[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations":3,"chapter-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-29":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","The Nation of Ten Thousand Nations",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2332997,4562,"Chapter 29: A Rescue Full of Twists and Turns","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-29",29,"\u003Cp>To others, Cesar’s decisions since arriving here—not the Holy Cross Fortress, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or this pine forest, but since he opened his eyes and found himself on a dry sandy slope—seemed reckless.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But only he knew that every decision, made with careful deliberation, was never impulsive.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At the merchant Isaac’s, he felt no goodwill; no, not even the basic respect a competent merchant shows toward his “merchandise.” He seemed certain Cesar would die, that he must abandon this valuable “item”—whether from his own will or someone else’s orders—and even if Cesar endured the suffering and humiliation, he would not live.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His request to Heraclius—to cleanse the Church of the Holy Sepulchre alone as his penance and good deed—was likewise the result of deep thought.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In this age, ascetic practices were many: fasting and abstaining from water, kneeling and praying day and night, self-flagellation, even going years without bathing…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But the first few methods directly harmed his body; the current level of medicine… wait, according to Baldwin’s words, there were no doctors here, only monks who had received the “Bestowal.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Injuries suffered for asceticism were refused treatment; monks would even fly into rage—such acts, in their view, deceived not only others but God Himself, a mortal sin.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for the last method, there wasn’t enough time to spare, and Baldwin and Amalric I would never allow a man reeking of filth to follow the prince—it was an open mockery. Everyone knew lepers, cast out of society, rarely bathed or changed clothes; the image they evoked was tattered rags and caked filth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thus, cleaning the vast Church of the Holy Sepulchre, though arduous, was relatively safe (aside from the assassins—but Cesar was not unprepared). Moreover, Cesar could use the opportunity to familiarize himself with this unfamiliar place, the one most likely chosen by Amalric I for the “Selection Ceremony”—he must prepare, so that no matter what happened here, he could respond.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Now, when he told these men he was willing to be lowered by rope to find Count Etienne, it was not sudden madness.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Holy Cross Fortress and Amalric I were a great ship sailing through this turbulent world; he had been lucky enough to board it, but he was no vital mast, sail, sturdy cabin, or rudder—not even cargo. Once this ship was caught in the storm, he would lose all control over his fate.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And no one in this world would know he had once repeatedly practiced “rope descent”—in a place he could never return to.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though here he had no headlamp, no safety rope, no professional rescuers, no descender, not even a cowtail hook, he had once attempted rope descents of twenty, thirty, and forty-five meters—he had gained experience and prepared for possible dangers, far better than those servants who knew nothing and feared only the “Devil’s Mouth.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After descending about seven or eight feet, when he estimated those above could no longer see him, Cesar slipped flint and firesteel into his money pouch, pressed his hands against the rock wall, and turned his body around.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In previous rope descents, he had once been suspended fully in air, lowered inch by inch by professionals—but those were cleared, prepared passages with full safety measures, sturdy ropes, perfect equipment. Here, he would not entrust his life to others.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His movements stirred unease above; faintly, he heard shouts, as if asking how he fared. He shook the bell hard—the piercing chime cut through the darkness. After three breaths, he felt a jerk—the rope continued lowering.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Facing the rock wall instead of empty void, Cesar felt better. Fortunately, he had already agreed with the knights to lower him only about one foot at a time, allowing him to maintain a steady rhythm, climbing down the wall evenly, not forced to leap or fall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His hands still wore the leather gloves given by the young servant. He had gloves of his own, but the tear-streaked servant insisted on giving him these, even fastening the straps for him—these gloves were good enough for a knight. Every detail designed for knightly combat and siegecraft proved invaluable during rope descent.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As soon as he put them on, Cesar felt warmth and dryness; each part clung tightly to his palms and knuckles—soft yet tough enough to grip freely without fear of being stung or pierced by unseen things in the dark. He was certain he had grabbed a scorpion, a nest of stag beetles, and a pile of slimy maggots.