A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"I drew that."

"You drew it? Is that something they taught at the Roman Divinity School too?"

"More or less."

"Then I think it’d be better if you just kept your mouth shut."

"Alright, it was before that."

"How long before?"

"A long, long time ago."

"You’re only nineteen."

"Okay, it was before I came to Italy. I was born in Normandy. My mother was Danish. I guess she was probably one of the Danish who settled in England."

"You guess?"

"Yes. I’ve never met her. I don’t even know her name... Well, as for her name, I might have had a chance to find it out, but I refused."

"Why?"

"There’s no why. It was a long time ago. Besides, she made her decision. I should... respect it. Don’t you think?"

"There’s no harm in knowing a name."

"My memories start very early, around when I was two or three. I remember things clearly, but I have no impression of her at all. Well, maybe I do, but I wouldn’t recognize her. It probably means she abandoned me right after I was born."

"I’m sorry..."

"It’s nothing. After I was born, I was fostered at my uncle Ambel’s home. He’s a minor Lord in the Cotentin region of Normandy. Though he tried many ways to make money, it always ended up slipping through his fingers, so life was always tight and impoverished.

Thanks to support from his brother in Italy, at least we never fell into starvation..."

"You seem to be getting off topic."

"Maybe a little. I’ll try to speed things up. It was when I was about ten or eleven, or maybe eight or nine—it’s not like anyone really kept track. Once a child makes it close to ten, they’re less likely to die young.

I was taken to Italy. Life there wasn’t what you’d call good, but at least I had time to do what I wanted, since I couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were all Lombards there, and the Normans usually didn’t have time to look after a bastard because the wars in Southern Italy were almost constant.

My half-brothers were still young, and their mother tongue was Lombard, so I was often alone. Maybe that was a good thing. My detestable stepmother must have said plenty of foul things."

"So?"

"When a person can’t communicate with the world using their mouth and ears, all they can do is use their eyes. I wasn’t very healthy as a child, since I was always hungry. Thankfully, I managed to survive to adulthood.

I was a skinny little brat, and a bastard child. My father was a cold man who barely spoke to me. The time I remember him talking to me the most was when he was trying to coax me into being sent to his rival as a hostage.

So no one took me seriously. People tend to kick at anyone they see as weak. So for a time, I spent my days just staring at people’s faces. I didn’t say a word, just stared.

It worked. It made my situation a little better.

"It’s not a time worth remembering, but it did give me some gifts. Like this one."

"Are you trying to say you figured this out all by yourself?" Matilda turned to her side, her silver-gray eyes fixed on Eric.

"Not entirely. I’ve read a few books on painting, written by Greeks. Although they’re better at sculpture than painting, their work still has its merits."

Eric refused to tell a complete lie.

"Fine." Matilda averted her gaze. "Maybe you could share some of your insights."

Eric inexplicably breathed a sigh of relief.

’Being with her isn’t so relaxing.’

"A lack of realism comes from a lack of detail."

As he spoke, Eric sat up and picked up the bedside candle. He brought it closer to Matilda, and the sudden brightness of the flame made her instinctively avert her eyes.

Soon, the light began to dim. Matilda looked back and saw that Eric had moved the candle farther away.

Eric held out his hand to Matilda. She looked at it, hesitated for a moment, then took it.

He pulled her up. She was wearing a blue woolen robe with simple sleeves, the same kind her maids wore. The Silver Cross Pendant that usually hung from her chest had been replaced by a wooden Cross like one a Cultivator would wear.

She also hadn’t taken down her hair bun today. Ever since that day, she had been sleeping with her hair up.

"Details. First, there’s light." Eric held up the candle, its light reflecting on the white wall.

The dim, yellow glow created distinct layers, from far to near.

"There are three kinds of light. The first is direct light—the light from a candle flame up close, or the light coming through a window. It’s more dazzling and intense.

The second is diffused light. The farther away from the candle flame, the more the light scatters. Do you feel it?"

Eric placed the candle on the bedside table again, sat down beside Matilda, and tapped his own face.

"Now, look at my left cheek and my right cheek."

Matilda did as Eric said, her gaze falling on his cheeks.

The right side of his face was brighter in the candlelight, while the left side was darker.

"See? Light and dark. Light also creates shadows. Shadows aren’t useless; they’re an incredibly important element."

"Shadows create layers and depth."

Matilda’s fingers touched Eric’s cheek. His skin was cool, lacking warmth.

Eric caught her scent, a fresh and intoxicating aroma like a garden in the rain.

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