"Ah!..."
October's autumn harvest, yet the fields outside the Moors' desolate village were full of tall wild grass, exuding a sense of bleak desolation. Blue tits boldly landed to rest on the eaves, only to be startled into flight by a sudden, chilling scream. It circled above the village, scanning, seeing only the Cross cavalry laughing around, and in the center, a Moorish captive collapsed on the ground, his voice hoarse.
"Haha! Che coglione! What a useless fool! Seeing this guy's expression just now, I thought we might encounter a defiant heathen!..."
The young Cross cavalry laughed heartily, watching the Moorish noble writhe on the ground, face covered with blood, as if they were seeing an amusing monkey show. There was no pity in their eyes, for in their traditional understanding, tormenting and killing a heathen was not just devoid of crime but a pious virtue.
"Ha! Truly dull!..."