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They, along with crumbling sand and tiny stones, rained down on Cesar’s head. Even with his sheepskin cloak’s hood pulled up, he shuddered, hoping no venomous insects crawled into his clothes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He touched irregularities on the rock wall, pushing them aside. He tapped with his toes before stepping, avoiding protruding stones. Sometimes he gripped winding roots for slight leverage—but only slight. These roots or subterranean tubers were the finest deceivers, best at snapping just when you thought you could rely on them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar counted time in his mind, shaking the bell once every ten feet.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>——————\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Compared to Cesar’s calm and patience, those at the fissure’s edge grew increasingly anxious and fearful—especially after Count Etienne’s party had used up all their ropes and connected them to the Templars’ ropes. “How could it be so deep?” one servant blurted out. The monk shot him a furious glare.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Geoffroy also kept counting the rope’s length. During their ride across this vast land, he had encountered similar fissures or caves leading to hell—but never one so narrow and deep. As the rope lowered inch by inch, his despair grew.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When his saint, Ely, revealed to him Etienne’s location, he had been so elated and joyful—it meant double royal bounties, promotion and reward from the Grand Master of the Order, and if he wished to quit fighting the Saracens, he could use this favor to secure a position in Sancerre back in France…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But the rope’s length suggested the distance from ground to fissure exceeded ten royal feet—nearly the height of a chapel’s bell tower to the earth. Even a cherub with wings falling from such a height might die. Etienne was a flesh-and-blood man; he could not summon his holy patron twice in such a short time.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He felt icy cold—not merely because he had given his sheepskin cloak to the child.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Can you still hear the bell?” he asked the sergeant beside him. The sergeant had no other virtues, but his hearing was exceptional. He leaned intently over the fissure, nodded when the Templar asked. Geoffroy then walked to the rope’s lowering point, where knots had been tied and two knights, under the monk’s signal, moved the stones anchoring the rope.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The torchlight flickered—a moment, and the Templar’s gaze froze. Fear flashed across his face. “Don’t lower!” he rasped—but it was too late.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The rope leapt into the air like a striking viper, snapping from slack to taut, then rebounding—amid all the shouting and scrambling, a rope end flew back from the dark and landed on the ground. It twitched lightly a few times, yet struck their hearts like a whip.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The two servants who had tied the rope had already stepped back instinctively; one had collapsed to the ground.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh God, oh God, Jesus Christ!” the monk screamed, falling to his knees, trembling as he pulled the rope—but what use now? He flung himself down to stare, only in vain.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Geoffroy marched fiercely toward the servant. He had already decided: this was no time for mercy or forgiveness. Since Cesar had shown them the way, they would follow it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The child was surely beyond saving—but weren’t there others here?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>——————\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar had indeed prepared for possible falling. When the sensation of weightlessness came, his heart pounded, but he reacted instantly—not clinging foolishly to the rope, but lunging toward the rock wall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He knew fissures always had recesses or protrusions, and the roots and burrows he’d mentioned before—all could cushion the fall. He had also sensed increasingly thick moisture; the fissure’s bottom could not be far.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He clawed and kicked his way down, sliding, tumbling, striking hard objects several times—whether stone or root, he couldn’t tell. Fortunately, Geoffroy had given him the thick sheepskin cloak; otherwise, he might have broken several ribs.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Pain surged, his mind grew hazy. Amid chaotic images, he strained to discern—he saw light. Faint, but real light!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Anyone who has driven knows: in total darkness, a glimmer means water. Water cannot float in air. He curled his body, turned sideways to the fall, raised his hands to shield his head and neck. He crashed hard onto the ground—a swamp. Water and mud greatly lessened the impact, but he lay motionless for a long while.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Cesar awoke, he knew he had won again—he breathed easily, limbs intact. He took a dried borage leaf from his waist pouch (given by the monk), waited for the pain to ease, then groped for his fallen torch. One was broken, one intact. He struck flint and firesteel repeatedly, ignited a tuft of dry wool, then lit the torch.