Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 212 Post-War Reflections

Chapter 213 Post-War Reflections

"I......!!!"

Zawish felt a chill run down his spine, and a cold sensation shot straight to the top of his head.

He involuntarily clutched his head with both hands, his fingers digging deep into his sweaty hair, his body trembling slightly from shock and lingering fear.

He was not only horrified by Peter's extremely bold tactics—that he would use himself as bait to actively attract the powerful Hungarian main force—but also admired Peter's ruthless foresight and meticulous planning, and then felt a deep sense of powerlessness.

Such an enemy—meticulous in thought, ruthless in methods, possessing both courage and wisdom, ruthless to the enemy, and ruthless to himself—

Is he really someone that Zawis, or even the entire Polish mercenary group, can match?

Looking at Peter's tall and imposing figure, he felt an unprecedented pessimism about his future and the course of the war.

It turns out he was just an insignificant pawn in this game of chess.

The chess player was none other than Prince Brunswick, who was excessively young, terrifyingly strong, and whose mind was as deep as an abyss.

Peter stopped paying attention to Zawish's thoughts.

After dealing with the ransom matters, he did not immediately move towards the ruins of Zimborg. With so many people and so many supplies, marching in broad daylight would be too conspicuous, so he decided to travel at night.

With plenty of time still to go before nightfall, Peter never wasted a single precious moment.

He surveyed the battlefield strewn with corpses, a complex expression flashing in his eyes.

These Polish soldiers, who were fierce enemies just half an hour ago, are now nothing more than empty shells awaiting their rest.

Under his arrangement, some knights began preparing supplies for the night march.

Some knights directed the prisoners to begin digging graves in preparation for burying the fallen soldiers.

On the battlefield they may be enemies, but after they die, they are just a group of souls waiting for redemption.

Moreover, burying corpses can effectively prevent panic and the occurrence of plagues.

Due to the rudimentary tools available—the prisoners only had a few shovels and pickaxes salvaged from the battlefield—the progress was extremely slow.

They worked in pairs, taking turns using tools to painstakingly carve out the hard ground.

Peter frowned slightly as he watched this scene. He summoned his deputy, whispered a few instructions, and then personally led more than ten knights and several fully loaded wagons toward the old village of Kutna.

The wheels creaked as they rolled over the wreckage on the battlefield.

When Peter and his party arrived at the village entrance, the afternoon sun cast its last golden rays upon the spire of the village church.

Peter reined in his horse, took a deep breath, and shouted in a loud voice, "Villagers of Old Kutner! This is Brunswick! The enemy has been defeated, and you can all come out safely!"

His voice echoed through the quiet village, startling a few pigeons perched under the eaves.

At first, the village remained deathly silent, as if all life had vanished. But soon, a wooden door creaked open a crack, then a second, then a third...

The villagers cautiously peeked out, and when they saw that it was indeed Peter and his knights, the long-suppressed cheers finally erupted.

Men and women poured out of their homes, and children excitedly weaved through the crowd, as if the whole village had come alive in an instant.

Father Marian, dressed in a slightly worn black robe and carrying a silver crucifix, strode out of the church. The young priest's face was filled with barely concealed excitement, and his eyes shone even brighter when they met Peter's gaze.

"Prince Brunswick!"

The priest's voice trembled slightly with emotion, "Thank the Lord, you have returned safely! We have been praying for you."

J

When the villagers' gazes passed over Peter and landed on the large trucks, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

The mountains of weapons and armor gleamed coldly in the setting sun—chainmail stained with dark red blood, broken shields, snapped spears, and the faintly discernible Polish emblems all testified to the brutality of the battle that had just ended.

Young Chris leaped nimbly off his horse and eagerly recounted the battle to the villagers who had gathered around him.

As he described how Peter charged into the enemy ranks single-handedly and how the Knights of the Silver Dawn defeated a much larger force, the villagers' eyes were filled with awe and admiration.

"This must be an angel sent by God to save us!" an old woman murmured, making the sign of the cross.

Peter raised his hand at the opportune moment, signaling Chris to stop talking.

He looked around at the villagers gathered there, his gaze sweeping over every weathered face.

"Fellow villagers," Peter's voice was clear and firm, "there are still many fallen soldiers on the battlefield whose bodies need to be buried."

They were enemies in life, but in death they are all souls waiting for God's redemption, and they deserve a dignified farewell.

I am willing to pay each person one Grossen to hire everyone to bring their own tools and help bury the dead.

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As soon as he finished speaking, a warm response erupted from the crowd.

