As Elman recounted his sorrowful tale, the surrounding villagers were also overcome with grief.

Of the hundred or so people in the entire village, only these twenty-odd remained. All their loved ones had died under the Count’s blade.

Just as the atmosphere sank into sorrow, Itamar’s voice rang out, growing closer.

"Chicken soup’s here!" Itamar called out, carrying a large, steaming iron pot as he walked toward the group.

Yet even after he placed the iron pot on the floor, no one approached.

This was a stark contrast to how things usually were.

"Why isn’t anyone eating? We’ve still got a few meals in us, don’t we? Didn’t we agree to have a little fun before we die? Why is everyone so down now?" Itamar asked, looking at the surrounding villagers in confusion.

"Are there still chickens in this village?" Eric asked, surprised.

"Chicken carcasses, to be precise. That Count hacked up everything he could in the village, including the livestock. So, if you don’t mind, the animal carcasses around the village will be enough to feed us for a while. *Sigh*... The people who died wouldn’t bring themselves to eat them when they were alive, yet we, the ones who’ve clung to life, are now reduced to eating this.

Those members of the Norman Nobility all deserve to die. England has known no peace since that King William arrived. Every damned thing that’s gone wrong is because of him. You came from the north, so you should know what they did to Northumbria.

Things weren’t even this miserable when the Vikings were around. And a man like that has the gall to be King of England... *Ptooey*..."

The more Itamar thought about it, the angrier he became, his voice rising. "Fucking hell! What bullshit Norman Nobility? They’re nothing but a pack of damn warlords. They all deserve to die."

"It’s true. Many people hate him now—not just the English, but many of the Norman Nobility can’t stand him either. I heard his own son can’t bear his tyranny and is preparing to rebel. He’s sworn to return England to its rightful state," Eric said.

"What? A bastard like that actually has a son? Why didn’t God strike him down without an heir? I’ve heard enough pretty words. Anyone who comes to England wanting to be King says the same things, and each one sounds better than the last. But what’s the result? They’re all just talking out of their asses.

With a father who acts so wantonly, how much better can the son be? I bet he’ll be an even bigger bastard—the worst of the worst," Itamar said with deep loathing.

"’The worst of the worst’? You sound like you have a real grudge against him. You’ve never even met the man."

Robert was so angry he let out a laugh, his fists clenching involuntarily.

"Does that stop me from judging him? The father’s a scoundrel, so the son’s a scoundrel. Isn’t that just common sense?

Don’t you get salty, you Norman. He might be your Lord, but he’s not your father. If you have anything of value, and one day he wants it or just gets angry, you’ll have to hand it over—your life included," Itamar said, completely self-assured.

"Alright, alright, let’s stop talking about these detestable Normans. Let’s eat."

Eric gave a hollow laugh, trying to ease the tension, then put a hand on Robert’s arm to hold him back.

Robert said resentfully, "Eric, did you hear him...?"

Belem chimed in just then. "See what I mean? They’re just a bunch of unruly peasants. They need to be taught a harsh lesson."

’I could kill him,’ Eric thought. ’The guy just loves to stir up trouble.’

Fortunately, Robert managed to calm down.

Eric looked at the soup in his hands, his brow furrowing. He wasn’t fond of chicken soup; the lack of seasonings in this era made it taste rather gamey.

Besides, this soup gave him a strange feeling.

Just then, Hessin suddenly cried out, "Hey! There’s something weird about this chicken. Why does your chicken have a dog’s leg? Are you kidding me? The fur hasn’t even been shaved off, and... I think that’s a turd on it."

"Isn’t dog stewed with chicken delicious? I can’t very well call it ’dog-chicken soup,’ can I? What an awful name," Itamar said with a dismissive wave.

Hessin said, "But there’s a turd on it."

"If you don’t mind, I can wipe it off for you."

Hessin was speechless.

"Ah, Itamar, please take me to see the dead. Let me offer them my prayers first. It’s what I promised, and I don’t want to be rewarded before I’ve done my work." Eric’s stomach suddenly churned. He stood up, putting on an expression of pious, all-embracing compassion.

This display instantly earned him the solemn respect of the surrounding villagers and the members of his Warband.

"Thank you, unknown Priest. This is likely the only comfort we’ve had in days."

"It is nothing. This is my duty as a Priest. My name is Eric; feel free to just call me that."

Eric patted Itamar’s shoulder.

Itamar immediately moved to lead the way for Eric.

They then walked down a corridor along one side of the chapel.

At the very end of the corridor, Itamar opened a door, and a peculiar smell washed over them.

Even though it was Winter and the temperature was low, the bodies had already begun to decompose.

The bodies were still covered in patches of dried blood. Many of their faces were frozen in hideous expressions, their final moments clearly filled with terror.

Eric sighed, crouched down, and placed his hand on the forehead of the nearest corpse.

"O merciful and almighty Lord, we pray to You now with all our devotion. We sincerely beseech You, through the resurrection of our Lord Christ and in the hope of eternal life, to receive this brother of ours and forgive him his sins.

May his soul be granted supreme bliss, may the Lord embrace him in His merciful arms. May he enter into eternal peace, to be numbered among the Saints in light...

And may You grant Power to the living, that they may be spared from sorrow. Grant them peace, that they may offer You their unreserved Devotion with a pure heart. Amen."

Eric prayed for them, one by one.

Nearly an hour passed as Eric offered a prayer for every person laid out in the room.

When he finished the prayer for the last one, his back was aching. Just as he was about to straighten up, Itamar, who had been standing by his side, suddenly spoke.

"Priest Eric, do you think God really exists?"

"What’s wrong?"

"Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying this, but at a time like this... I feel I have to ask. Please, forgive my impertinence, if you can."

"Go on."

"If God truly exists, and if He is truly merciful, why would He allow something so cruel to happen? And why would He create wicked men in the first place? The Priest in our village always said we were sinners, but we never did anything wrong. I’ve spent my whole life in this village. I’ve never stolen, never killed.

Even if we did end up killing the Count’s guards, that was in self-defense! And even if that was our mistake to make, why was our whole village punished for it?

But... but our village repaired the Church every year. We worked so hard just to live. The people here were so devout..." Itamar sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Eric looked at him and sighed as well.

"Sometimes, all we can do is believe. Believe that there is a God. He may allow a man to err, but He will not allow that man to err forever."

He patted Itamar’s shoulder, attempting to offer him some comfort.

’When a man begins to despair, the important thing isn’t to contradict him, but to go along with him. Anything else would be too cruel.’

"Is that so... Thank you, Priest Eric."

Itamar seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Then, as if remembering something, he looked up.

"Could I... ask you for another favor, Priest Eric?"

"I’ll do my best."

"If it’s possible... the day after tomorrow... could you pray for our corpses as well?"