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had been lowered precisely where people guessed the count and guide had tumbled. He pondered whether to go forward or back, then fell silent, listening. Sounds seemed to drift from ahead. He followed them, walking about three hundred paces, and saw the guide.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Dead. The guide hung impaled on a sharp rock, face up, gray eyes fixed motionless upward, body bent grotesquely, feet nearly touching his head. Though he knew the man couldn’t suddenly rise, Cesar drew his short sword—this was an irrational world. Who knew if he might be the second Wit?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Clearly, lucky ones like Wit were rare. Cesar took another step and saw Count Etienne. This nobleman, whether tested by God or mocked by Satan, sat half-reclined near the guide, eyes wide, fixed on Cesar and his torch. Tears streamed down his face, yet he would not look away, mumbling incessantly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar leaned closer. Ah—the count was praying in fragments: “...Holy Mother Mary, Holy Mother Mary... Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at our hour of death... Oh, forgive, forgive, Lord, have mercy on us!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My lord?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The count’s prayer stopped. When Cesar moved the torch slightly, he cried out: “No, no, no! Whoever you are—angel or devil—don’t leave me, don’t take the torch!” He paused, then studied Cesar closely: “I remember you...”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Next, the count’s action startled Cesar—he leapt up and seized him in a tight embrace: “I remember you! I remember you—you’re the servant of Prince Baldwin of Arasal! You both looked down from the bridgehead—you saw me, and I saw you!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Compared to Baldwin’s veiled face, the black-haired, blue-eyed servant had left a far deeper impression on Count Etienne’s memory.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though he came and went quickly, during his time in Jaffa, Etienne had heard whispers: “How an angel helped a nine-year-old cleanse the entire Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” “How this child, bathed in divine light, gave alms to the poor of the whole city,” “How he persuaded stingy priests to open the church doors for three days and nights...” He had heard enough.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His monk even said they should buy holy buckets and holy mops wholesale from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre’s monks to sell to devout folk back in France.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Only now could he confirm he had seen a real person, not a vision. He screamed hysterically to release his joy, then peered behind Cesar: “Where are the others?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar paused, then understood: Etienne believed he had fallen into a shallow fissure, or that others had found another way in.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said. “This fissure is deep and narrow. They couldn’t descend—only lowered me by rope to find you. By the way,” he unfastened the bell from his waist, shook it hard, waited, shook it again, then a third time.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Not how those above, hearing the bell, rejoiced wildly, nearly dancing with joy—but Cesar must first bring the count to where he had been lowered. “Oh, wait—do you have any herbs from the monk?” Etienne asked, pulling up his cloak. Cesar looked down, startled—the count’s entire right leg was twisted. He moved the torch closer: the dark stains were all blood.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The count had just leapt up. These knights’ physical resilience and pain tolerance were truly remarkable.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar gave him some borage. He chewed it, then declared firmly: “This is Anosian’s work.” He had many questions—how had Baldwin’s servant ended up here, why with Templars?—but right now, returning to the surface was urgent. Don’t linger in this hellish place.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Borage dulled some pain. The count tried shifting his leg. “No use. I can bear the pain, but it won’t move.” He looked at Cesar. “How far is it to where you were lowered?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar thought. “Stay here. I’ll go back and check.” He bit a handful of borage, then gave the count the entire pouch, and lit the broken torch, sticking it into the mud beside him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He returned to where he had fallen. Sure enough, a rope hung there, swaying. He held up the torch, shook it—uncertain if they could see—but shook the bell three times. The rope jerked violently up and down. He gripped it, applied slight pressure—and felt an equal response from the other side.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar exhaled. He walked a few steps, found the broken rope, tied it to the new rope. He looked up, tugged steadily. Above, they didn’t understand—until he shook the bell three more times. Then they grasped it: pulled the rope up, then lowered it again. Now there were two ropes—one could serve as a safety line.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Count Etienne leaned forward, staring at the distant light. It grew faint, then brighter. He sighed deeply. Honestly, when he and the guide tumbled in, he thought he was dead. “Thank God for the holy oil” was his first thought—but he immediately prioritized survival.