"Merchant ships have started entering Eila?"
"Yes. They say the harbor is already full. I don't know how they managed it, but they assembled three ships on-site as well—"
"Must've been the Venetians. If there's money involved, those bastards would chew a lion alive."
Reynald undid the sword belt he wore.
With a clatter, the scabbard fell, and the attendants hurried to pick it up.
"Where's the criminal they captured today?"
"In the room next door."
At the black steward's gesture, soldiers dragged a man in.
The man's body was covered in wounds, scars, and marks of torture.
"So you're the one who's been acting as a spy for the Saracens all this time?"
Reynald growled.
"A blacksmith who lived inside the fortress?"
"It's slander, my lord! For years I've served you and the Lord—"
"Still haven't come to your senses, have you."
Reynald gestured.
"Smear honey on his wounds and put him up on the wall. After a night playing with flies, he'll confess on his own."
"My lord! Please—!"
The man screamed, his face drenched in tears and snot.
"I have a wife and young daughters! Please, show mercy—!"
"Is that so? Then you should know what happens to a spy's family. Confess, and I'll let you off with only an arm or two."
"Aaaagh!"
The struggling man was struck with the scabbard and went limp.
When he was dragged out, silence fell over the room.
"And to think they put that brat Baldwin in charge of rebuilding Eila…"
Reynald's mustache twitched.
"The last time I saw him at the palace, he was a sickly little weakling. Looks like he's changed. And His Majesty entrusts him with something this big."
He snorted.
"Or maybe the leprosy's gotten to His Majesty's mind, too."
It was blatant contempt for the king.
But no one there dared take issue with it.
"Isn't it strange, though?" the steward asked with a discreet cough.
"His Majesty rebuilds Eila instead of Aqaba. No matter how you think about it… wouldn't it make more sense to ask you for help? Aqaba would've been restored far faster—"
"You really have no sense for things."
Reynald clicked his tongue.
"He's doing it on purpose. He wants to raise the brat."
"…Pardon?"
"Once Eila is rebuilt and money starts flowing in, that brat's standing at court rises with it."
Reynald snorted again, his gaze drifting to the window.
"That's why that fool Guy made such a fuss."
Lion statues carved into towers.
A deep moat and sheer cliffs.
The strategic stronghold of eastern Jerusalem.
Kerak.
This was the lordship he held.
The very front line, the first to catch the brunt of Islam's assault.
"Didn't they run into those desert dogs on the way to Eila?"
"Yes. According to the Venetians who were present…"
The steward spoke carefully.
"They lured them with loot and ambushed them."
"Lured them with loot, huh. So there was a knight among them with a brain that worked."
Reynald muttered.
Then, after a moment of silence, he abruptly stood.
"Tell the desert tribes. This year's tribute will be double last year's."
"But if you do that, they'll resist—"
"The more they resist, the better."
Reynald grinned.
"Once they give me a reason to fight, why would I refuse?"
His grin widened.
"It's about time I stepped in."
"My lord… you mean—"
"While Saladin's holed up in Cairo, now is the time to stab the Saracens under the arm."
Reynald raised a finger, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together deliberately.
"Let's reach into their purses again. It's been a while."
"But according to the treaty His Majesty signed with Saladin, until next year there is to be no hostile action whatsoever—"
"Stupid bastard."
Reynald snarled.
"Why the hell should I care about a treaty made with some heathen, huh?!"
"Y-you are right, my lord."
The steward bowed hastily.
"If not you, who would defend this place?"
"Right. No one but me. Raymond's cowering like a frightened dog with his tail between his legs."
Reynald chuckled, then grew thoughtful.
"That man and I were captured by the Saracens together. Fifteen years."
He murmured it like a curse.
"I endured those damned fifteen years in a Saracen prison. Dry, shriveled bread. Mockery day after day."
"..."
"Summon the knights. Starting tomorrow, we strike the caravans traveling from Damascus to Mecca."
"But…"
"And what is it now?"
"If Prince Baldwin in Eila takes issue with this—what then? If the rebuilding is disrupted, the responsibility—"
"Let's see what that brat does."
Reynald threw on his cloak.
"Whether he's a coward like Raymond… or a real man ready to fight, like me."
He shouted.
"Summon the knights!"
Eila
"Advance!"
The men thrust their spears forward on command.
Dozens of long shafts sliced through the air with sharp, cutting sounds.
"One step back! Halt! Halt!"
Sir Garnier's voice boomed through the barracks.
"Everyone, stop!"
The men who hesitated finally froze.
"No matter what, you obey the commander's orders! One man breaks formation and everyone dies! How many times do I have to say it?!"
Sir Garnier shook his head, shouting.
"Still… better than the first day. That's enough for today. Dismissed!"
The men scattered at once.
They laughed noisily, relieved training was over.
A boy approached Sir Garnier.
It was Aig.
"Still, compared to the beginning, they've improved a lot. Back then they couldn't even hold a spear properly."
"They're still far from adequate…"
Sir Garnier sighed with a faint smile.
