chanted, and the crowd, caught up in the fervor, began to mumble along.

Soon, however, the piercing blast of a horn sounded, cutting through the crowd like a sharp sword and instantly drawing everyone’s attention.

As they began to search for the source of the sound, they were met with a volley of swift Arrows, their tips glinting with a blinding silver light under the noon sun.

”It’s the Nobility! The Knights! Those oathbreakers who defy God!”

”Apostles of the Demon! Lapdogs of the Pope and Bishops!” sharp-eyed citizens suddenly shouted.

But the next moment, warm liquid splattered everywhere, followed immediately by pain. Agonized howls and panicked screams erupted. People had no time to think; survival instincts took over, and they began to flee.

Yet many still tried to fight back.

Grabbing nearby chairs and firewood, they charged recklessly toward the Knights, but it was utterly useless.

People shoved and pushed. Some began to fall, knocked over, and without exception, those on the ground were mercilessly trampled. The smell of blood grew thicker, mixed with other strange odors.

On the execution platform, Jesuade’s face was distorted by the waves of heat, his features twisting in agony, but he still used his blistered lips to utter one last heretical statement.

The Knights’ charge quickly carved a path through the crowd. The earlier horn blast had signaled the Knights outside the city, and Guy and Belem were now leading more and more of them toward the square.

Belem took pleasure in the foolishness of the citizens. After his Lance broke from piercing several people, he drew his Longsword and charged at the very front. Blood stained his cheeks, but he only laughed with manic joy.

Eric spurred his Warhorse quickly to the execution platform, dismounted, and picked up a nearby bucket, preparing to save the poor prisoner.

In fact, the bucket was only half-full, not of water, but of vinegar-water. Inside was a wooden stick with a sponge wrapped around it.

The flames had already begun to lick at the poor man’s skin.

Eric swung the bucket, and the vinegar solution quickly extinguished the flames climbing the prisoner’s body. Eric then pulled him down from the Cross.

The prisoner named Jesuade fell to the ground, smacking his lips at the lingering vinegar, gasping for air, and mumbling, ”My Lord, my Lord, Your will be done. Glory to You alone...”

Just then, two men—one tall and thin, the other short and stout—attacked.

The tall, thin one charged first, wildly swinging his axe. Eric sidestepped the blow, and in the next moment, his Viking Longsword slit the man’s throat. With a look of terror, the man fell from the execution platform.

The short, stout one followed right after, swinging a stonemason’s hammer at Eric. Eric did not dodge but instead grabbed the hammer’s handle directly. He then kicked the man hard in the chest. The hammer flew from his grasp as he, too, tumbled from the execution platform.

The short, stout one was much luckier; he had only lamed a leg in the fall. He looked at Eric in fear, struggling to back away.

”Get lost,” Eric snorted.

The man scrambled away, dragging his lame leg as he tried to escape.

”Are you all right?” Eric asked, looking at the prisoner, Jesuade.

”Thank you, unknown brother. Though martyrdom is a noble thing, I selfishly hoped it might come a little later.

My name is Jesuade, a man of Languedoc, a Cultivator without a Monastery. And you, brother? I think I should remember my savior. If I have the chance, I will repay you with all I have. But I must still remind you that you are not above God.”

Jesuade struggled to his feet. Most of his hair was burnt off, and he looked like a destitute charcoal burner.

”A Cultivator without a Monastery? Were you driven out of your Monastery?”

”No, I left of my own accord. Monasteries should not exist. Did such things exist when Christ was on Earth? The so-called monastic rules, the Benedictine Order—they have defied reason since their inception and are thus doomed to fail.

Look, what good have they brought to this world of the Lord of Heaven since their creation? They established so many strict rules, so strict that almost no one can follow them.

A Cultivator’s virtue is not necessarily nobler than that of a layman; in some ways, it is even darker. If one must say what Monasteries have brought, it is that they have taught Cultivators how to amass wealth in the name of God and to cloak evil deeds in a mantle of good, making them even more hypocritical and shameless.” Jesuade then added, ”Of course, this is just my opinion.”

