So I want to mention that in this chapter, Theresa is not weak, technically.
Because this is a fan fiction, I need to change some things.
Even in the medieval Europe in 15 century bohemia you cannot expect that Theresa would be such a killer who could easily kill anyone.
I can say that she is brave and has learned to, I mean, she is brave even in the face of death, but kind of like she was for such alone for long time, she was living on her own, escaping from people, but this time she got caught.
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As the bile left his throat, the icy night air slowly washed over Henry’s face, bringing a wave of clarity back to his aching head.
His hands were still trembling, but as his breathing evened out, his muscles regained their strength.
He couldn’t afford to collapse again.
Out here, with night settling in and blood drying on his hands, feeling sorry for himself would get him killed.
Standing up, Henry began stripping the dead mercenaries with cold, methodical efficiency.
He unbuckled their padded jackets, pulled off their blood-stained gambesons, unlaced two rusted iron chainmail hauberks, and untied a sturdy kettle hat.
He didn’t plan on wearing these filth-stained garments himself, but steel and armor were precious commodities in war-torn Bohemia.
He stored every piece directly into his system inventory—supplies that would one day equip his own men when he raised a garrison.
Next, he walked over to the iron-bound wooden chest sitting in the churchyard mud.
He unlatched it and scooped up a heavy handful of cold silver groschen, watching the metal glitter in the pale moonlight.
“The price of a life…” he muttered softly under his breath.
He touched the remaining stacks of coin, willing all four hundred silver groschen into his inventory pouch.
Stepping through the shattered oak doors of Saint James Church, Henry spent the next hour searching the precinct for whatever else the scavengers had gathered.
Hidden in the cool shadows of the parish storeroom, he hit a motherlode of stolen provisions:
3 Heavy Burlap Sacks of milled winter rye and cracked barley.
2 Oak Firkins packed with salted lard and cured pork sides.
3 Whole Rounds of hard, wax-sealed mountain cheese.
They really had looted to their hearts’ content.
Henry packed a portion of the cheese and cured pork into his personal inventory and tied the rest into heavy bundles.
Deep in the nave, he found a heap of stripped metal: heavy pewter flagons, a bronze altar bell, iron cooking pots, and lead roofing strips torn directly off the church eaves.
In a smithy, these raw metals could be melted down into nails, kettles, and iron arrowheads.
As he pondered how he was going to transport hundreds of pounds of metal and grain, a low whinny and the stomp of hooves echoed from behind the overgrown parish garden.
Henry instantly unsheathed Sir Radzig’s longsword, creeping silently toward the sound.
Tied under an oak lean-to were two sturdy brown draft mares hitched to a heavy two-wheeled wooden cart.
The scavengers had already prepared their getaway transport.
Henry smiled grimly.
Working quickly in the dark, he spent the next two hours loading the sacks of grain, firkins of lard, metal scrap, and heavy loot onto the cart frame.
Mounting the wooden driver’s seat, he grabbed the reins and guided the two mares away from Rovna, driving the cart deep into the dense, dark woods along the ridge.
He navigated the cart up a narrow, hidden forest gorge.
There, in a blind hollow surrounded by steep earthen embankments, he unhitched the two draft mares, tied them securely, and gave them a nosebag of dry oats.
He then cut thick evergreen branches and draped them over the cart, camouflaging the entire stash beneath a wall of brush.
Before leaving, he grabbed a heavy ash-wood spade with an iron-reinforced blade from the churchyard tool shed and stashed it into his inventory.
Returning to Olena, Henry saddled his horse and turned her head toward the valley road to Skalitz.
The pre-dawn gloom hung heavy over the countryside.
It was that liminal hour where the blackness of night began to yield to a pale, bruised purple along the eastern horizon.
Henry rode alone through the silence, accompanied only by the rhythmic clatter of Olena’s hooves and his own thoughts.
He thought of the men he had killed in Rovna, the warm blood on his face, and the harsh truth of his existence.
He was no longer a college student playing a game behind a glowing monitor.
He was a survivor in 1403, and if he wanted to live to see tomorrow, his hands would have to get far dirtier before this was over.
As he rounded the mountain ridge, the ruins of Skalitz came into view.
In reality, the town was vastly larger than its digital counterpart—a sprawling fortress city anchored by stone battlements and a massive timber outer bailey.
But now, it was a graveyard of smoke and ash.
All along the approach road lay the horrific aftermath of Sigismund’s terror.