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He strained to shove the guide beneath him. They struck something, then rolled downward. Two or three more impacts, perhaps more. The guide had passed out—or died—on the first collision, leaving Etienne to maneuver. The count curled his body, shielding himself like a shield with the guide—but on the final impact, his thigh snapped.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Before seeing Cesar and forming illusions, Etienne had little hope for those above—his attendants or the Templars. As for attendants, forget it. The Templars weren’t as noble or fearless as they claimed. He had seen the “Devil’s Mouth.” He knew no one survived such a fall—even if not dead instantly, rescue was nearly impossible. He was a count, yes, but many counts died in accidents and wars.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He was not as calm as Cesar. In the dark, breathing, he was filled with terror—even considered suicide. He didn’t want to starve to death, nor be devoured alive by insects and rodents...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My lord?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He lifted his head, met those green eyes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>——————\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After sending the bell’s signal upward, those above, after their initial joy, fell into argument—keyly, Cesar had torn his shirt, pulled out a linen cloth, and written “Count, Vulner” with a charred stick, tying it to the original rope. The monk saw it at once: the count was likely severely injured, unable to move.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Templars insisted another person descend. “That child is too small.” Count Etienne was a knight; his size and weight were beyond a nine-year-old’s capacity. The count’s attendants feared another descent would waste time—the count was bleeding. Though the monk could treat wounds, lost blood could not be replaced. Too much, and he’d meet God.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Finally, the count’s attendants yielded—but helplessly, the servants, once suspended, either screamed and wept or fainted outright—even the count’s nephew. Such fear could not be overcome by kinship, duty, or gold.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Just as the Templars laughed in anger and the attendants blushed with shame, the bell rang again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>——————\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Three hundred paces were not far, but when Count Etienne and Cesar “arrived,” both sighed in relief.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar would never be foolish enough to carry the count. The count would never abandon himself to a child. Cesar’s strength was enough to serve as the count’s other leg. They moved slowly forward for a long while. Comfortingly, they encountered no further hazards—no snakes, falling rocks, or collapses.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Can you manage? Stay down alone?” Count Etienne asked. “There are two ropes.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The other is the safety rope.” Cesar pulled the rope, threaded it through the count’s belt loops—knights’ belts had many loops for weapons, money pouches, and chainmail hose—strong and secure. The count instantly understood how to use this “safety rope.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When ready, Cesar shook the bell hard, signaling those above to pull the count up.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Waiting in the fissure was indeed agonizing—but Cesar did not feel lonely.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Count Etienne kept groaning “heh-heh-heh.” He had never done rope descent, didn’t know how to protect himself, and now had another broken leg. All he could do was brace his knees and elbows against the wall, avoiding being crushed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Faint shouts came from above—people arguing over force and angle...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As soon as Count Etienne emerged, he was dragged up. He immediately urged them to unfasten the rope and pull up the “good child.” Soon, Cesar climbed up too. He went down neat and tidy; he came up battered and filthy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Geoffroy stepped forward and embraced him, Cesar explained: when he returned to the Holy Cross Fortress, he would have a tailor make a new sheepskin cloak to return to the Templars.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>That cloak was beyond repair. As it was slowly lowered, it filled with sand and dirt; the rope slipped loose. When he fell, it tore in dozens of places. Then it sank into the swamp, stained with blood at the guide’s death site...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You shouldn’t forget the true name of the Order like common folk.” Only after speaking did Geoffroy realize: this child was not a Templar’s servant. Even if he joined an order, it would be the Order of the Holy Sepulchre—his master was Baldwin. He felt a pang of regret. The Order needed such clever, brave new blood.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,” said the count’s monk, walking up with a smile. He had stopped the count’s bleeding; further treatment was beyond his skill. They would have to stay in Arasal a while longer.