A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

”Er... I actually wrote this.”

His uncle must have slipped the Vice Abbot some money, because Eric was assigned to the library the moment he entered King’s Bridge Monastery, becoming the administrator for both the library and the scriptorium.

It was called a library, but its collection barely exceeded thirty books—and this was supposedly one of the most prominent monasteries in Western England.

Since Latin was a gift from the system’s novice package, he had no trouble reading. Within a few months, Eric had devoured all the books.

However, the Latin gifted by the system only granted him reading comprehension; his writing skills had to be honed through practice. So, after copying a few Latin works, he decided to transcribe *Don Quixote* into Latin to work on his penmanship.

Of course, that wasn’t all he transcribed. He also worked on Aquinas’s *Summa Theologica* and Aristotle’s *Organon*. He only carved out portions of them, though. They were far too long, and it was just for practice.

The scriptorium’s parchment was incredibly precious. If he used it for practice, the Vice Abbot would have his hide. So, he could only carve on the walls.

”You wrote this?”

Emma’s lovely brows furrowed once more.

”Do you have any proof?” Emma hugged the book to her chest, as if afraid he would snatch it away.

”I believe I only got to the part where Don Quixote fights the windmills. He says, ’Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished.’”

Eric loved that line; it was a hope he often shared.

Everyone is Don Quixote.

Because right when he carved up to that point, the drunken Vice Abbot had burst in. Seeing the walls covered in writing, he thought some kind of cult ritual was taking place and nearly had Eric burned at the stake.

Luckily, the Vice Abbot sobered up in the end (after Eric tied him to a tree and threatened to burn *him* at the stake). Afterward, however, he made Eric’s life difficult and had him kicked out of the library.

”...”

”What’s wrong? Was I incorrect?”

”Actually, I haven’t gotten that far yet,” Emma said, slightly embarrassed, poking her index fingers together before scratching the back of her head.

”So what happens to Don Quixote in the end? Does he succeed?”

”Of course not. You could have guessed that from the beginning. His dreams are shattered, and he dies in his sickbed.”

”Ah, that’s so tragic! How could you be so cruel? Can’t you just let him succeed? He’s already so pitiful.”

”Alright, fine. In the end, Don Quixote and Sancho lived happily ever after, never worrying about food or clothing, and they even had a lovely child.”

”Thank you. You’re a wonderful storyteller.”

Emma could naturally tell that Eric was talking nonsense. She stood up from the wooden chest, stretched lazily, and revealed her beautiful curves.

Her slightly wavy, pale golden hair shimmered in the sunlight. She wore a pale blue, form-fitting dress.

Just then, the door to the room opened.

”Emma... Huh? Eric, what are you doing here?” The newcomer was Fitz.

”I...” Just as Eric was about to explain, Emma’s words cut him off.

”Father, how many times have I told you to knock before entering my room?” Emma sounded quite displeased.

”Yes, yes, I forgot. I’ll be careful next time, Emma.” Fitz waved his hand apologetically.

”Never mind. You never remember anyway. Was there something you needed, Father?”

”Something urgent has come up; I must go to Hampton,” he said. ”I was planning to go to Saint Martin Village today to investigate a dispute, but now I can’t get away. Could you go in my place?”

”No problem.”

”There’s a serf there named Gaston who is refusing to pay his rent. It’s clearly a protest.”

”Alright, alright, dear Father, it’s not the first time I’ve handled something like this. Go on and take care of your own business.” Emma pushed Fitz out the door.

Before leaving, Fitz glanced at Eric again, as if expecting some kind of response.

But Eric was just staring at the ceiling, whistling.

’This ceiling is truly the pinnacle... of ceilings.’

As the door clicked softly shut, Emma suddenly slapped Eric’s shoulder.

”Still playing dumb? He’s gone. Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Emma tilted her head back, showing off her fair neck.

”You know my father? Are you the new secretary? Mr. Francis has been quite overwhelmed with tasks lately, and he’s been clamoring for an assistant. He mentioned recently he was going to the Monastery to pick someone. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

”Something like that... Well, since you have important matters to attend to, my lady, I’ll just be taking my leave—” Eric immediately bolted for the door.

”If you dare leave, I’ll immediately tell my father you broke into my room.”

”Then... then what do you want?”

Emma advanced on Eric step by step. He retreated unconsciously until his back was against the door.

”My soul belongs to God, and I would never sell it... At most, I’ll sell my body.”

”Who’d want your few pounds of spare ribs?”

Emma shoved Eric aside, then pulled the door open and walked out.

”You’re coming with me to Saint Martin Village now.”

...

Downstairs in the castle courtyard, an attendant had already prepared a horse for Lady Emma—a bay Norman Horse.

Beside Emma’s horse, a grim-faced, middle-aged Priest was already mounted, seemingly waiting for Lady Emma. Judging by his appearance alone, he looked like an old fossil who would be incredibly difficult to get along with.

Eric had a pretty good idea why Emma wanted him to come along. ’She’s not going to make me deal with him, is she?’

’Spare me. I’ve had enough of grumpy old men.’

Emma grabbed the hem of her dress and gave it a hard tug. The long, ankle-length skirt came off, revealing not pale white thighs, but riding breeches. The skirt was detachable. A nearby attendant tied up her trouser legs and fitted her with golden spurs.

With a practiced leap, she swung herself onto the horse.

”So, where’s my horse?” Eric walked up to Emma.

”Oh? You don’t have a horse?” Emma propped her chin on her hand, watching the flustered Eric with great interest.

”I’m a Monk, for goodness’ sake. How would a Monk have a horse?”

”Is that so? If you hadn’t reminded me, I’d have forgotten you were a Monk. The kind of Monk who suddenly appears in a woman’s room? No matter. You can just trot along behind me like a little puppy.”

”Alright, alright. Perhaps I was mistaken. Merciful lady, please lend me a horse.”

Eric’s mouth twitched. ’What is this, some kind of BDSM training session?’

He placed his right hand over his chest, bowed slightly, and performed a standard courtly bow.

’Don’t let me get the chance. Next time I’ll steal your underwear right off you.’

”Well? How about this one of mine?”

”That’s not a funny joke. I am a devout servant of God.”

Eric held up the Cross on his chest.

His gesture seemed to provoke the Priest at the side. The Priest frowned, shot Eric a disdainful look, and spurred his horse away from him.

”I see. I still think following behind me is more in line with a servant’s role.”

Emma chuckled, flicked the reins, and her horse started forward, heading out the gate.

”I’ll fuck your ***********”