Charred skeletons of timber houses stood like black ribs against the gray sky.
Snow-white ash drifted across the road, and piled along the ditches were the bloated, blackened corpses of villagers—men, women, and children who had been cut down where they ran.
If Henry had seen this horror days ago, he would have collapsed and vomited.
But after facing death in the churchyard, a cold, protective numbness shielded his mind.
The sight haunted him deeply, but he forced his heart to hold steady.
Nearing the lower farmsteads outside the city gates, Henry reined Olena in behind a half-burned timber barn.
He tethered her out of sight, unslung his loaded crossbows, donned his dark stealth hood and tunic, and drank a weak Nighthawk potion.
He crept toward the main gates on foot, keeping to the shadows of the outer walls.
The bandits and Cuman stragglers were either sleeping off their plunder or huddled around fires deep within the inner castle keeps.
Henry wasn’t about to pick an unnecessary fight; luck was a fickle mistress, and he wouldn’t waste his life on foolish bravado.
Passing through the scorched wooden arch of the lower gate, he spotted a body lying face-down in the mud.
It was the Bailiff of Skalitz, his fine robes ruined by blood.
Henry crouched, quietly retrieved the Bailiff’s heavy steel arming sword from his belt, and slipped it into his inventory before moving on.
He turned the corner into the lower hamlet, approaching the burnt remains of his father’s forge.
The sky finally broke, releasing a heavy, freezing mist that quickly turned into a steady, gray rain.
The cold drops washed through the soot on Henry’s face, but he hardly felt them.
Lying in the red-stained mud near the garden gate were Martin and Radka.
The sight didn’t just hurt—it ruptured something deep inside his ribs.
It wasn’t the distant sorrow of an outsider reading a history book; it was the raw, screaming agony of the boy who had eaten at their table, complained about his chores, and taken their warmth for granted every day of his life.
A ragged sob tore out of Henry’s throat.
His legs buckled, crashing knees-first into the freezing slush.
He crawled on all fours over the dirt, his hands slick with mud and rainwater, until he reached them.
“Dad…
Mom…” he choked, gathering Radka’s cold, stiff hand into his own trembling fingers.
Her skin was ice.
Martin’s face was turned toward the gray sky, his brow still set in the fierce, stubborn glare he held when he died protecting his home.
Henry pulled them close, pressing his forehead against his mother’s pale collar, weeping until his chest burned and his voice rasped to a whisper. This chapter was copied from novelping dot com without permission.
The freezing rain soaked through his gambeson, heavy and relentless, as he gently gathered Martin’s heavy frame onto his shoulders, carrying him up the slippery slope to the ancient linden tree.
Every step felt like dragging an anchor, his boots sliding in the wet clay.
He returned for his mother, lifting her light, frail body into his arms and cradling her head against his chest so the rain wouldn’t strike her face.
Kneeling in the wet dirt under the swaying branches, he drove the iron spade into the heavy mud.
He dug through the downpour, rain streaming into his eyes and stinging the blisters on his palms.
He dug until his arms trembled from exhaustion, carving a deep, quiet grave out of the Skalitz earth.
Gently, he lowered them together, resting Martin’s arm around Radka’s shoulders, lacing their stiff fingers into one another.
Standing over the edge, rainwater running off his chin, Henry closed his eyes and whispered the Latin prayers Martin used to recite at the dinner table.
As he shoveled the soft, dark earth back over their bodies and placed heavy river stones over the mound, he spoke into the quiet morning mist:
“I will give you rest…
and I swear by Almighty God, I will get us justice.”
A subtle shift occurred beneath his ribs.
The sharp, agonizing friction in his chest—the feeling of two distinct minds struggling for control—began to quiet down.
The lingering ghost of the original Henry didn’t vanish into nothingness; it merged into him completely.
The local dialect of the Bohemian hills, the rough cadence of a blacksmith’s speech, the muscle memory of holding a hammer, and the deep, unshakeable roots of a boy raised in Skalitz fused seamlessly with his modern mind.
He wiped the rainwater and mud from his cheeks.
He wasn’t just a stranger occupying a dead boy’s shell anymore.
He was Henry of Skalitz.
========
Henry knew his time in the ruins of Skalitz was rapidly running out.
If he was going to find any survivors—or his dog, Mutt—he had to act fast before the lingering Cuman patrols or bandit squads spotted him.
First, he turned back toward the scorched remains of his family’s forge.
He remembered where Martin had a small contingency hidden away in case of fire or hardship.
