In a bustling tavern not far from the Besançon Square Barracks, a burly, shirtless drunkard in loose linen pants was using his drunken state to harass the owner.
The tavern owner, Red Beard, with a pockmarked face, rolled up his sleeves, pressed his fat face to the drunkard's nose, and roared in a low voice, "Angus, how much do you owe me for drinks? Look at you now, even if I sold you to a slave trader, you wouldn't be worth a few silver coins. If it weren't for the fact that you've been my neighbor for years, I would have had someone kick you out long ago. And you still have the nerve to talk about our friendship to con me out of drinks?"
"Get out!" The owner pointed to the tavern door.
The drunkard named Angus completely ignored the owner's taunts and roars, intending to bypass the owner and jump into the liquor cabinet to search for drinks himself.
The owner grabbed the drunkard's arm to prevent him from entering the liquor cabinet. Annoyed by the pull, the drunkard turned and delivered a heavy punch to the owner's head. The owner was beaten black and blue, with blood streaming down his face.
"Angus, you Bastard!" The owner roared in anger. Several bartenders and cooks from the tavern's back room all came to the front hall with sticks and tools, surrounding the drunkard.
A few drinking patrons, seeing the tense atmosphere, quickly hugged their mugs and moved to the side, drinking and cheering.
The drunkard leaned against the wooden counter in front of the liquor cabinet, looked at the fierce-looking strongmen surrounding him, and smiled at the owner, "Hey, buddy, looks like you were prepared today, huh?"
The owner, clutching his constantly bleeding nose, replied hatefully, "Angus, I respected you as a warrior once, but I never expected you to become a complete scoundrel now. Today, I must teach you a profound lesson."
The drunkard took off his belt, wrapped it around his hand, tilted his head, spit, and replied, "You few little lowlife scoundrels want to teach me a lesson? Come on!"
After speaking, the drunkard swung his fist towards the owner...
....................
Art, accompanied by Ron, pushed past a heavily made-up woman pimping on the street and walked straight towards the barracks.
In front, the tavern door was surrounded by many onlookers and hawkers. From inside the tavern came a series of crashes and bangs, with the sounds of broken pottery and splintering wooden tables, along with the whistling of sticks and the thud of fists hitting flesh. The crowd of onlookers let out gasps and cheers.
"My Lord, it seems there's a fight at the tavern ahead~" Ron stopped at the street corner, stood on his tiptoes, and looked at the crowd ahead, saying.
Art had no intention of joining the idle citizens to watch the spectacle. "It's nothing but ruffians causing trouble, nothing to care about. Let's go."
Ron also felt that street brawls were indeed boring compared to battles on the battlefield, so he quickened his pace to catch up with Art.
As the two were about to bypass the crowd gathered at the tavern entrance, a completely naked drunkard was carried out of the tavern by several bartenders and thrown onto the street, causing the women in the crowd to gasp as they stared at the drunkard's lower body~
"Get out! If you dare to come near my tavern again, I'll make sure you can't even crawl." The tavern owner roared at the naked drunkard lying stripped bare outside the door.
A bartender with a bruised and swollen face saw the drunkard lying unconscious on the ground and had no intention of letting him off. He picked up a broken half of a fire poker and poked the drunkard. Finding that the drunkard was not dead, he spat a thick gob of phlegm at him, his swollen face contorted as he roared, "Bah! Didn't you call yourself the Blood Axe? Get up and give me an axe blow, you Bastard! Go on, crawl to the street and be a beggar!" As he spoke, he raised the stick, intending to beat him again, to soothe his own bruised face from earlier.
"Enough!" The owner stopped the swinging bartender.
Art, who had just walked past the tavern door, suddenly stopped. Ron, not paying attention, bumped into Art.
"My Lord, what's wrong?"
"Ron, did you hear what was said over there just now?"
Ron was puzzled and replied, "Someone said 'Enough!'"
"The sentence before that? Did someone mention 'Blood Axe'?"
Ron thought for a moment, "Yes, they said Blood Axe. My Lord, what is a Blood Axe?"
Ron was looking up to ask Art, but Art had already turned back and pushed into the crowd at the tavern entrance.
The casual mention of "Blood Axe" by the bartender struck Art's ears like thunder.
