Chapter 68
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 68
Chapter Title: Intermission Play: The Saintess of Orléans (4)
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Saintess.
Rural birth.
Influenced by her parents, she possessed an exceedingly devout faith, and like most commoners, she was illiterate, unable to read a single letter due to lack of education.
She was a country girl with not one ordinary trait about her, but the flames of war consumed her hometown.
It was then that a voice spoke to the girl, barely thirteen years old.
Follow God's will and save this chaotic world.
For an ordinary girl, that voice bore too heavy a burden, so at first, she even thought of laying it down.
But the tide of the era would not release her.
And so, she ultimately answered the divine call and became a saintess, but even then, trials and tribulations awaited before she could be truly recognized as one.
- Are you sure a lowly wench like you really heard God's voice?
Few truly listened to the girl's claim of hearing God's voice.
Her body, far more mature than her peers, stirred imaginations of a different sort rather than inspiring holiness.
Reflect a saintess in a mirror, and out comes a witch.
Thus doubted and forced to prove herself.
Yet that very process began to etch indelible scars upon her heart, slowly and steadily.
Omnipotent, they said.
But in an era where God never showed His face or extended a saving hand to those in torment, it was ever thus.
If one sought a difference.
Saintess.
Joan of Arc walked the path of national salvation, fully sacrificing herself despite the persecutions.
Saintess.
Roselin had endured the Holy Kingdom's absurdities until she could bear no more, severing ties with it almost completely, if not publicly.
Roselin had deeply empathized with Joan of Arc's journey, unwittingly projecting her own emotions onto it.
Kim Yul could not possibly know her past before she became a saintess, so this was mere coincidence.
But.
The unfolding tale vividly captured how religion might be sublime, yet the people surrounding it never were.
Not gazes beholding a saintess upholding her sacred duty, but the horrific, moist leers of men eyeing a female to possess.
The actors recreated them perfectly.
Brushing aside all such suspicious stares.
Joan of Arc proved herself.
As if proving she received divine revelation, she found a sword hidden in the cathedral based on angels' tales and made it a holy relic; she offered prayers that shifted the winds' direction, and more.
Through such miracles befitting a saintess, she gradually swayed those around her.
And.
"My banner flies high, yet the eyes of those slumbering beneath it remain forever closed. May the cold dew of this night gently warm their foreheads."
"I remember the foes across the river were Your children too. Let them dream of their homeland, and before the scales of judgment, stand as mere lost sheep."
"Thus, use me as Your tool. Until France's fields wave golden once more, set aside darkness and fear—I shall be the torch of light illuminating the way. Let only Your glory remain upon this land."
⟨ Prayer of the Maid ⟩
A clear song pierced through the ashen smoke.
Not the thrill of repelling the enemy.
Pity for the dying, obedience to her fated role, love for God.
The actress's performance—fragile in form yet resolute in will—captured Joan of Arc's delicate emotions perfectly.
Accompanied by subtle, sacred magical staging, it instilled holiness, awe, and shivers in the hearts of all who watched.
As the final syllable faded into the air.
Upon the stage.
Beneath the stage.
The world fell utterly silent, as if holding its breath.
The song ended, yet no one clapped or cheered—only wiping flowing tears or silently praying.
The warrior maiden commanding the battlefield.
The saintess comforting weary soldiers.
All vanished.
With the weary back of a girl bearing an impossibly heavy burden as the finale, the curtain briefly fell.
Roselin could only dab her streaming tears with a handkerchief.
"Hic, sniff, huhk, heuk."
Even the noisy sniffling from the seat beside her failed to shatter her deep emotional immersion.
.
.
.
The intermission raced by, and the story took a sharp turn.
A splendid coronation under the saintess Joan of Arc, who led repeated victories for the kingdom.
Nobles' banquets contrasting sharply with the plight of the suffering masses.
The saintess advocating aggressive strategies and swift assaults to annihilate the foe; the royals scheming to maximize high nobles' gains through negotiations and treaties.
The once-young, spirited patron Charles the Dauphin had become the power-corrupted King Charles VII.
Before long, Joan of Arc turned into an unwelcome thorn, potentially toppling royal authority.
"Of course. Kim Yul wouldn't deliver a normal happy ending, desu."
Roselin found herself nodding at the grumbling beside her.
Unlike Chloe's snap judgment on the scenes.
Roselin couldn't help overlaying the Holy Kingdom and Charles VII once more.
- Hearing God's voice matters no longer. In these chaotic times, people crave stability. Thus, Roselin, please restrain yourself.
The conversation she wished to erase revived vividly before her eyes.
Ultimately, without proper support, driven solely by justice— the clash at Compiègne Castle.