Stepping through the smoldering beams of his home, Henry kicked open the collapsed timber floorboards directly above the quenched cooling tank.
Beneath the soot and gravel lay a heavy iron strongbox.
Henry hoisted it out and forced the lock.
Inside lay Martin’s true legacy:
100 genuine silver Prague groschen
3 high-purity ingots of refined Styrian carbon steel
Martin’s personal stamped minting die
Henry took the 100 groschen and placed them into his active coin pouch alongside 200 groschen from his recent plunder, bringing his belt pouch to a solid 300 silver groschen.
The remaining steel ingots, the mint die, and his spare coin stash were stowed safely away into his system inventory.
Rather than retracing his steps back through the main gate, Henry decided to use the secluded back exit—the very path he had ridden through during his harrowing escape on horseback days prior.
He made his way up toward the rear castle postern.
The wooden archway was partially collapsed, blocked by charred, heavy logs.
Drawing a heavy arming blade, Henry swung systematically, hacking and rolling the burnt beams aside until a narrow crawling space opened up.
He slipped through the gap into the misty, overgrown gully behind the castle, keeping his steps silent as he descended the muddy slope toward the lower woods.
Suddenly, a sharp, familiar bark echoed through the damp trees.
Henry froze, dropping into a crouch.
Down the hill, a gray shape burst through the wet underbrush, running hard toward him.
As the creature closed the distance, it slowed down, whining softly and thrashing its tail against the high grass.
“Mutt?” Henry whispered, his eyes widening.
He dropped to his knees as the hound bounded into his arms, nuzzling its wet nose against Henry’s sleeve.
Henry stroked the dog’s thick coat, feeling a wave of warmth in his chest.
“Is that really you, boy?
I thought…
I thought I’d never see you again.
Do you want to come with me?”
Mutt let out a sharp, eager bark—Woof!
Woof!—then spun around, staring intently down the hill toward the stream near the lower mill.
The hound barked twice more with frantic urgency, looking back over its shoulder at Henry.
“What is it, Mutt?”
The dog trotted toward the tree line, ears pinned back.
Henry followed closely behind.
As they neared the timber sheds of the Skalitz mill, a terrified woman’s scream pierced the quiet mist:
“Help!
Somebody help me!
Please!”
Henry gestured sharply with his hand.
“Down, Mutt.
Stay.”
The hound dropped instantly into the tall grass.
Henry unslung a loaded heavy crossbow from his inventory and crept around the corner of the grain shed, keeping his silhouette hidden behind a stack of rotted fence posts.
Near the mill’s rear entry, two Cumans had cornered a woman against a pile of hay.
One Cuman had already unbuckled his iron helmet, tossing it into the mud while unlacing his breeches and tearing viciously at her skirt.
The second Cuman held her pinned down by the wrists, laughing coarsely in his guttural tongue.
“Last time you escaped because of that boy!” the Cuman unlacing his pants sneered in broken Bohemian.
“Now you take his place!
My friends, the whole army will have you…
every man will enjoy you!”
Through the dirt and tears on her face, Henry recognized her instantly.
It was Theresa.
A sudden, blinding fury erupted in Henry’s chest, but he forced his muscles to stay still.
A single mistake here would mean death for both of them.
He took a slow, deep breath, raised the steel crossbow, and lined up the iron sight with cold, lethal precision.
THWACK.
The heavy piercing bolt released with a deafening snap of iron and cable.
The bolt struck the Cuman squarely between the legs, tearing straight through his groin.
The Cuman let out an ear-splitting, gurgling shriek, collapsing backward onto the hay, rolling violently as blood soaked through his torn trousers.
Theresa gasped in sheer disbelief.
The second Cuman froze in horror, staring at his screaming comrade before wildly looking around for his axe and shield.
Before he could grab his weapon, Henry cycled his second loaded crossbow from his inventory and squeezed the trigger.
THWACK.
The bolt buried itself deep into the second Cuman’s stomach.
The raider snarled through the pain, drawing a curved sabre and rushing wildly toward the corner of the shed where Henry stood.
Henry dropped the empty crossbow, drew his arming sword, and stepped into the Cuman’s frantic overhead slash.
CLANG!
Henry parried the curved blade aside, stepped inside the raider’s guard, and thrust his sword straight through the Cuman’s ribs.
He twisted the blade and yanked it free as the raider collapsed face-down into the mud.
Henry sprinted over to the hay pile.
