Chapter 49: Unreasonable and Overbearing

The next morning, Margaret knelt by the creek, brushing her teeth while feeling the cool, refreshing water against her skin. She felt a vague, unusual energy permeating the territory, making it seem livelier than usual.

Suddenly, an ominous premonition washed over her.

"Margaret!" A voice barked from behind, causing her heart to skip a beat and nearly biting her tongue.

She knew that voice all too well; it was undoubtedly her own brother. Rolling her eyes with a mix of exasperation and annoyance, she turned to see Alexander. He stood there wielding a brand-new wooden sword, its tip pointed directly at her, his eyes brimming with provocation.

"I challenge you, sister! Whoever wins shall be the leader!" Alexander announced loudly.

Margaret offered a faint smile, a flicker of disdain crossing her eyes. Rising abruptly with lightning speed, she flicked his forehead hard, sending him crouching to the ground instantly. He clutched his head, glaring at her with fury.

"Who is the leader now?" Margaret said triumphantly. She turned back to her brushing, leaving Alexander behind to nurse the bump on his head, his face twisted in frustration.

"Coward! You ambushed me!" Alexander pointed at her, his face full of grievance and indignation, but before he could finish, he took another flick to the forehead.

Margaret stepped forward and raised her hand, causing Alexander to scramble away, pointing at her as he retreated. "The duel hasn't started yet! You just wait—until I put on my helmet!"

He scurried off, leaving Margaret standing there, stone-faced. She leaned down to scoop up creek water to rinse her mouth, spitting out the salty taste of the sea and rinsing several more times.

Margaret still had no interest in honing her combat skills. She was not naive enough to believe that training would allow her to defeat a man. Combat, after all, was determined by genetics. When men faced a fight, their bodies flooded with adrenaline, doubling their strength and rendering them indifferent to pain. This was precisely why berserkers became such terrifying beasts after quaffing their "herbal tea."

Women, on the other hand, secreted cortisol—the stress hormone—alongside adrenaline. Only oxytocin could counteract the negative effects of that stress. The embarrassing catch was that oxytocin triggered the brain’s nesting and social instincts, often leading to a desire to settle down. Furthermore, women had twice as many nerve fibers per square centimeter of skin as men, and the pain-processing regions of the female brain were significantly more active. This meant that for the same injury, a woman felt double or even triple the pain.

The only people she could possibly defeat were her husband or her little brother if she caught him early enough, which could easily lead to a false sense of capability. Therefore, if she ever encountered a thug, the most effective strategy was not to fight back, but to run for her life. Unless she possessed a suit of full plate armor like the "Maid of Orleans," she would never participate in any real combat.

That said, these principles applied to ordinary people. Margaret was fairly certain she was somewhat unique. Her consciousness seemed never to fade; instead, at certain times, it transferred into a newborn. This meant immortality—a state of perpetual youth and strength—giving her plenty of time to master combat skills. Perhaps Alexander, with his constant challenges, would serve as a whetstone, forcing her lazy self into passive combat training.

She had no interest in such exercise, though. It was pointless anyway, as she would eventually have to swap bodies. Though she hadn't yet grasped the rules of this cycle, would she have to relearn everything each time she changed bodies? Forget it; the mere thought was exhausting. It was far more comfortable to just lie back and relax. Why torture herself?

Just then, Margaret witnessed several Norsemen leading a dozen slaves past. Among the captives were men, women, and children, all appearing weary and desperate.

"Adoni-Ba (Lord, God) protect me!" one slave prayed, hands clasped and eyes turned toward the sky in pious devotion.

"Let them drink!" the slave trader signaled. Upon receiving permission, the captives threw themselves toward the creek, burying their faces in the water and gulping it down as if they had found an oasis in the desert.

Margaret observed them closely. They had black hair, hooked noses, and thick beards, standing out starkly against the fair-skinned, blue-eyed Norsemen. The features seemed vaguely familiar, piquing her curiosity.

She beckoned the slave trader and called out, "I need to ask you something!"

Her imperious manner made the trader eye her cautiously. He approached, appearing to conclude that she was someone not to be trifled with, and spoke politely: "Beautiful lady, is there something you need?"

Margaret reached into the pocket sewn into her sleeve lining, pulled out a golden pea, and handed it to him. She pointed at the slaves and asked, "Answer me: who are these people? Why do they look so different from us?"

The slaves, having quenched their thirst and lying exhausted on the ground, noticed her pointing at them and exchanged wary glances.

"My lady, these are offerings that the priests intend to sacrifice to the gods shortly. They are all heathens who worship a weak, foreign god," the trader replied, beaming with delight as he shoved the golden pea into his pocket without even verifying its authenticity.

"Oh, kind lady, please save me and my poor companions!" one slave suddenly lunged forward and grabbed the hem of Margaret’s dress, startling her.

Not far away, the guards at the entrance of the lord’s hall, who had been watching the scene, sensed trouble. They called to their comrades and began running toward them.

Seeing the slave grab her dress, the trader raised his whip to strike him. "Let go! Let go, you base slave! Remove your filthy hands from this beautiful lady’s dress, you wretched thieves!"

"No more, please, master, spare me! Don't hit me!" The slave quickly pulled his hand away, rolling on the ground and begging for mercy as the whip lashed him.

Margaret’s face filled with compassion. She pulled out a slightly larger golden pea, handed it to the trader, and pointed at him, ordering, "Stop the lashing! I want all these slaves. Go tell the priests to use livestock for the sacrifice instead; human sacrifice is forbidden from now on!"

"My lady, that is impossible!" The trader didn't take the coin; he waved his hands, refusing without hesitation. There was simply no room for negotiation.

Just then, he noticed the group of fierce-looking Housecarls rushing toward them with grim expressions, and he froze. Without a word, the guards drew their longswords, aiming them at the trader and the slaves. The unreasonable, aggressive posture of these elite personal guards terrified everyone present, except for Margaret, who knew the truth.

Seeing this, Margaret immediately stepped forward to shield them.

"Stop!" she glared at the guards, her voice firm and powerful. "I command you as a member of the leader’s family: sheathe your swords. You are frightening my subjects!"

The Housecarls exchanged confused looks, but ultimately returned their swords to their scabbards and bowed to Margaret. "Lady 'Sunshine,' we saw someone attempt to touch your clothing with their filthy hands and were overcome with rage. Please forgive our rashness!"