"Come on, you Bulgar pagan! Let me see your battlefield prowess."
Looking at the pagan, fully armored with his horse, Meshko felt no panic; instead, he felt joy, the joy of facing a formidable enemy.
The Polish Noble drew the spear stuck in the mud beside him and pointed it at the Bulgar Knight before him, poised for his charge.
The Bulgar did not hesitate; he accepted the invitation, decisively kicked his horse's flank, and the well-trained warhorse galloped forward, charging towards the prepared Pole.
Watching the armored warhorse gallop, Meshko became even more serious; the fierce battle around him faded from his mind, and all that remained was the approaching enemy.
The warhorse galloped, the Knight held his spear, and the two adversaries came at each other, their eyes fixed only on one another, both wanting to take the other's life.
The clash was very brief, just for a moment. Meshko's spear struck the enemy's shoulder; the solid, numerous armor plates did not stop this fatal blow, and the immense recoil sent the Bulgar tumbling from his warhorse.
But just as the spear pierced the enemy, the armored warhorse crashed into him, rolling over him.
Even with iron rings protecting him, being crushed by the warhorse like that made the Polish Knight feel as if his bones were shattering. A hoof struck his head; the iron helmet blocked the blow but was dislodged.
Meshko fell heavily to the ground. At that moment, for some reason, he felt the world fall silent. To die in such tranquility was a beautiful thing; once dead, there would be no troubles, no worries. Dying in battle against a pagan, he could surely ascend to God's hall.
But then he saw the sky, such a pure and beautiful sky. Beneath this sky, he felt the pent-up aggression he had accumulated since arriving in Northeast Rus' dissipate at that moment.
The young Polish Knight had been unwilling to come to the remote Northeast Rus', but he wanted to achieve success, and his story could only unfold outside of Poland.
He did not want to rely on his father's protection and remain unknown his entire life, and when the opportunity arose, he decisively seized it.
Meshko still remembered his father asking him with great concern if he could endure the hardships of pioneering. Although he gave an affirmative answer, he did not see the worry on his father's face disappear; instead, it grew heavier.
And upon embarking on the path to Northeast Rus' and arriving in this land, he realized how ignorant he had been of the hardships he would face.
The extreme wilderness was unbearable for a child who grew up in Krakow, but he forced himself to endure it. He could not let others see his weakness.
And as he endured, his aggression grew more severe. He was like a bomb ready to explode at a touch. To alleviate his inner distress, he could only entrust everything to faith, which made him even more fanatical.
But at this moment, feeling the tranquil sky, young Meshko felt how ignorant and meaningless his former self had been.
He also felt regret. He was sorry for his comrades, for letting them face such a terrifying battlefield just for his selfish desires. He was sorry for his mother, for making her worry so much about him. He was sorry for his father, for completely failing to grasp his painstaking efforts.
This world was so beautiful, filled with so many meaningful things. Why had he not discovered them? Why had he been so resentful and fixated on trivial matters?
"Yes, I cannot die yet," Meshko thought. His will to live intensified, and under this strong desire, the Knight, who had previously felt nothing of his surroundings, finally regained his senses, but it was not pleasant.
It was an unforgettable, piercing pain; the agony from where the horse's hooves had trampled him almost made him faint, but he still struggled to sit up—that was all he could do for now.
Meshko's tunic was now stained with blood and mud, making him look disheveled and battered, but he paid no attention to it; now was not the time to care about such things.
What met his eyes was still an endless melee: Rus' people, Poles, Hungarians, Bulgars... so many ethnic groups slaughtering each other here. People constantly fell on the battlefield, and some survived.
Rostislav's retainers had already joined the battle. This relative was the person Meshko most envied, but Meshko had never shown it.
The Moscow Prince, though in such a wild land, was powerfully developing it, transforming this wilderness into a truly civilized place. Meshko clearly understood that he could never achieve this.
The retainers' entry caused the Bulgar heavy cavalry to begin retreating. The Polish Knight watched as the two retainers cooperated, one restraining an enemy while the other struck at the warhorse's carotid artery, and the Bulgar rider and his warhorse tumbled to the bloody mud, falling awkwardly.
He also saw the Bulgar infantry's shield wall broken by the Rus' heavy cavalry, spears shattered, shields splintered, and soldiers scattered, but still unable to escape the frenzied pursuit. The Rus' were like death itself, following close behind them.
The Bulgar riders were stunned by this scene; isolated individuals had already begun to flee. These nobles from the Volga kingdom had lost their courage in battle, and their leader was injured and fallen. Collapse was only a matter of time.
As for the common soldiers, seeing their nobles on the verge of defeat, how could they maintain morale? The Bulgar Army could certainly engulf the Rus' raiding party if they reacted, but now it would take longer.
Meshko saw the Bulgar warrior whose shoulder he had pierced being helped up by comrades who had surrounded him at some point. The spear shaft that had pierced his shoulder had been cut off, and several shield-bearing warriors stood guard nearby.
"What a pity, he's still an important figure. If only I could have cut off his head."
And just as Meshko was lamenting this, the warrior who had been helped up pointed towards the Polish Knight, who was barely sitting up, and then a Bulgar warrior approached with a scimitar.
"Ha, in the end, will it be my head that's taken? Really, just when I wanted to walk the right path, I'm about to fall in battle. God's will is truly unfathomable."
Meshko thought this as he watched the Bulgar warrior approach.
But in the next moment, the Volga warrior's neck was pierced by a sharp arrow, and his body fell lifelessly.
Meshko saw a warhorse stop behind him. The Polish Knight struggled to look back, and he saw the smile of the person he had once intensely disliked, but now felt so close to.
"Kid, in the end, I still had to save you."
Edward Wessex rode on his horse, holding a recurve bow, speaking as he shot down another advancing Bulgar warrior. His demeanor was so elegant, as if he were not on a battlefield, but in a hunting ground.