Chapter 452: Sacrifice

“What?” Eric grabbed Leif by the collar. “What happened? Didn’t the night watch notice anything unusual?”

“Reyno was on watch tonight. He noticed them moving, but he believed they were friends.”

“How is Reyno now?”

“His condition isn’t good. His side was pierced, and the bleeding won’t stop.”

…..

Reyno lay on a worn-out straw mat, his face pale. Sweat mixed with dirt trickled down his forehead. Blood seeped relentlessly from the grievous wound in his side, soaking his bandages crimson. The excruciating pain nearly made him lose consciousness.

The flame of his life seemed to be burning out, second by second.

His breathing grew ragged and heavy, and the immense pain racking his body was becoming unbearable.

His dream was to stand on the battlefield, passionately offering his blood to become a hero. He would return home in glory with the braids of ten Saracens, and there, with the blessing of the Lord of Heaven, marry the girl he loved.

And now, death was at hand. But for a devout God’s Warrior, this ought to be a good end.

He was dying for the Lord of Heaven, not for himself. And in this death, he was even relinquishing his own desires.

His soul was already complete; his salvation was at hand.

He ought to feel no fear. He ought to feel an unprecedented solemnity and joy.

He was a weapon of the Lord of Heaven. His death would be an offering to God’s glory, and in the life to come, he would meet the Lord of Heaven in Heaven. This faith should have made his heart swell with passion.

Yet in this moment, he felt no fear, no solemnity, and no joy. His heart was not swelling with passion.

He felt a sense of regret.

‘I should say something,’ Reyno thought. “Lord of Heaven, I am coming,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the dim sky.

‘I am going to die, but this is not the end. It is the beginning of a path to light and eternity… My blood boils with fervor, and there is no more pain in my heart, only anticipation for the sacred.’

‘I am about to walk into the holy Heaven, to stand face-to-face with the Lord of Heaven, to enjoy God’s protection, cast aside all this blood and suffering, and receive eternal peace.’

‘But is it really like that?’

A wave of emptiness and regret washed over him.

In his blurry vision, he saw Eric.

“Forgive me, my Lord, for letting you down. I should have accompanied you to Jerusalem.” Reyno tried to smile, but it only made his wound hurt more.

Eric knelt, stroking Reyno’s head, and sighed. “I am the one who let you down. I never expected this. I was the one who brought you to this battlefield, the one who led you down this path to your death.”

“No, Lord Eric, you are the… best Count I have ever met. For a Knight, to be loyal to his Lord and to die for his Lord is a Knight’s honor.”

“And having a Knight like you is my honor,” Eric said with a nod.

“My Lord, I must further treat this Knight’s wound now. Perhaps he can still survive.” A middle-aged man came to Eric’s side, bowing slightly as he offered the cautious reminder.

He was a Persian—a fat, bald man with a pockmarked face and a broken nose. A Cross hung around his neck. He was clearly a rare Persian Christian.

Fear showed in his eyes, for he knew the injured man had been wounded by Heretics. Although he was a Christian, his appearance always led people to unconsciously associate him with Heretics. Such blame was unreasonable, but it was what people were accustomed to.

He was a survivor of a massacre. Not only was he a Christian, but he also had a Christian wife. He had two daughters and two sons, all half-Persian. His sons now stood behind him, members of the village patrol. The elder was about twenty, the younger around fifteen. Both carried Swords, but they looked uncomfortable with the weapons.

“That man is a Saracen!”

“We can’t let a Heretic treat our man!”

“Damn it, who let him in! Show yourself! This is a provocation.”

“He was wounded by a Heretic, and now you want a Heretic to treat him!”

The Knights immediately took note of the man’s Persian features and began to grow agitated.

“He is a Christian, and the best physician in our village,” a village elder explained.

“Who knows if that’s a lie? You can’t trust the word of a Heretic. The one who stabbed Reyno, that Arab, also called himself our friend.” A Knight grabbed the elder by the collar and kicked him to the ground. “All Heretics deserve to die. Even if they convert!”

“I’ll make him die with Reyno right now.” Another Knight drew his Longsword and walked toward the Persian Physician.

Eric stood ramrod straight, his cold gaze sweeping over the agitated Knights. The recent words and actions had not swayed him. His eyes moved from one Knight to the next, finally resting on the one who had drawn his Sword and was advancing on the Persian Physician.

“Stop.” Eric’s voice was steady and powerful, carrying an authority that could not be questioned.

The Knight stopped in his tracks and turned to Eric, a hint of defiance in his eyes. “Count, he’s a Heretic. Are you really going to allow him to treat our man?”

“He is a Christian,” Eric snapped. “If you dare to act so presumptuously again, I will show you what a ‘provocation’ truly is.”

