A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Chapter 423: Chapter 299: Anger Stems from Failure

Although Count Evler couldn’t understand the Count of Ghent’s German, he knew it was nothing good and muttered a few curses in return.

He then looked toward Eric, who was also watching him, making him feel rather uncomfortable.

“Gloucester…”

“One hawk doesn’t answer to another’s cry. You should be explaining yourself to your own Lord, not to me, Lord Evler.” Eric gave Count Evler a slight bow.

Count Evler’s expression instantly turned sour, and he looked as though he wanted to say something more.

But just then, Belem walked over. He clapped Eric on the shoulder and shook a pouch in front of him, the contents jingling like coins.

He then opened the pouch, revealing it was full of gleaming gold coins, and pointed to the Turkic Commander being pinned to the ground by two Knights.

“This fellow might not be nobility, but he’s definitely a ranking officer. Look at his armor, and that curved saber. That’s quality stuff,” Belem said.

“Lord Gloucester, I want his boots, I beg you.”

“I want his gloves, Lord Gloucester!”

The two Pontieu Knights holding down the Turkic Commander pleaded eagerly with Eric, not their direct lord, the Count of Pontieu.

The two Knights’ Attendants were already searching the Turkic Commander’s clothes.

The Turkic Commander was about twenty, and his gear was truly exceptional. Unlike the crude leather armor of most Cavalry Archers, he wore a suit of exquisite Scale Armor etched with subtle patterns. He also had a Sword and a short knife inlaid with jewels.

The two Pontieu Knights were using great force, pressing his entire body to the ground. Still, he refused to submit, straining to lift his neck and glare furiously at Eric and Belem.

“Let him go,” Eric commanded.

“But this…” The two Knights hesitated.

“I’m far more dangerous to him than he is to me,” Eric said with a wave of his hand. “Besides, what’s he going to do? Headbutt my chin?”

The surrounding Knights and Attendants roared with laughter.

The two Pontieu Knights stepped back, and the Turkic Warrior got to his feet.

Blood from a wound on his head trickled down his face and neck. His dark eyes remained fixed on Eric, filled with malice.

“*As-salamu alaykum*,” Eric greeted the Turkic Commander in Arabic.

He paused, turning his head to exhale, then slowly responded, “And with you, peace.”

“You may call me Gloucester. I am a Count of the England Kingdom.”

“Kekubad. I know of that place. A small island at the edge of the world, recently conquered by the Normans. And I know of the Normans—descendants of Barbarians who dwell in cold, damp pine forests, surviving on coarse black bread and water. They worship absurd runes, as if those blasphemous totems could grant them any Power.

And yet they call themselves believers in the one true God.

Your women fornicate with monkeys, and your men preen like actors on a stage, with their ornate armor and colorful banners, as if that could hide the fear in their hearts.

Your banquets have no fine wine or delicacies; their palates are satisfied with thin ale, a bitter taste only a Wildman could enjoy.”

“Discussions of who is more noble or more civilized… I imagine the King of the Crescent in Baghdad is quite fond of such topics. I wonder, did your Turkic leader, Tukhriil Beg, grant his majesty the opportunity for such a chat?” Eric said, smiling and patting the Turkic Commander on the shoulder.

Then, he abruptly tightened his grip, applying a bit of force. The sharp pain in his shoulder instantly made the Turkic Commander’s face shift, a flash of anger and discomfort in his eyes.

He fought back the pain, trying to remain composed, but Eric’s smile seemed all the more grating, as if testing his patience.

“My life… my life is in Allah’s hands, not yours.”

“Aha, the King of the Crescent probably thought the same. Why would you be worthy of a blessing that wasn’t even bestowed upon the blood of Hashim? Fifty years ago, your ancestors were still wandering the steppes, living as raiders and nomads.

You call yourself civilized and decry us as Barbarians only to find some pathetic comfort for your own defeat, to salvage a bit of pride. If we were the ones defeated today, you wouldn’t care one bit about who was civilized or barbarian.

When you defeated the Arabs and the Greeks, you mocked their civilizations without mercy, as if their long histories were just an excuse for their weakness and incompetence, teaching them nothing but how to surrender and bow.

Stop using these meaningless accusations to hide your fear and scrape together your dignity. True dignity comes from battle, not a war of words.”

“What kind of victory do you call that! Only cowards use treacherous means to win,” the Turkic Commander spat contemptuously.

“Your anger stems from your defeat, not my methods,” Eric said coldly.

“You…” The Turkic Commander was momentarily speechless.

“State your name.”

“Hmph.” The Turkic Commander turned his head away, defying Eric’s command.

Belem noticed the Turkic Commander’s gesture, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “He refuses to answer? Let me handle this. Eric, I have ways of making him talk. I can make a pretty flower bloom from his bones.” He moved closer to the Commander. “Believe me, in my hands, he will understand the meaning of pain.”

A flicker of unease crossed the Turkic Commander’s face, but he still held his back straight, his eyes full of defiance and arrogance. Belem gave a cold smile, knowing he would have to use harsher methods to pry open this stubborn enemy.

Just then, Hook Eye galloped over on his horse, shouting to Eric and the other Counts, “Lord Earls, there’s a lone Heretic Knight! He’s asking to see our leader.”

“Looks like we’ve caught someone important,” Eric said with a laugh. He had the Knights lead the Turkic Commander away, then waved to Hook Eye. “Let him come up.”

A short while later, a man walked up, escorted by two Knights. He was an Arab.

He was middle-aged, yet there was no trace of gray in his thick hair and bushy beard. He had been disarmed.

“Peace be upon you,” Eric called out, using the formal greeting of the desert Arabs, touching his hand to his chest and lips in a slight bow. It was a gesture he had learned from Laila.

The Arab seemed startled, but he remained polite. “And upon you, peace,” he replied, touching his own hand to his chest and lips.

Although he wore a helmet, the wrinkles on his face revealed his age.