"But at least they might manage to fight—assuming they don't run the moment battle starts."
He tossed an apple from his pouch.
"So how are the archers?"
"I'm teaching them crossbows first. Much easier than bows."
Aig jumped and caught the apple.
The crossbow and bolt pouch on his waist rattled.
"Time keeps passing, and the work only piles up. The wall repairs still aren't finished."
"But we have signal fires. We can ask nearby fortresses for help."
Aig said.
"Even if we're attacked, we just need to hold out until reinforcements arrive."
"That works for now. Later, it won't."
Sir Garnier shook his head, looking toward the empty barracks.
"We don't have enough fighting men. And that's not just Eila—it's the entire kingdom. Too few knights. Too few soldiers."
"Isn't that why so many castles were built? Even a large army can't break walls easily."
"A castle is just a castle. It can't defeat the enemy on its own."
Sir Garnier replied.
"What if the enemy ignores it? Burns your crops right in front of you, steals your livestock—then what?"
"Then… we go out and fight them?"
"Then the castle becomes exposed. And if hidden forces appear and surround it at that moment?"
"Then…"
Aig scratched the back of his head.
"I don't know. I guess we pray to the Lord to let us win."
"Yes. That's all we can do. If the heavenly host came down, it would certainly help."
Sir Garnier smiled and ruffled Aig's hair.
"They say the Muslims believe losing Jerusalem was a hardship and trial set by their god. Perhaps now it's our turn to face hardship and trial."
Abyss and darkness.
The Kingdom of Jerusalem stood wedged between the two.
How many more wars awaited them?
The Holy Land. The Holy City.
The center of the world.
Jerusalem was a land of glory—and a battlefield drenched in countless people's blood.
God and devil.
True believers and false heathens.
Life and death.
Before joining the Order, everything had been clear.
But the sandstorms of the Levant scattered certainty to the wind.
"I've talked too much nonsense."
Sir Garnier exhaled.
"So, what is it like serving the prince?"
"It's hard to put into words, but… it's different from what I expected."
Aig answered.
"The prince says and does strange things at times, but…"
He continued.
"Most of it ends with good results. And he always looks after me, too."
"Most of it ends well… yes. You're right."
Sir Garnier murmured.
He had spent weeks at Prince Baldwin's side.
Salt-and-sugar water that saved countless sick at the hospice.
The courage and quick decisions during the desert raid.
And the rebuilding of Eila proceeding smoothly under his leadership.
The prince was nothing like the rumors.
"Come to think of it, I haven't seen His Highness for days…"
Just then, a knight in a monk's robe approached them.
"Brother Garnier. Prince Baldwin has summoned all the knights."
"The prince summoned us?"
"He said it is urgent. Go to the council chamber at once."
"Understood. I'll go immediately."
Sir Garnier smiled at Aig.
"You should come as well, Aig."
"So Reynald is about to raid Saracen caravans… how did you learn that, Your Highness?"
Sir Garnier asked.
The strategy chamber set up in Eila's central building.
Knights and officials sat around a table.
I looked at Sir Garnier.
"Let's just say I have a 'contact' there. Information from someone on the inside."
In truth, I had no informant.
But this was something I could predict with my eyes closed.
Reynald.
The hardliner among the Crusader faction.
In his youth he plundered Byzantine Cyprus. Now he ruled Kerak.
Even in the game, he constantly violated treaties and attacked Muslim caravans and pilgrims.
Each time, regional stability plummeted.
Sometimes Saladin or other Muslim powers would finally lose patience and declare war.
'If war breaks out now, our odds are too low.'
I had to prevent it.
One of the reasons I came to Eila was to stop him.
"Even if it's Lord Reynald, I assumed he'd keep quiet while you were in Eila, Your Highness."
Sir Garnier sighed.
"A hunting dog can't abandon its habits. If this happens, the truce itself will shake. Saladin won't remain still."
"That's exactly what Lord Reynald wants."
I nodded.
Reynald wanted a full-scale war with the Muslim powers—now.
"We have to stop it before it becomes irreversible."
"But there is one problem, Your Highness."
Sir Garnier said.
"His actions would be a clear violation, but… Reynald will claim any treaty with heathens is invalid. Rome has made such judgments many times. The only way would be for you to personally lead troops and escort the caravans, but…"
"If we do that, others will misunderstand."
I said.
A prince of Jerusalem guarding Muslim merchants from Crusaders?
No matter the reason, the hardliners would seize on it.
'He took heathen money and protects Saracens!''He betrayed Christ!''Shame of the Crusade!'
The situation was more complicated than I'd expected.
If I ignored Reynald, he would cause disaster.
But if I intervened, I lacked a clean justification.
And once the label of "traitor" took hold, I'd lose the war of opinion.
Silence spread through the chamber.
Then something clicked.
'I'm not forced to use only the methods I used in the game.'
A stupidly simple answer.
Why hadn't I thought of it sooner?
"Then how about this?"
I asked with a smile.
"Before Reynald strikes, we raid the Saracen caravans and pilgrims first."
"…What?"