And.
Defeat. Capture.
The enemy commander, Count Lionel, treated Joan courteously and urged contacting Charles VII for ransom.
"Tell him now, France has no further need of her."
The actor's cold voice filled the stage like a death sentence.
In the end.
Abandoned by the kingdom, Joan of Arc—who sought to reclaim France's soil—was escorted to Paris.
And finally.
"Kyahaha! Who's that?!"
"Pfft."
Shattering the somber mood in an instant.
A familiar black-haired man appeared in Roselin and Chloe's vision.
His devil-worshipping visage, coupled with robes far too ornate for a bishop, suited him oddly perfectly.
A languid mid-low voice, as if ensnaring souls, began drumming against their eardrums.
"How often do you hear the angels' voices?"
"Whenever needed; I've never failed to hear them."
"The angels you've seen—do they wear clothes?"
"Do you think God lacks the power to clothe His own angels?"
"Did Michael's body have hair?"
"Should it all have been shaved off, then?"
"Didn't the angels warn you beforehand of your judgment?"
"What peril am I in? They said my soul would be free. Heaven opens to me—'Complain not of martyrdom,' they bade."
Kim Yul—no, Bishop Cauchon's questions were petty yet relentless, but Joan answered each triviality with utmost sincerity.
A weighty inquisition scene, yet laughter erupted endlessly from the audience.
An absurd farce.
It satirized the very act of heresy trials, but Roselin felt no particular discomfort.
At least.
They hadn't hurled a thirteen-year-old girl into flames to test if she truly bore the Goddess's blessing.
……That's what she thought.
"Ah, my God. I beseech You—please protect this nation and its people with this one frail life……!"
⟨ Final Prayer ⟩
The stage's climax.
All spectators held their breath as Joan of Arc's final song resounded.
Her mortal will to nobly sacrifice her existence scattered the divine blessing that had dwelt in her body to the very end, sharing it with the world.
Crack—!
Shattering the silence, the brutal splintering of the chair's armrest echoed through the theater like a sound effect.
"Hik."
Only upon seeing Chloe trembling, hand clamped over her mouth and stifling hiccups, did Roselin realize she had destroyed property.
For the first time in ages.
Roselin truly missed that archbishop's smug face.
Missed it enough to want to smash his nose flat with a fist, just like before.
Having accidentally witnessed Roselin pulverize the chair armrest into dust, Kim Yul's next move was swift.
"Mm, please tell everyone they did great work. I've suddenly got urgent business, so I'll be going."
"Oh dear."
Eluding the troupe's sympathetic gazes, he slipped out of the monitoring room and tried to flee the theater amid thunderous applause at his back.
"Author?"
Gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back.
The hawk-eyed saintess did not miss Bishop "Koyul" escaping.
Cold sweat beading, Kim Yul dropped to his knees first.
"All characters, names, groups, events in this work are fictional and not based on real persons or entities……!"
Fiction disclaimers poured from his lips like a Miranda rights recitation.
But Roselin ignored it, striding toward the quivering Kim Yul.
Contrary to Kim Yul's dread of an incoming heresy-trial punch.
Roselin gently extended her hand and seized his neck.
A slight squeeze, and Kim Yul might unlock the hidden Dullahan class.
"Fun play. I watched it with deep admiration."
Unexpectedly, a soft voice emerged from Roselin's lips.
Kim Yul's neck creaked like Sanghyeon's in a flashback reunion with his late wife, hearing "This is enough."
"Tragedies do have their own charm. I especially liked how it satirized real-world absurdities."
"Ha, haha……."
"But."
Roselin mercifully embraced the sinful lamb.
"Wouldn't a happy ending be nicer still?"
A ruthless headlock powered by her holy energy pouch.
Kim Yul could only bury his nose and hold his breath.
It was summer.
Hero.
Chosen by God or His proxy.
Tasked with sealing the Demon Realm and saving the world.
Even ordinary folk could contribute against the Demon Realm for humanity, but what truly made a hero a hero.
One was the proxy herself: the saintess.
One was the artifact infused with God's will: the holy relic.
Like Hero Serephin's Fragarach.
Holy relics shone on their own, guiding heroes unerringly through the Demon Realm and granting power to overcome adversities.
And now.
At the ruins of the church where young Roselin once frolicked, now laid waste.
Auspicious light descends from the heavens.
Sword Engraved with Five Crosses
⟨ Saint Catherine ⟩ emits a soft halo.
No one saw it but the birds freely soaring the skies.
Where that light arrived.
A new holy relic.
Sword engraved with five crosses.
Saint Catherine began emitting a soft halo.