“Theresa!
Are you hurt?”
Theresa’s chest heaved in violent, ragged gasps.
The shock of survival had her entire body trembling violently.
She looked at Henry—at his blood-stained tunic, his dark eyes, and his steady grip—and the absolute horror in her face broke into tears.
She threw her arms around his neck with desperate strength, burying her rain-soaked face into the crook of his shoulder.
She wept hysterically, her fingers clutching tightly into the fabric of his dark coat as if letting go for a single second would pull her back to the ground.
“They…
they took everyone, Henry,” she sobbed, her voice muffled against his chest, her small frame shaking against his armor.
“My brothers…
my father…
they killed them all…
and then they had me cornered…
I thought…”
“Shh.
I’ve got you,” Henry murmured softly, wrapping one arm firmly around her back and shielding her from the cold wind.
“You’re safe.
I won’t let anyone touch you.”
In the bleak ruin of Skalitz, surrounded by smoke and corpses, she pulled back just enough to look into his face, her hand lingering against his cheek.
In his eyes, she didn’t see the reckless blacksmith’s boy who used to idle away at the tavern—she saw a protector, a quiet anchor in a world that had fallen apart.
As Henry tried to gently pull back to retrieve his sword, Theresa’s eyes locked onto the groaning Cuman thrashing in the hay.
Overwhelmed by sheer terror and blind rage, she grabbed Sir Radzig’s masterwork longsword lying nearby and stood over the wounded raider.
With a primal scream, she brought the heavy blade down twice, three times, hacking wildly at the Cuman to ensure he would never touch another woman again.
On her final desperate blow, the heavy longsword drove deep into the Cuman’s chest, jamming fast between his ribs and spine with a sickening crunch.
“Theresa, stop!
Calm down, we have to go!” Henry shouted, grabbing her arms.
Suddenly, shouting voices and the orange glow of torches swept down the pathway from the upper gate.
A massive band of local deserters and bandits, drawn by the screams, were charging down toward the mill yard.
Henry lunged for Sir Radzig’s sword, placing his boot against the dead Cuman’s chest and yanking on the gilded hilt with all his strength.
It wouldn’t budge.
Bone and muscle held the masterwork steel like a vise.
The heavy footsteps and coarse shouts were seconds away.
Henry faced a brutal, split-second choice: die struggling to free a trapped sword from a corpse, or save Theresa’s life.
Abandoning the blade, Henry scooped Theresa up over his shoulder, kicked open the mill’s rear garden gate, and slipped into the pitch-black orchard mist.
Hiding in the dense, wet thicket of wild berry bushes, Henry pressed his palm gently over Theresa’s mouth, holding her close as her chest heaved against his.
A moment later, a towering, scarred bandit leader—Runt—kicked open the mill yard gate, followed by a dozen armed men.
“Where the hell did these Cumans come from?!” Runt growled, kicking the corpse in the mud.
“Looting our territory…”
One of his lieutenants bent over the first Cuman, then recoiled in shock.
“Boss…
look at this one.
An arrow took his bloody manhood clean off!”
Runt’s eyes drifted to the hay pile, catching the glimmer of gold on the sword hilt protruding from the second Cuman’s ribs.
Runt stepped over, placed his heavy boot on the corpse, and yanked Sir Radzig’s longsword free with a wet snap of bone.
He held the gilded guard up to the torchlight, inspecting the intricate engraving, and let out a deep, booming laugh.
“A high lord’s blade…” Runt grinned, testing the edge.
“Whoever was here ran off like a frightened hare and left us a king’s ransom!
Spread out!
Search the orchard!”
From the safety of the dark brush, Henry watched Runt walk off with Sir Radzig’s sword.
His chest burned at the loss, but as he felt Theresa breathing safely beside him, he knew he had made the right choice.
Radzig’s blade was gone, but Theresa was alive and breathing in his arms.
That was a trade he’d make every single time.
Once the bandits moved off toward the upper town, Henry whispered into Theresa’s ear.
“We’re moving.
Keep quiet.”
They slipped out of the orchard, where Mutt silently trotted out from the bushes to join them, wagging his tail low to the ground.
Navigating the muddy ridge back to the ruined farmstead, Henry untethered Olena from behind the barn.
He lifted Theresa onto the saddle, climbed up behind her, and took the reins in his hands.
With Mutt pacing beside them in the dark, Henry reined Olena forward, riding hard through the night back toward his hidden stash at Rovna.