Struck heavily, the child could hardly bear the fall despite the armor absorbing most of the impact.
"That’s not how you fight. If that had been a sword, you would be dead by now," Reynard said calmly, watching his son without a hint of rcy.
Having fought in battles himself, he knew any slight mistake could cost a life, and only harsher training could keep one alive.
Even now, he considered himself fortunate. Back when he had impulsively joined the Crusaders, he had barely a month’s rushed training before setting off on the holy war, while so had only days after arriving at the assembly point.
A throng of excited new recruits marched into battle, soon to realize that war was not as sacred as the Bishops had proclaid.
In his first battle, the cost was a wound that nearly cleaved him in two, and he survived only because the Army Chaplain had found him...
These flashes of the past only served to darken Reynard’s expression as he looked down at his son on the ground with a commanding gaze.
"If you want to defeat , then stand up. The enemy won’t give you that chance," he said.
Reynard’s words were cold, treating him as though he were any ordinary soldier, showing none of the attitude of a father.
"Hmph..." The son inside the armor, though completely exhausted, still struggled to rise, never bending to this father.
Just as training was about to resu, Reynard seed to notice sothing and looked outside.
His expression turned strange for an instant. There was no help for it; the attire was all too familiar. Combat Nuns of the Church.
Reynard was aware of so issues, but since the Lord hadn’t spoken, he had no intention of intervening. And with his rare ti off, he spent most of it with his family—though he was uncertain if his son appreciated this kind of company, that’s how he saw it. But why has this person sought out?
"Keep practicing on your own. A hundred sword swings," he instructed, before heading towards the door to et the Nun with an inquiry, though his tone remained rather aloof.
"What’s the matter?"
"What’s happening with the Church? Soone told I could co to you."
This question surprised Reynard. Seeing the Nun’s sowhat bewildered look at the doorway, he saw a reflection of his forr self, prompting him to heave a long sigh.
"Co in, child. I don’t know if this is the answer you seek, but I can tell you my story," he invited.
Reynard led her inside, not bothering to keep it from his son, and began to recount the story of his earlier life.
Sent by his parents to a church school, he endured tornt and indoctrination... Grew up with fervent faith, answering the Church’s call to Crusade by joining the Crusaders... Witnessed the brutal battles during the holy war... Caught glimpses of the Church’s ugliness... Left the Crusaders to wander... Encountered the Lord...
Reynard had long since put all that behind him. He wasn’t deliberately slandering the Church, just calmly narrating his life story.
In fact, considering that out of tens of thousands of new recruits, his rise to lead one of the legions was already a most inspirational and sowhat legendary tale.
The story indeed began that way. According to Reynard, the foolish young man’s heart was filled with devout faith in the Holy Light, a faith that even brutal combat couldn’t crush.
But then he gradually shifted the perspective of his description to other matters.
The so-called Evil Heretics were nothing but ordinary people, looted and slaughtered along the Crusade’s path.
Ordinary Crusader warriors died by his side, their deaths aningless. Those who survived slowly descended into madness, becoming more like Demons than Demons themselves.
And then there were those disgusting high-ranking officials of the Church. Looting, slaughtering—all ordered by them.
He was devout, not foolish. Reynard knew the ’noble holy war’ he was waging was but shaful plunder! The harsh reality tore apart his lofty faith. He realized he was nothing more than a weapon wielded by the Church to harvest ordinary lives. At that mont, his conscience beca a burden, tornting him, making him refuse to sink to the level of the other soldiers. He was used until he outlived his usefulness and was then casually discarded by the higher-ups, like... an old, cast-off weapon.
Ryan, who had been swinging his sword nearby, had long stopped his training, his attention absorbed by the descriptions. He was, in fact, quite unfamiliar with the role of ’father.’ He only rembered that man abandoning him and his mother when he was very young. For years, he and his mother had depended on each other. They faced untold discrimination in the village; he was called a ’fatherless child,’ and his mother was harassed by so n. He rembered it clearly. Initially, he yearned for his father’s return, even getting into a fight over it. When he returned ho beaten and bruised, he asked his mother about his father’s whereabouts, only to be t with her silent tears. From that day on, he swore he didn’t need a father to protect his mother. In such an environnt, he beca stubborn and fierce; it was the only way to keep himself and his mother safe. He thought the role of father would vanish from his world, but then soone suddenly appeared, claiming to be his father. Resistance! Even loathing. He didn’t want to acknowledge this man who had abandoned them, but for his mother’s sake, he was forced to follow.
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