The stars and moon were vast, the night was deep, and on the night of December 22, 1095, the howling cold wind was raging everywhere in southern Italy.

It swept over the hills and destroyed the vegetation. However, when it came to Messina in Sicily, it could not find the thick stone castle on the low slope.

The castle is made of granite and is two stories high. A heavy oak door with iron hoops isolates the inside and outside. The narrow windows, which may be more appropriately called gaps, are also blocked by wooden boards. Such a well-defended fortress cannot be attacked by the cold wind.

At this time, in the hall of the castle, the blazing firewood under the grill swayed and reflected numerous figures.

The owners of the figure stood silently and silently like a rock, with everyone's eyes fixed on the old man on the main seat.

This is an old man with all white hair tied back, brown complexion, and bags under his eyes.

Perhaps it was too hot in the hall, so he only wore a round-neck blouse. The blouse could not cover his huge body, thick joints, and the bulging tendons on his arms contained explosive power, and his ivy-like veins stood out.

Above, his skin, which is usually covered by clothes and out of the sun, is as white as polar ice and snow, perfectly inheriting the bloodline of his ancestors.

The old man put his hands together, put them on his knees, and put them in front of his forehead, as if he was praying, but his eyes were closed tightly and his eyeballs moved rapidly, so he was obviously asleep.

…

A drop of sweat trickled down from his forehead and clung to his eyelashes. He felt tired, deeply tired.

But he opened his eyes suddenly, flicking the sweat beads off his eyelashes, and the westward sun shone directly into his eyes, making him dizzy.

He turned around and saw in front of him his equally exhausted comrades, all of them wounded, covered in blood, and their armors in tatters.

He roughly counted and found that the 130 knights and 300 infantrymen he brought were missing many familiar faces.

But the remaining ones all had firm eyes. They just looked at him silently, waiting for his decision. Even if he wanted to rush to hell, they would follow him to the death.

He turned around again, and there were corpses scattered in front of the position. There were his brothers, but more of them were enemies.

Blood flowed from the fresh corpses and pooled down the mountain road, like a trickling stream flowing through the blackened gravel.

In fact, it's not really black, it's dried red, layers of dried red.

This is already the fourth day. The continuous testing in the previous three days and the general attack all day today are like waves, one after another.

Is this the first time the opponent has attacked?

He shook his head and put aside the unclear things. He knew that he was approaching the limit. Although every attack of the opponent was thwarted by them, it was time to end it.

A roar came from his hoarse throat: "Mount!"

The soldiers brought the horses, and the horses were in good spirits. After all, they had been fighting on foot for the past four days.

He turned over and sat on his beloved horse, caressing the horse's neck as gently as caressing his own lover. The aggressive war horse gradually calmed down.

He doesn't need anger, he wants discipline, iron-clad discipline.

He turned around and looked back. The knights were all on their horses, their lances were standing like a forest, and the infantrymen who were able to ride horses were also on their horses, following closely behind. This time he did not leave any behind.

"Set off!"

Horse hooves trampled over corpses, flowed through bloody streams, and turned along several cliffs along the mountain road.

The dazzling sunset once again caught my eyes, and at the same time, there was a vast dark cloud on the ground.

Dark clouds were surging, and he couldn't see clearly with the light behind him, but he knew that he had known on the first day that there were 35,000 pagans. Now, they were in front, waiting in full formation, and he had no choice.

.

"accelerate!"

The war horse began to exert force, and the wind passed by his ears.

The knights came up one by one, knees to knees, their guns raised, like a wall.

The sound of the horses' hooves gradually became unified, and finally converged into a heavy hammer, which hit the war drum one by one. The rumbling sound shook the world and threatened to crush the mountains and rivers.

The dark clouds surged more violently, and it seemed as if countless demons and ghosts were about to pounce out.

But he no longer cares, his heart is extremely calm, leaving only one thought, that is, to tear everything in front of him! Tear! Tear!

He shouted: "Charge!"

The horses sped up, the lances were leveled, and the crowd shouted: "Hallelujah!"

…

"Hallelujah!" "God bless!" "Long live the count!"

The old man opened his eyes suddenly. There were no pagans, it was still a familiar room, and everyone was cheering and jumping for joy.

He regained consciousness, crossed himself on his chest, and silently regretted falling asleep while praying.

"Sir, Mrs. Adelaide has given birth to a son for you. Please give her a name." The maid stepped forward to announce the good news to the old man, holding a ball of flesh covered in blood.

"Aha, God bless you." The old man was ecstatic. He held up his son with one hand and said, "roger, just call him roger."

"Wow~" the meatball cried, as if he had been greatly insulted.

"Long live Roger!" "God bless Otterville!" The subordinates cheered loudly, each one louder than the last.

"I allow him to inherit my name, Roger Otteville." The old man shouted loudly, overwhelming the crowd.
Chapter completed!