However, Eric’s tone eventually softened. The fault for this was his.

“Tell me, how do you intend to treat him? You will instruct, and I will perform the procedure,” Eric said, looking at the Persian Physician.

The Persian Physician looked at Eric, seeming to hesitate, but he quickly suppressed his unease. He knew that Eric was not driven by anger and prejudice like the other Knights, but valued practicality and expertise.

He looked at the serious Count before him, paused for a moment, and then spoke with resolve:

“First, we need to clean the wound.” His tone was steady but betrayed a hint of nervousness; after all, he was facing not only a wound to be treated but also eyes full of suspicion and hostility. “However, this wound is extremely severe. We must stop the bleeding immediately and prevent infection.”

“I understand.” As Eric spoke, he pointed to the nearby bonfire, where a blade was being heated in the flames. “Cauterize the wound with a hot blade to stop the bleeding.”

The Persian Physician nodded. “This will cause extreme pain, and there’s still a chance of gangrene afterward. Moreover, his wound is too deep, but…”

“But there is no better way, I know,” Eric interrupted, a hint of irritation in his voice. “You will not be punished. I take full responsibility for this.”

Eric took the long blade from the fire. It was glowing red-hot, letting out a harsh SIZZLE and emitting a scorched smell.

Eric ordered several Knights to hold Reyno down.

Then, instead of immediately following the physician’s instructions to cauterize, Eric walked to a nearby table, picked up a clean cloth, quickly folded it into several layers, dipped it in water, and gently placed it near Reyno’s wound.

This could slightly temper the heat of the blade while also providing some cushion for the wound.

Eric cut away the bandage, and blood immediately began to gush out. He carefully touched the hot blade to the wound.

As the blade made contact, a violent tremor wracked Reyno’s body from the pain. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, only a muffled grunt.

Eric then quickly ran the blade along the edges of the wound. The bleeding was sealed by the cauterized flesh, and the wound closed up. The stench of burnt meat from the hot blade filled the air with a pungent odor.

Precise control during cauterization was a matter of life and death. Although Eric didn’t fully endorse this method, he knew it was the most viable option in this era.

The system’s bandages only worked for Eric; on others, they were just slightly better bandages.

Reyno lost all his strength. Even his low groans of pain turned into feeble whimpers. His face was ashen, and his lips trembled from the intense agony. His condition remained critical.

Eric, Leif, and a few other Knights stayed with him until nearly dawn, but his breathing grew ever weaker.

Nearby, a simply dressed village Priest began to softly recite a prayer for Reyno in Greek.

His voice seemed to drift from the heavens, full of sacred peace, but Reyno frowned deeply, a flash of pain in his eyes.

“No,” Reyno managed to force out a single word, his voice weak but firm. “No more Greek.”

The village Priest paused, clearly not expecting Reyno’s refusal. The air froze for a moment, and everyone in the tent held their breath, staring at the young Warrior.

Eric waved the Priest away and began to pray in Latin, “Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna (Lord, deliver me from eternal death…)”

Reyno turned his head with great difficulty to look at Eric, his eyes filled with deep longing and pain. “My Lord,” he said, gasping for breath, “use Norman. I want to hear the language of my homeland. I hope that in the end, I can understand… that I can remember the words of home.”

Eric was stunned for a moment, then nodded.

His voice was steady and deep: “Lord God, in Your mercy, deliver Your servant Reyno from eternal death. You are the Way, the Truth, and the Life. We call upon You to keep his soul from all evil. May he enter Your kingdom of peace and light. Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts, forgive the souls of all the faithful departed, and release them from the bonds of all their sins. May the Lord grant him eternal rest, and may perpetual light shine upon him. In the presence of Angels, in the company of Saints, may he praise Your holy name forever, for You are just in all things. May the Angels lead you into Heaven, may the martyrs welcome you upon your arrival, and may they lead you into the Holy City, Jerusalem. Lord, by Your infinite mercy, receive him into Your embrace. Amen.”

Listening to the familiar Norman language, Reyno closed his eyes with a faint smile, as if hearing his final consolation. He felt his heartbeat gradually slow, the sensation of pain fading into the distance, as if he had already bid farewell to the turmoil of this world.

Though regret still lingered, in his final moments, his homeland, his language, and his life were all enveloped by this last prayer.

“Death is the door to the Lord of Heaven. Do not feel regret for me. My passing is a cause for joy. For I die for the Lord of Heaven, I die for Christ, I die for you. This is glorious, this is sacred, this is the commendation my Lord has bestowed upon me.”

His voice was low, a mere murmur, and his eyes closed.

As he spoke these sentences, invoking divine solemnity and joy, the image that appeared in his mind was that of the girl he had once longed for.