novelSusiti Chapter 5 People Who Shouldn't Exist
Chapter 5 People Who Shouldn't Exist
The sound of the waves, the distant fighting and wailing, all seemed to be isolated by an invisible barrier.
Leon thought he would be afraid, would tremble, and would, like any normal person, have the most primal resistance to the impending, painful death.
but no.
So what if I die? It's no big deal.
He was just an ordinary college student who played Crusader Kings III in his dorm room. He controlled Baldwin IV, the leper king, cursing and raging in helplessness over the double predicament of Saladin, the "Scourge of God," and leprosy, and seeking a way out of the predicament in virtual save and load games.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my heart, and everything went black.
When I opened my eyes again, I was greeted by the pungent smell of herbs, the flickering candlelight, and a fragile body that an infant could not control.
cross?
That would be fantastic—bullshit!
Are you kidding me!
Everyone wants to travel through time, but if someone actually did, wouldn't a normal person go crazy?
The so-called time travel is like uprooting you and throwing you into a completely unfamiliar era, telling you that all the knowledge, emotions, and bonds you built up over the years are useless and false illusions.
You are now starting over in an unfamiliar era.
How could I possibly accept that!
This is not the bright medieval world depicted in games where adventurers can be cured of terminal illnesses by going on pilgrimages to temples.
In the real Middle Ages, there were no antibiotics, hygiene was appalling, excrement and urine were everywhere in the streets, and a simple cold could kill a newborn.
Compared to the harsh conditions of this era, he feared more the incomprehensible "power" that had thrown him here.
Why was I able to time travel? Who allowed me to travel through time? Why me of all people? What role do I play in this era?
He didn't know, and could only piece together his background from the whispers of others and fragments of historical knowledge—the son of King Amory I of Jerusalem and Maria Komnena.
Based on his existing historical knowledge, King Amori and Maria Komnina had no sons, only a daughter.
What exactly is going on? Is this real history, or a parallel universe?
If it's the former, then he is someone who "shouldn't exist." His very existence is a mockery of established history.
If it is the latter, his future and the course of history terrify him even more—he does not have the ability to foresee the future based on historical knowledge.
Fortunately, he encountered Alexius II, who is clearly recorded in history. Judging from his personality and the political landscape of the Middle East and Rome as he described it, the era he lived in did not seem to be much different from the late 12th century in history.
Since that's the case, let's sacrifice ourselves, who shouldn't even exist here in the first place. Manuel I had no other children, so preserving Alexius II is preserving the original historical trajectory of the Eastern Roman Empire.
Thinking of this, a feeling of near relief welled up within him. He straightened his back, which was draped in purple robes, resolutely turned around, and took the initiative to walk towards the battlefield.
The pirates noticed the striking purple figure and cautiously approached, aiming their unsheathed scimitars and spears at the purple-robed youth before them. Just as a spear was about to pierce the purple robe, a hoarse yet undeniably authoritative voice boomed:
"Put your weapons away! You fools blinded by dinars, do you want to damage our most valuable goods?!"
The pirates recoiled as if whipped. The crowd parted automatically, and a figure strolled out unhurriedly.
He was about forty years old, not particularly tall, but exceptionally lean and wiry, like a rock repeatedly polished by waves and the scorching sun. His bronze face was etched with the deep lines of time, and a jagged scar ran from his left brow bone down to his chin.
He wasn't wearing fancy armor, just a practical leather suit of armor, covered by an old robe that looked greasy and shiny from years of use.
However, the turquoise-inlaid scimitar at his waist and his sharp, wolf-like eyes, constantly assessing everything, proclaimed that he was the undisputed master of this pirate crew.
He walked up to Lyon, not speaking immediately, but instead quickly scanning Lyon from head to toe with his scarred eyes. His gaze lingered for a moment on the texture of the purple robe, Lyon's unusually calm face despite his youth, and those overly clear and calm eyes.
"Look, who's lost?"
Then, he made a gesture that seemed out of place with his surroundings—he placed his right hand on his chest, leaned forward slightly, and performed a slightly stiff but perfectly standard Arabic greeting.
"Your Highness," he began, speaking in Greek with a heavy North African accent but still fairly fluent, "my humble name is Zahir, I apologize for the fright. My men are all rough men, unfamiliar with etiquette, please forgive them."
His tone was respectful, but there was not a trace of humility in his eyes, only the burning desire of a merchant for a rare treasure. He did not approach or touch Lyon rashly, maintaining a safe distance that seemed respectful but was actually scrutinizing.
His gaze involuntarily drifted back to the purple robe: "Such exquisite craftsmanship could probably only be achieved by the most skilled artisans in Constantinople... This is priceless."
Just then, a pirate rushed into the crowd, anxiously reporting to Zahir, "Rais, a few survivors are trying to escape in small boats!"
Zahir's gaze never left the purple-robed figure before him: "These Romans are a disgrace, abandoning their master and running away—just a remnant army, nothing else?"
"Well, there is a strange fellow, dressed in a very elaborate manner and wearing a mask, who looks a bit like—the king of Jerusalem."
"Leprosy? Whatever, let him escape. Bring the brothers back," Zahir withdrew his gaze, his body trembling with excitement and self-satisfaction. "Even if he is the infamous Baldwin, so what? He doesn't have many years left to live. Let's save the precious dinars for Sultan Saladin," he whispered, patting Lyon on the shoulder. "But Your Highness—is the most promising bargaining chip!"
Zahir's face broke into a smile that was a mixture of flattery and threat: "Your Highness, rest assured. I swear by Allah that no one will harm a hair on your head until I deliver you safely to the officials in Alexandria." Then, his tone shifted, becoming unquestionable, "But please... cooperate. For your safety, and for our shared future. Someone, prepare a clean cabin for Your Highness and treat him well!"
The pirates became restless again, crowding around Lyon as they headed towards a nearby Arab ship, its decks gleaming with guns and swords and teeming with Muslims.
Just then, another pirate trotted up to Zahir and whispered, "Rays, the man who contacted us, Lord Leo Ducas... is dead. He was burned to death. It's strange that he died in the main cabin."
Zahir waved his hand dismissively. "So be it. With that disgusting face and that stupid arrogance, it's too good for him to die as a pawn of those nobles in Constantinople. Even if he didn't die, we'd still send him on his way." He couldn't help but recall the fat man's disrespect towards him and spat again. "Hmph, does he really think he's a Ducas?"
Just as Zahir and his men were discussing Leo, who had been reduced to a charred corpse, Leon was being half-pushed and half-shoved onto the gangplank connecting the two ships, as the first rays of dawn tore through the darkness of the sea.
Dawn showed no mercy, completely exposing the cruelty of the previous night.
The once magnificent royal warship now resembled a stranded, dying beast. The once pristine white sails were burned to charred fragments, the oak hulls were covered with marks from swords and axes and a dense swarm of arrows, and the deck was covered with congealed, dark bloodstains, scattered with broken weapons, shattered shields, and severed limbs soaked in seawater.
In contrast, the pirate ship displayed the jubilant posture of victors. The deck was equally chaotic, piled with stolen chests and torn silk, as the pirates rudely counted their spoils, emitting shrill cheers.
Zahir gave him an impatient shove from behind.
"Come on, my little prince, stop looking!" His voice carried the rudeness and smugness of a victor. "Only when the old ship sinks can we get a new one! Haha!"