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The count urged him to examine the boy’s wounds. The Templar lifted the sheepskin cloak. When he pulled back the second layer of clothing, he softly “hmm’d,” but said nothing. He inspected Cesar’s bones and flesh: no fractures, only cracks. Bruises, cuts, and swelling were severe—but within his healing capacity.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Despite the dangers, Cesar felt this journey was worth it. He had seen “Grace” and felt “Bestowal.” At St. John’s Monastery, though monks had visited and treated him, he had been unconscious, unaware. Since joining Baldwin, he had only dislocated once during sparring with David—a wound not requiring a monk to pray to a saint for healing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The monk chanted prayers as he placed his hands on Cesar’s grotesque wounds. Cesar first felt cold—he was certain it wasn’t wind—then heat. This strange sensation, more alien than pain, made him straighten his spine. Geoffroy chuckled kindly, saying if a priest of the Order treated him, he’d stand, run, and jump immediately. The count’s monk gave him several scowls.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Geoffroy then explained the sheepskin cloak to Cesar. The Templars—“The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon”—were founded to serve the poorest believers. At the Council of Troyes, the Pope’s legate (here he made the sign of the cross), two archbishops, eleven bishops, and seven abbots not only recognized the Order’s legitimacy but established its essential rules.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“This is what they call the ‘Original Rule,’” Geoffroy said. “Secular knights crave luxury and display. As monks, we must honor simplicity and equality. Each brother must renounce all personal desires and property before joining. All needs are supplied by the Order. So when I return and report this truth to the Quartermaster, he will reclaim this cloak, symbol of courage and loyalty, and issue me a new sheepskin cloak.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though Cesar knew people of this age deeply valued sacred or evil meanings in objects, hearing Geoffroy say this left him... flustered.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He stood. Though Geoffroy scorned the count’s monk, his treatment had clearly helped Cesar. He wasn’t fully healed, but walking and mounting a horse were possible.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Count Etienne considered himself an honest man, but truthfully, he had a touch of romance. Before departing, he insisted on returning to the spot where he had fallen. Faint dawn light now illuminated their faces; more of the fissure was visible. The count gazed downward, awed: “Now I’m certain—an angel guarded me last night!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had fallen fifteen royal feet and broken only his thigh—not only because he used the man as a shield (the guide), but because the spot had several protrusions: not just rocks, but tangled vines, and one place even a half-skeletonized bear carcass—no one knew how it got there. These gave him multiple cushions, sparing his life.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Count Etienne stood long at the spot where they had lowered Cesar. The monk did not hide the fact that the two servants had tied the rope poorly, nearly killing the boy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>From another angle, a clear mark of struggle was visible, about three men’s height from the fissure’s bottom—nearly one and a half royal feet. The count drew a quiet breath, swallowing the thought: “This is truly a young Saint George.” He had heard of Cesar—he knew the boy had once been an Isaacian slave.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Let’s go,” he said, still dizzy, eager to return to Arasal, where monks could heal his thigh.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But before they could ride through the pine forest, they encountered a group of Seljuks.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They had clearly come prepared, each clad in armor, even their horses were not spared; the leaders wore long chainmail reaching halfway down their calves, along with gauntlets, chainmail trousers, and leg wrappings—completely different from the leather-strapped and ringed armor worn by the common soldiers behind them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They also wore full-face helms—not the typical iron helmets of Crusader knights, but rather iron masks covering the entire face, with chainmail hanging from the bottom edge down to the neck to protect vital areas.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One among them dressed with extraordinary opulence: over a crimson velvet doublet, he wore a long-sleeved cloak lined with bear fur, its outer fabric black silk edged with gold and silver thread embroidery, with a snarling lion embroidered on the chest, its head crowned with a Wang Guan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Had the guide still been alive, he would have danced with excitement at this sight; but the Templars, upon seeing him, would have flown into a rage—for this man was none other than Mulei, the Armenian prince who had once come to Arazalu, sworn oaths before the Crucifix and holy relics, and become a member of the Templar Order.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This man carried himself with dignity and spoke with refinement; all assumed he would become a hero. But who could have guessed he merely concealed his filth beneath a glittering facade? In battle, he shrank back and fled. Among the Templars, there was no surrender—only death in combat. The Grand Master and all members agreed he must be held accountable. Hearing this, he left Arazalu and went to the lands of the Turkic Seljuks.