"Blood Axe" was a title familiar to the "original owner" of this body, Art, from when he accompanied his father on the Eastern Crusade years ago.
Six years ago, the original Art, then sixteen, had just become a Holy Order Sergeant. In one battle, Art's Holy Order detachment was ambushed by local troops. The Holy Order Knights, Knight attendants, and a dozen Holy Order Sergeants leading them were shot dead on the spot. Art and the remaining thirty-odd Sergeants, under the command of a young Sergeant named Angus, fought desperately. Brothers fell one by one, warhorses collapsed one by one. By the end of the battle, the Soldiers' spears were broken, their short swords blunted. That Sergeant, after slitting an enemy Soldier's throat with his blunted sword, picked up the long-handled battle axe dropped by the enemy Soldier and roared, charging his horse into the dense enemy ranks. The surging blood mist from the Sergeant's charge ignited the Soldiers' blood. The Soldiers behind him picked up enemy weapons, mounted their warhorses, and launched a final desperate charge towards the enemy. The Sergeant, leading the charge, swung the long-handled battle axe like a madman through the enemy ranks, carving out a breakthrough point...
In that ambush, two hundred infidel cavalry ambushed Art's Holy Order detachment. One Holy Order Knight, five attendants, and thirty-seven Sergeants in the detachment died on the spot. The remaining thirteen Holy Order Sergeants followed the Sergeant with the Blood Axe, breaking through the encirclement and entering the vast desert~
The enemy pursued relentlessly. The Sergeant led Art and the others fleeing through the desert for a full day. By the time they shook off the enemy's pursuit, Art and the others had lost their way. The surviving dozen or so Soldiers walked through the desert for five days. The scorching sun baked the pus and blood from their wounds into black scabs, and their iron armor gleamed hot. There was no water, no Medical Officer, and no holy light of God in the desert. In the end, everyone could only survive by slaughtering their warhorses, drinking their blood and eating their flesh, preventing the entire unit from being wiped out. Ultimately, only eight of the thirteen Soldiers who escaped the enemy's ambush made it out of the desert and returned to the Holy Order stronghold.
Since then, that Sergeant has been known as "Blood Axe" among the warriors in the Holy Order...
After surviving the desert and returning, Art's father, Old Wells, transferred Art to his own Holy Order detachment. Not long after, a disheartened Baron Wells took Art away from the Holy Land and returned home...
Art squatted down and flipped over the drunkard, who was lying on the ground like a dead dog.
"Sergeant?" Art called out in surprise.
The drunkard on the ground couldn't hear any sound; he was completely passed out from drunkenness.
"Ron, find some clothes."
Although Ron still didn't understand what was happening, he unhesitatingly rushed into the tavern. After throwing two silver coins to a drunkard, he directly stripped off his coarse cloth coat, and incidentally picked up a pair of shorts from the ground, then ran out of the tavern door to put them on the drunkard.
Art tried to wake the drunkard again, but the drunkard still showed no movement. "Can anyone tell me what's going on here?"
The onlookers were confused and remained silent.
At this moment, the tavern owner hesitated, then stepped forward and replied, "This gentleman, this fellow was drunk and causing trouble in my establishment, so I threw him out."
Art stood up and asked the owner, "Do you know his name?"
"Angus Doyle, he's my neighbor~ My Lord, do you know this fellow?"
Art ignored the owner's question, turning to stare at the drunkard on the ground. The drunkard rolled over and grunted a few times.
Art didn't know what this former warrior had been through. He shook his head, then turned to the owner and said, "Buddy, since he's your neighbor, please take him home~"
"My Lord, this fellow not only owes me for drinks but also smashed my tavern~ I'm not willing to take him back." The owner said very reluctantly.
"How much does he owe you?"
"Hmm~ probably~ at least one to two hundred fenny. Hmm, counting what he broke today, two hundred fenny!" The owner looked at Art's attire and quoted a very high price.
Art pulled out two silver marks from his waist pouch and threw them to the tavern owner. "Get a few people to take him home."
The owner took the silver coins, held them up to his eyes, and meticulously examined them with a grin. He then called over a few bartenders to lift the drunkard and head towards the east of the city.
"Ron, you go back to the camp first. I'll be back later."
Ron acknowledged the order and returned to the Square camp, while Art followed the tavern owner to the drunkard's home.