Back when they worked in the mines, they earned less than five pfennigs a day. One Grossen's wage was enough to improve the lives of any family for several days.

The villagers rushed home and retrieved all sorts of digging tools.

Shovels, hoes, picks... even some elderly people were carrying wooden hand shovels. In just fifteen minutes, almost everyone in the village who could work had gathered at the village entrance, forming a special team.

Under Peter's leadership, this group of knights and villagers returned to the battlefield.

The sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving only a dark red afterglow on the horizon, as if even the heavens were mourning this tragic battle.

When the newly arrived villagers saw the horrific scene of the battlefield, they couldn't help but gasp in horror.

But soon, under the knights' command, they began to get to work.

With sufficient tools and manpower, the excavation progress accelerated significantly.

The sound of iron striking stone echoed in the darkening twilight, like a somber requiem.

The villagers worked in pairs, digging graves in designated areas. Once a grave was dug, a captive would carefully carry a corpse over and gently place it into the hole.

"May the Lord forgive these lost souls..." the old farmer prayed softly as he dug, "may they find rest in the end, whether good or evil."

Not far away, a young Polish prisoner was gently closing the eyes of his dead comrade, whispering a prayer in Polish.

When he looked up, he met Peter's gaze. The young man paused for a moment, then nodded slightly in greeting, the previous hostility gone from his eyes.

After all the bodies were placed in the graves, people spontaneously gathered around the newly opened cemetery.

The knights removed their helmets, the prisoners stood with their heads bowed, and the villagers laid down their tools. Everyone was immersed in a solemn atmosphere, awaiting the final ceremony.

Father Marian, Bible in hand, walked slowly to the center of the cemetery. The evening breeze ruffled his black robe, and the cross in his hand gleamed faintly in the twilight.

"The Lord makes you lie down in green pastures, and rest by the woods and the waters..."

The priest's steady and melodious Latin prayers drifted in the night breeze: "He cleanses your lost souls."

Lord, forgive these lost sheep, grant them eternal rest, and let eternal light shine upon them...

Although most of the prisoners did not understand Latin, the rhythm of the prayers and the priest’s solemn expression conveyed everything.

Many Polish soldiers had tears in their eyes, and some began to whisper prayers in Polish.

Zawish stood among the prisoners, watching this scene with mixed feelings.

As an experienced commander, he had fought countless battles and witnessed too many deaths.

But this is the first time I've seen such a dignified funeral held for a defeated enemy.

His own light involuntarily followed Peter's figure.

The young prince personally went to each grave and solemnly sprinkled the first handful of soil. Peter's movements were slow and devout, as if he were performing a sacred mission.

A low sob rose from among the prisoners.

A young Polish soldier suddenly knelt down and choked out in broken Czech, "Thank you, Your Highness... thank you for giving my comrade his final dignity."

Zawis took a deep breath and slowly walked up to Peter. The Polish commander bowed slightly and said, "Your Highness, on behalf of all Polish soldiers, I thank you for your kindness. We will remember this act of kindness."

By the time the last grave was filled in, the sun had completely set. Following instructions, the villagers placed simple wooden crosses in front of each mound. These rough crosses, though crude, exuded a solemn atmosphere.

Father Marian once again raised the cross and sprinkled holy water on the cemetery, the water falling like tears onto the freshly turned soil.

"May you rest in the embrace of the Lord, Amen."

"Amen." The crowd responded in unison, their voices echoing through the night sky and lingering for a long time.

The prisoners bowed to Peter one by one, their eyes filled with respect.

Zawish was the last to step forward. He looked intently at Peter, as if trying to etch the young prince's face into his memory.

"Your Highness," Zawish's voice was deep and sincere, "you have shown me what true chivalry is."

Peter nodded slightly and said, "I am a knight of God, blessed by God, and in the process of seeking the path to salvation, I have come to understand one thing:

Justice is the measure God bestows upon the human heart; courage is the hymn of humanity itself; and strength is the use of power to protect.

The sword in my hand has always been wielded for this kind of justice!

Perhaps one day you will understand the meaning of these words, and stop pointing your sword at unarmed civilians, and you will join our ranks.

"Justice, courage, strength, redemption?"

Zawish fell into deep thought. He reflected on his twenty-three years of life, and it seemed no one had ever taught him this principle. He had always believed that the strong should rule and dominate the weak, and that all he needed to do was keep winning. He saw nothing wrong with pointing his sword at civilians.

But at this moment, he understood why Jezek was so resistant to him.

Perhaps I was really wrong!

How can I save my soul?

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