A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

“I told you, I’ve already paid,” Eric said again, his hand resting on the hilt of the Sword at his waist.

Balha stared intently at Eric’s hand caressing the hilt.

All Balha could see was Eric’s black Helmet and the dark eyeholes within. He started to feel uneasy, sensing a hint of danger, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. He, too, gripped the Longsword at his own waist. ‘I have to win this confrontation, or I’ll lose all authority in front of my men.’

Just as Balha noticed Eric’s arm move and assumed he was about to draw his weapon, he instantly unsheathed his own Longsword.

The outcome was the complete opposite of what he expected. Eric didn’t draw his Sword. Instead, he calmly removed the bundle from his back and unceremoniously threw it to the ground.

The wrapping cloth fell open, immediately releasing a pungent, bloody stench. Inside were several gory, dismembered limbs. Severed fingers, ears, and lower legs lay jumbled together, along with two gruesome heads. The mixture of blood and brain matter was particularly nauseating.

One of the heads had a cross-shaped gash cut into its skull, through which a yellowish-white mixture of residual brain tissue was faintly visible.

Balha froze, an indescribable tremor seizing his heart. The sickeningly metallic smell still hung in the air, and the sight of the bloody limbs sent a chill down his spine.

The severed fingers, ears, and heads threw him back to his youth—to the horrifying memories of his time as a captive.

Balha couldn’t help but shut his eyes, as if trying to escape the scene before him, but he could never escape that deeply ingrained pain.

Once, like his countrymen, he had been a valiant steppe Warrior, leading his troops to victory after victory, invincible. That was until he was ambushed by enemy forces in battle, captured, and subjected to endless torture.

His enemies showed him no mercy. They gouged out his eyes, the raw agony nearly causing him to lose consciousness.

During his days in captivity, he frequently suffered violence and humiliation, his body and spirit shattered. The worst part wasn’t the physical wounds, but the helpless despair. He knew no one was coming to save him. Even his own master had abandoned him, leaving him to be tortured, to endure that endless degradation.

From that moment on, his world was no longer one of blood and swords, but one filled with fear and weakness. His Courage had been stripped away. He no longer dared to face a direct fight, instead relying on schemes and flattery, running from his former glory and valor.

Balha took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus and push the memories aside. His gaze fell to the ground again, but just then, a faint tremor ran through the earth. Something was approaching rapidly from a distance.

“It seems they’re here. We’ve wasted too much time,” Eric said suddenly.

Balha’s pupils constricted. His ears quickly picked up a sound that grew steadily clearer, and with Eric’s prompting, he gradually identified it as the thundering of hooves.

He could feel the vibrations coming up from under his feet, like heavy footfalls in the distance, drawing closer and growing stronger. As the sound of hooves intensified, Balha stared nervously at the open ground around him, as if searching for the hidden threat.

Then, he heard faint shouts and clamor from afar, sometimes clear, sometimes muffled, like a group of people rapidly gathering and approaching. He could make out the sound of a horn, low and powerful, carrying a chilling sense of pressure. This wasn’t a common disturbance; it was the sign of an army assembling.

At that moment, the onlooking Muslim villagers also seemed to sense that something was wrong. They had been standing in a circle at a distance, but now they exchanged panicked glances, their eyes filled with terror. A few of the more timid villagers began to back away frantically, their breathing ragged, their faces etched with alarm. As the sound of hooves grew even closer, the villagers’ fear spread like wildfire. Someone screamed and turned to run, setting off a stampede. The crowd began to scatter, flooding toward every corner of the village like an uncontrolled tide.

Several women clutched their children and fled for their lives, some even tripping over nearby objects with heavy thuds. The elderly shivered under distant trees, hugging themselves and looking helplessly toward Balha. Their steps were chaotic and hurried, their clothes fluttering in the wind, their breaths coming in short gasps as they were completely overwhelmed by fear.

Watching the chaos around him, Balha felt a jolt. The villagers’ reactions were an undisguised display of terror—they had clearly sensed the undeniable threat, and its sheer power was enough to make even them waver.

“Recall the men! We’re retreating to Hama City immediately!” Balha shouted.

Of the twenty soldiers, only eight remained. Some of the conscripted farmers had taken advantage of the villagers’ chaos to slip away.

Now, in the clearing, only nine men were left, including Balha himself.

The frustration and fear of having to flee in disarray ignited Balha’s anger. He turned to the soldiers beside him, pointed at Eric, and commanded, “Hojja, Ardha, take his Helmet and Sword for me.”

‘I have to bring something back with me.’

Eric was alone, which made Balha certain it would be an easy task.