A dilapidated wooden house, old furniture, dusty rooms, felt blankets reeking of alcohol, pottery jars and wine bottles rolling on the floor, and rats scurrying freely in the corners—this was the home of the former Holy Order Sergeant "Blood Axe" Angus Doyle in Besançon.
Art found a broken wooden stool in a corner of the wooden house, leaned against the wooden bed, sat down, and looked at the drunkard in front of him, whose mouth was drooling. He muttered to himself, "It seems you're not the only disheartened Holy Warrior~"
Art sat quietly in the dilapidated wooden house, recalling the scenes the original owner had experienced in the Holy Land, pondering how to bring this fierce general under his command...
The sky slowly darkened, and unknowingly, Art had fallen asleep...
Suddenly, Art felt a disturbance. When he opened his eyes, a sharp dagger was already at his throat.
"Don't move. Your neck isn't as tough as you imagine." A voice reeking of alcohol came from behind him.
Art clenched his hands and said unhurriedly, "Relax! Sergeant, can't you recognize my voice?"
The dagger at his neck slowly loosened.
Rustling sounds of searching and the crisp click of a flint striking rang out in the wooden house, and then the wooden house lit up.
Angus held the candle close to Art's face, surprised for a moment, "You are~ are~ Little Wells~ Art?"
"Yes, Sergeant, I am Holy Order Sergeant Art Wood Wells."
Angus was only surprised for a moment, then instantly became indifferent again. He walked to the bottom of the wooden bed, took out a wine bottle, tilted his head, and gulped down a large mouthful. Then, reeking of alcohol, he said to Art, "Young Master Art, didn't you leave the Holy Land and return home? Why did you come to Burgundy? Did you come specifically to find me? I'm not worth a noble Young Master's personal visit, am I~"
Angus circled Art, then poked Art's chainmail hood. "Buddy, I didn't expect you to be so tall now~ How's your sickly Old Wells?"
"My father has passed away~"
Angus paused, then continued to tease, "So, should I call you Baron Art now?"
"The Wells Family has been stripped of their noble title~ I am now an apprentice Knight of Burgundy Earl." Art sat rigidly in place, letting Angus wander around him.
Angus stopped circling, walked up to Art, scanned him up and down, then put down the wine bottle and remained silent.
Art broke the silence and asked, "Sergeant, I saw you being beaten at the tavern door today~"
Angus smiled, picked up the wine bottle again, and took a sip. "That owner is my former neighbor and good brother. I owe him for drinks. I found an opportunity to let him beat me up, and then I can legitimately write off the tab~"
Art looked around the wooden house, then turned to Angus and said, "Sergeant, I guess you haven't been doing so well these past few years, have you?"
"Hmm, as you can see, not so well indeed~" Angus had an indifferent expression.
"Are you still a Soldier?"
"No, no, that meager Soldier's pay can't satisfy my current 'luxurious' life. I'm an excellent Ranger now." As he spoke, he swayed the wine bottle in his hand.
Art didn't want to waste words with someone feigning indifference. He directly stated his purpose, "Sergeant, I am currently responding to the Court's summons, leading Soldiers to participate in the war against Swabia. I hope to continue fighting alongside an excellent warrior like you and achieve meritorious deeds. If you are willing, I can offer you a very high salary."
Angus let out a cold laugh, "Hehehe~ Apprentice Knight? Conscripted? Fighting? Art, I guess the infidels' steel knives and battle axes didn't scare the courage out of you, but they burned your brain, didn't they? An apprentice Knight leading seven or eight farmers with farm tools dares to boast about fighting on the battlefield and achieving meritorious deeds?"
Art was completely unmoved and retorted, "My courage remains with me. I wonder if the Sergeant's courage is still in that man-eating desert~"
Angus saw Art's gaze was firm and unaffected by his mockery, losing interest. He tilted his head back and took another gulp of strong liquor, saying, "You should go. I don't want to deal with weapons anymore."
Art said no more. He got up, pushed open the dilapidated wooden door, and as he stepped out, Art pointed to a brightly polished, blood-glowing long-handled battle axe on the wall, and softly said, "You never forgot your faith."
"My barracks are on the west side of the Church Square. If you've thought it over, you can come find me." His voice gradually faded into the night.