”Then what do you think of the Cluny Monastery?” Eric suddenly asked.

”They are respectable idealists, but that is not nearly enough to change anything. Many things are beautiful at their birth, but that beauty soon crumbles.

Just as everyone acknowledges that Benedict had the noble virtue of a Saint, and no one would doubt he practiced the monastic rules he himself established, no one would be foolish enough to think every Cultivator is the same.”

”So you oppose the Patulin Sect.”

”No, I oppose all who are self-righteous, all who usurp the authority of the Lord of Heaven. Elrond was a respectable man, that is true. Even though Milan has become what it is, I do not resent him. But the Patulin Sect is disgusting!

They have desecrated Elrond’s great work. They use conspiracy against conspiracy, violence against violence, wrapping themselves in a noble cloak to feel at ease with their actions.

They attack the greed and corruption, the evil and sin of the Nobility, yet their only goal is to clear a path for their own darkness.

When someone notices their filth and darkness, they expel them in the name of God, silencing them forever.” Jesuade sighed. ”What’s more tragic is that I was once one of them.”

”The people cheer that the Nobility is dead, yet they revere these men as the new Nobility,” Eric said suddenly.

”Yes.” Jesuade looked at Eric with some surprise, then finally nodded. ”Even though they still speak Elrond’s words. Elrond’s heart was from Heaven, but they are the Apostles of Satan.”

Then Jesuade noticed the Knights standing beside the execution platform and remembered that the Cultivator before him had just been leading them.

”Unknown brother, they are incredibly weak right now, maintaining their fragile rule with blood and violence. But the more blood they spill, the weaker their Power becomes.

If you have the ability, destroy them. Save the innocent people they have deceived, for even though they follow out of ignorance, they too are perpetrators of violence.”

”And have a corrupt noble or Bishop rule in their place?” Eric suddenly said with a laugh.

”That is still better than deceit. Let them await the true Day of Judgment, the coming of the true millennial Kingdom.” Jesuade lowered his head, then raised it again. ”I am willing to help you. But out of courtesy, I think you should tell me your name and your affiliation. Though courtesy and the like have long since vanished from Milan.”

”My name is Eric. I am from Normandy, the Count of Gloucester, England.”

”Eric the Deliberate One?”

”What?” Eric found the description strange.

”I heard it from a merchant from Champagne. That is what they call you: Eric the Deliberate One.

Your deeds are known throughout France, Flanders, Champagne, and Lotharingia, thanks to an outstanding short poem, supposedly written for you by a Minstrel named Theo.”

”’The Deliberate One?’ Is that a nickname? How uninspired. It sounds awful.” Belem wiped the blood from his cheek, walked onto the execution platform, and nudged Eric with his elbow. He said, a bit smugly, ”I have a nickname, too, I remember. A very learned Monk from Bayeux gave it to me specifically. That old man was much better than that bastard Anselm. He spoke so pleasantly. It’s a Greek word, too, and rolls right off the tongue, though I’ve never been quite sure what it means.”

”Let’s hear it,” Eric said, suddenly interested.

”ηλίθιος. How about that? Sounds nice, doesn’t it?” Belem said, planting his hands on his hips and tilting his head back.

[Author’s Note: The Patulin Sect was a movement prevalent in Milan in the 11th Century, originating from the Pataria district, a place where artisans and the poor gathered. Their religious and social reform movement was particularly active in the 11th Century.

The beliefs of the Patulin Sect differed from orthodox Christianity. They emphasized a strictly ascetic life and celibacy, and rejected some doctrines and rituals of the orthodox Church. They have certain connections to the Bogomil Sect and the Cathar Sect.

Specifically, followers of the Patulin Sect often opposed the wealth and power of the Church. Their development was accompanied by violence and conspiracy, and they began to decline after the murder of their leader, Elrond, which led to riots in Milan.

Gregory VII supported the sect, but the Popes before him had a vacillating attitude towards the Patulin Sect, sometimes suppressing and sometimes appeasing them. They were finally declared heretical by the Roman Curia in the twelfth century.]