Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 151 An Awkward Reunion

Fate never bestows favors, it only makes choices. Some are born into wealth and luxury, while others struggle in the mud, just like the power games of this world, where the truth is always hidden beneath appearances.

Rain pounded against the castle windows, distorting the newly affixed griffin emblems on them.

Inside the castle's banquet hall, Peter and George Seidletz sat at opposite ends of a long table, the intricate carvings on the oak surface resembling an insurmountable chasm.

Peter's fingers unconsciously traced the griffin emblem on the sword hilt. He noticed George glancing occasionally at his striking red hair.

"Trowski's wine is quite good," George finally broke the silence, raising his silver glass and swirling it gently. His voice rang out loudly in the empty hall.

Peter nodded slightly. He did not explicitly state that his territory did not produce wine, and that it was all purchased from outside.

His gaze swept over George's silk coat embroidered with the Seidleitz family crest, a crest he had seen countless times on caravan flags, yet had never felt any connection to it.

George put down his glass and remarked, "You're starting to look more and more like Selena."

This sentence was like a key, unlocking the floodgates of memory. Several fragmented images flashed through Peter's mind:

A blonde woman held him, the sunlight gilding her figure. Was she his mother? Or a figment of his imagination based on others' descriptions? He wasn't sure. His mother had supposedly died in childbirth; did infants have memories?

"I don't remember what she looked like." Peter's voice was calm to the point of being cold.

George's Adam's apple bobbed, and he reached up to straighten his neatly pressed collar—a small gesture that betrayed his unease. "Indeed, you were just born when she died."

Silence fell between them again. The rain intensified, its pounding against the stone wall sounding like a stampede of horses. Peter recalled the battle when he first arrived here; caravan members lay dead on the ground, and the original owner's head had been nearly smashed to pieces by a mace.

"Sir George," Peter finally spoke, the title sounding unfamiliar and heavy on his tongue, "you've come all this way not just to taste Trostsky's wine, have you?"

George leaned forward slightly, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on his face. "I have come to your aid with twenty cavalrymen, including two knights, on your grandfather's orders. The von Polgao family will not let this go easily; you need the support of the Seidleitz family."

His tone carried the confidence characteristic of nobility, the arrogance born from a belief in one's own superiority. Peter noticed that when George spoke of "cavalry," the corners of his mouth unconsciously turned up—a genuine smile of pride.

"I thank Count Seidleitz for his kindness," Peter said carefully, "but the situation in Trossky has stabilized."

George raised an eyebrow. "Stable? I've heard that your neighbors are amassing armies, preparing to seize this castle." He tapped the table lightly. "My cavalry are the best in Bohemia; their horses are strong, their armor is excellent, and their horsemanship is superb."

This uncle may genuinely want to help, but he cannot see Peter as an equal ally, but merely as a child who needs guidance and protection.

"I have faith in the fighting prowess of the Seidleitz cavalry," Peter said, "but I have already devised a plan to launch a surprise attack on Itchin Castle during this rain. If you do not mind, please rest at the castle and we can discuss the details when I return in triumph."

George jumped to his feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound. "You're refusing our help?"

Do you really think an army made up of peasants can stand against real knights?

Peter also stood up, his movements slow and restrained, but every muscle in his body was tense. "My men may be of humble origin, but they have been tempered by war and know why they fight."

"For plunder? For gold and silver?" George sneered. "Without noble blood, without family support, how long can your rule last? A month? Two months?"

Thunder rumbled in, like the roar of a god. Peter took a deep breath. "For survival, Sir George. To no longer be trampled on like ants."

"To hell with survival! A farmer who only strives to survive is still a farmer, never as good as a true knight!" George seemed to have a bad temper and would yell at the drop of a hat.

"And to this day, you still won't call me 'uncle'!"

"Uncle? Ha, what a ridiculous title."

Peter's anger flared. "You only acknowledge me as your family now?" Peter's voice was exceptionally clear amidst the thunder. "Where were you when I lived with pigs at Seydletts Manor? Where were you when I was whipped by the steward for stealing leftovers from the kitchen? Where were you when I nearly froze to death in the woodshed in the dead of winter, wearing only a tattered linen coat?"

His words were like sharp swords piercing George. These memories didn't belong to the time traveler Peter, but were the original owner's deep-seated pain. Now, they surged up like a flood.

"When I was seven, I had a high fever. It was the stable boy's daughter who secretly brought me water, and the cook's apprentice who found me herbs. But my family—none of you even bothered to look at me!"

George's face turned from red to white. "You think we want this? You think it's easy to watch your sister's child suffer before your eyes?" His voice trembled. "But it's the only way to protect you!"

"Protection?" Peter sneered. "Making me work like a serf is protection? Letting me go hungry and cold is protection? Letting me grow up amidst the ridicule of noble children is protection?"

"You ungrateful idiot!"

George roared, "If it weren't for the Seydlett family, you'd be dead somewhere long ago! What do you think you've done to live to adulthood? Luck?"

Peter stepped forward, the firelight from the fireplace dancing in his eyes. "I survived with my own two hands! I set traps in the forest to catch hares, I fished in the river, I did hard labor in the market! Every bite of food I ate was earned with my own blood and sweat!"

"Blood and sweat?" George scoffed. "How many coppers are your blood and sweat worth? If it weren't for the family's tacit approval, you wouldn't even have a job! If it weren't for the family's protection, you would have been hanged like a vagrant long ago!"

The rain intensified, and the wind rushed in through the chimney, whipping the flames in the fireplace wildly. The two shadows twisted and distorted on the wall, mirroring their complex and painful relationship.

George suddenly fell silent, slumping back into his chair and covering his face with his hands. When he looked up again, the anger in his eyes had been replaced by a deep sorrow.

"God, Selena, forgive us," he murmured, then looked at Peter. "But it all started with your father. Do you want to know who he is?"

Peter paused for a moment. As a transmigrator, he had no interest in the biological father of this body, but the seriousness in George's tone forced him to take the matter seriously.

"Who is he?" Peter asked, trying to make his voice sound concerned.