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>There, he became Toghrul II’s hound, a thief who profited from robbing and extorting pilgrims. Every Templar knight had sworn an oath: upon seeing him, they must challenge him, and not rest until they had driven this devil back to hell.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Geoffroy had also sworn that oath, but now that he faced Mulei, he was torn—behind him were the guests of the King of Arazalu, the envoy of Louis VII to the Holy Land, and within this lay a scandal that must be buried.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mulei’s gaze swept over him. Geoffroy’s sheepskin cloak had been lent to Cesar and was now torn beyond repair from the earlier rescue; he had to hide it away. As for the two soldiers and the squire, they wore only black and brown cloaks, each with a red cross embroidered on one side—but compared to white cloaks, they were far less conspicuous.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“May the blessings of the True Lord descend upon you,” Mulei said, his voice distorted by the iron mask, sounding like a demon whispering.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Jesus Christ preserve us!” the count’s chaplain spurred his horse forward and replied loudly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Where are you from, and where are you bound?” Mulei asked. “For the sake of the True Lord, may I have the honor of inviting you to stay at my castle for a few days?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though he called it a “few days’ stay,” they all knew it was merely a euphemism for kidnapping and extortion—Geoffroy had never imagined that after days of circling about, Arazalu had been thrown into turmoil because of this envoy to the Holy Land, that he himself had been tossed by fate’s whims, only to end up exactly where he started… still in Mulei’s grasp.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Templar briefly considered fighting Mulei, but estimated the odds: Count Etienne had only seven or eight men, plus himself—a wounded, unlucky burden. On his side: one knight who had spent the entire night hungry and weary, two soldiers, a squire, and a nine-year-old child.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Meanwhile, the opposite side numbered nearly thirty, clearly well-rested yesterday and well-fed this morning, fully equipped…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Geoffroy worried about one more thing: if Count Etienne were captured, his most likely fate would be imprisonment and ransom. But if the ransom were paid, Mulei would not treat him too harshly—after all, thieves must keep their word, or who would believe him when he promised to release the next victim after payment?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Templars were different. Had Mulei not heard their oath? If he captured the Templar and discovered their identity, he would surely tie them to the backs of horses and drag them to death.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Count Etienne could no longer sigh. He was about to spur his horse forward when a brown Peshir horse stepped ahead of him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mulei stared at the child—perhaps ten years old, or even younger—who rode a horse unusually fine for his age, clad in a sable-lined cloak, from which hung a golden cross inlaid with rubies, as large as a man’s palm.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Who are you?” Mulei’s tone softened slightly. “Child, I’ve never seen you before. You’re beautiful—like a prince.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“If you say so, you’re not far wrong,” Cesar replied calmly. “I am Abigail, only son of Bohemond, Grand Duke of Antioch.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Behind him, Geoffroy gasped heavily. Count Etienne’s eyes widened. They both knew Cesar’s true identity—only moments ago, the count had watched him remove his cloak, turn it inside out, and put it back on. Only now did he realize this was sable fur, fit only for kings or princes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It must have been a gift from Prince Baldwin, but to avoid drawing envious glances, he wore it inside out—so from the outside, it merely looked like a fine velvet cloak.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar felt the weight on his neck. This golden cross was no mere ornament—it was a holy relic, said to have been stolen by King Alfonso I of Aragon from some monastery, genuine and true. Baldwin insisted he carry it, so he had tucked it into his money pouch, never imagining he’d need it at a moment like this.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the first day of the New Year, this extra-long chapter is dedicated to my readers—may your families be safe and well, may all your wishes come true, your careers flourish, your wealth roll in, and your smiles never fade!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of Chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",4606,"2026-06-20T20:58:34.857Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","d639836db6d426ee7060699d70f62609e11b0c8571b0861124319eb5d75628af","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-30","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-28",168,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fthe-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-cover.jpg"]