A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"To defeat Heresy, one must understand Heresy. What do you know?"

Eric snatched back his Cross Pendant and wrapped it around his wrist.

He then noticed that his Chain Armor, and the Viking Longsword Ansebel had given him, were also gone.

"That’s right, I don’t understand. But I do know you’ve violated the tenets. Your self-righteous arguments can’t excuse this blasphemous carving. You’ve committed the crime of desecrating a Holy Image.

In the England of old, anyone who said such things would have been burned at the stake long ago."

The girl grimaced, Eric’s grip making her wrist ache.

She was not pleased.

After all, she was the one who had saved his life.

"Wait, how did you know I’m a Cultivator?"

Eric latched onto that word, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her.

He wasn’t wearing a Monk’s Robe right now—he’d given it to Robert. Nor did he have the tonsure of a Cultivator.

He slowly advanced on the girl.

The girl, realizing her slip of the tongue, kept backing away.

But she couldn’t back away as fast as Eric advanced.

In no time, Eric was right in front of her.

"Ah, haha, I’ve been a good judge of character since I was little. My mother said I was born to be a merchant. Besides, these days, who else but a Cultivator would wear such a valuable Cross Pendant? This is pure silver! Look at the craftsmanship, the purity...

No doubt about it, right?"

The girl quickly averted her head to avoid Eric’s gaze, chuckling nervously as she tried to play it off.

Eric looked the girl up and down. There was something familiar about her build.

He felt like he’d seen her before.

"Is that so? What a coincidence. My mother told me the same thing when I was a child—that I was born to be a merchant. Want to hear my conclusion about you? I think you resemble a certain Welsh person I know."

"You know how it is. There are always people in the world who look alike. Out of a hundred thousand people, you’re bound to find one or two such miracles. It’s nothing to be surprised about," the girl said, waving a dismissive hand.

"True. But I never said your *face* looked like hers. You’ve kept your hood up this whole time; I can’t even see your face. So, as a matter of courtesy, would you mind taking off your hood?"

"My apologies, Sir Cultivator. According to the customs in my homeland, a girl’s face should be covered by a scarf unless it’s for an important matter. I was careless and lost my scarf, so I have to make do with this hood."

"Oh, is that so? What an inconvenience for you. But speaking of important matters, that girl does seem to be involved in something quite important."

"Really? These days, a girl is usually the victim of a crime, not the one committing it."

"I wish that were the case. Though I know very little about her, I still believe she is just a poor soul who has gone astray. But unfortunately, while God teaches us to be merciful, He also teaches us to obey the law.

Unfortunately, that Welsh girl has committed theft. And I believe under the laws of King Edward and the Normans alike, the punishment for thievery is the loss of a right hand. A miracle, isn’t it? That the laws of two rival peoples would be so surprisingly consistent on one point.

I will, however, plead her case before the Judge with all my strength, and speak to him of God’s mercy. If the Judge is pious enough to comprehend God’s greatness, he might see fit to reduce her sentence. Perhaps, instead of her whole hand, just two fingers will suffice."

Eric nodded confidently, a faint smile on his face as he watched her.

"Well now, God truly is merciful," the girl said through gritted teeth, her fists clenched. "If that Welsh girl heard you, she would surely be moved to tears of gratitude and repent with all her heart."

"Naturally. Who would dare refuse the grace of God?" Eric smiled. "So, would you please remove your hood? For God’s sake, miss."

"My face is hideous. I’m afraid I’ll frighten you."

"Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re easier on the eyes than the monsters drawn in books."

"You... you... Fine. Since it’s come to this, Sir Cultivator, you’d better not regret this."

The girl gripped the edge of her hood with both hands and tensed, ready to pull it off.

Eric’s gaze lowered in anticipation.

But in the next instant, a puff of yellow smoke erupted in the air.

The yellow dust instantly filled Eric’s nose and mouth, blinding his eyes.

Eric broke into a fit of violent coughing.

It was sulfur.

"A feast for you, you bastard Cultivator!"

The girl spun around and fled into the nearby Forest, tossing a final taunt over her shoulder as she went.

Suddenly, however, she ran headfirst into something.

Clutching her nose in agony, she crumpled to the ground.

Then she felt a hand seize her ear.

"A feast for you, Welsh thief."

Eric then yanked off her hood.

What was revealed was a face both familiar and strange, along with the familiar, fiery-red, curly hair—though this time it was twisted into spirals.

A puffy face, a large, dark birthmark at her temple, and a dense smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

By any measure, it was an ugly face—a far cry from the one he had seen the other day.

But Eric could tell at a glance that she had altered her face.

Without hesitation, Eric scooped up a handful of muddy water and smeared it across the girl’s face.

He rubbed so forcefully that the girl, thinking he was about to do something worse, started to scream.

Yet she continued to scream, and Eric remained completely unfazed.

After about ten minutes, her "handiwork" was completely washed away, revealing her true face.

Pale violet eyes, a high nose bridge, flawless skin, and delicate features that held a unique charm—one Eric had never seen in any ordinary Welsh person.

Aside from her fiery red hair, she didn’t look particularly Welsh.

In fact, she looked a bit like...

"Why aren’t you screaming louder? I can hardly hear a thing."

By now, the girl’s screams had devolved into low, half-hearted whimpers. Anyone who didn’t know better might have thought she had a toothache.

The girl glared at him.

"You don’t seem scared at all. That takes all the fun out of it. What’s the matter? Don’t I look like a bad guy?"

"Tch." The girl turned her head away.

Eric simply slung her over his shoulder.

"What are you doing!?"

"What else? I’m going to wash you up and sell you to make up for my losses."

"A member of the Clergy engaging in human trafficking! That’s grounds for excommunication!"

"Don’t worry. I’ll sell you to the Welsh. If I recall correctly, the Welsh are quite fond of the slave trade."

The moment Eric finished speaking, a sharp WHIZZ cut through the air as an arrow shot toward him.

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