The Girl Called the Saint (1)
A blonde girl with purple eyes turned to me and asked, “Did you call for me?”
“I didn’t call you.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Drawn here’ would be more accurate. Everyone who comes to this place arrives that way.”
Napoleon had. Yi Sun-sin had as well. They had all been pulled here by my awakening ability and visited the general store. The girl was no different.
She studied me in silence before speaking. “Joan of Arc.”
“……”
“Please call me Jeanne.”
The Maiden of Orléans
📍 Objective: Protect the girl sacrificed in the Hundred Years’ War.
🎁 Reward: The Banner of the Saints
The girl was the miraculous saint who ended the Hundred Years’ War—Joan of Arc.
*
If one were to name the most mysterious figure in human history, it would undoubtedly be Joan of Arc. The Maiden of Orléans. The Saint of Arc. The Miracle Girl. With so many epithets came countless suspicions surrounding her enigmatic existence.
A simple country girl who could not even read suddenly claimed to have received a divine revelation and saved a nation on the brink of ruin. This miraculous episode, too fantastical for any novel, was recorded as historical fact in both England and France, yet it remained a mystery that historians continued to question to this day.
Unlike Yi Sun-sin or Napoleon—verified heroes who rose through the ranks from junior officers, steadily proving their worth—Joan of Arc had been an ordinary village girl who could not read a single line. Yet this girl suddenly declared she had heard God’s voice, received command of the army from the French leadership, and crushed England. All within a single month.
It was a feat even France’s most seasoned commanders had failed to achieve, accomplished by a sixteen-year-old girl from the tiny rural village of Domrémy. Such an unprecedented accomplishment naturally invited endless speculation about Joan of Arc. Theories that the French leadership had manufactured a hero, that “Joan of Arc” was not one person but several, that she was the king’s daughter, that she had hired veteran mercenaries—the list went on. Alien contact theories, genuine witch theories, intersex theories, homunculus theories. She was a girl shrouded in mysteries that were exhausting even to enumerate.
But the Joan of Arc I saw was an ordinary girl far removed from such mysteries. She swept the monastery courtyard, shared bread with children, helped with village chores, and offered prayers when it was time for Mass. Her daily life followed the same pattern common among those devoted to the Catholic Church. Aside from her doll-like beauty and a maturity beyond her years, she was simply a devout girl one could find anywhere.
It was hard to imagine how such a girl could become the national savior who rescued France.
“I am Bishop Cambrai.”
The kindly-faced bishop extended his hand for a handshake.
“Choi Seojun.”
“Jeanne told me you are a saint.”
“A misunderstanding. I am merely a devout believer, not a saint.”
For the record, I was an atheist who believed in twenty-first-century science. The only time I had ever set foot in a church was as a child, tagging along with a friend. But in medieval Europe under Catholic rule, claiming to have no religion could easily brand one a heretic. This was an age when the existence of God was taken for granted—an era in which a young girl claiming to hear God’s voice could receive an army from the royal court without question.
“A devout believer, you say. Splendid. The Lord will surely bless you.”
Bishop Cambrai treated me with consistent kindness. And it was not only the bishop. Simply because I was Jeanne’s guest, the citizens of Orléans extended me the utmost hospitality. I understood the reason from Jeanne’s usual conduct.
“Please wait just a moment.”
Hisss…
“Nngh!”
The girl tended to the wounded using holy water provided by the monastery. To my modern eyes it looked like a low-grade healing potion, but to the people of this time, it was nothing short of a miraculous product worthy of being called holy water.
“Thank you, Saint.”
The small girl pulled a cart loaded with holy water herself, seeking out the sick. “How long will you continue?”
“Until the bell rings for Mass.”
“When is that?”
“When the sun touches the Loire River, the bell will ring.”
“……”
In short, until evening. And there were still at least five hours until then. Jeanne spent that long stretch wandering the alleyways, healing beggars and elders alike without distinction. She gave bread from her cart to the hungry and holy water to the sick. Like someone whose very being was steeped in devotion, the girl never showed a hint of hardship.
I followed Jeanne through her day, observing her routine.
Dong—! Dong—!
“It is time for worship.”
When the bell rang, Jeanne stopped what she was doing, tidied the cart, and returned to the monastery.
“Thank you, Saint.”
Everyone who saw the girl pulling the cart through the streets called her “Saint.”
Why “Saint”? Her diligence was something rarely seen in girls her age, yet she was not the only one offering devotion. Nuns and priests occasionally performed healings with holy water as well. But no one called them saints or holy ones. Only this young girl was granted the title.
Even the old man who cursed and the children who played pranks were kind to her alone. It was a heartwarming sight, yet I felt an inexplicable sense of distance—as though that kindness formed a wall between Jeanne and everyone else.
And soon, I learned the true nature of that wall. The reason Jeanne was called a saint.
*
Ding-ding-ding-ding—!
“It’s England!”
“The English are attacking!”
The following evening, the massive English army led by Henry VI surrounded Orléans.
Ding-ding-ding-ding—!
The bell signaling battle rang frantically, and tension filled the once-peaceful village. People hid in their homes while only mounted knights patrolled the streets. Archers took positions along the walls. Beyond the ramparts, the English forces outnumbered the French by five times.
“……”
The soldiers’ faces were etched with tension. It was around then that Jeanne ascended the walls. She carried an enormous banner—a pure white flag depicting angels frolicking across a field strewn with lilies.
It was only a single flag. Yet…
“We have the Saint with us!”
“Waaaaah!”
The air over Orléans, thick with tension, transformed completely. The fervor was strangely intense, beyond what simple faith could explain. As though the banner’s presence alone guaranteed victory, everyone was roused to a fever pitch. They looked like fanatics drunk on a cult.
Creaaak—!
At that moment, the gates of Orléans rose, and the mounted knights charged toward the English lines.
“Charge! Charge!”
“Waaaaaaaah!”
It was an absurd advance that could hardly be called a defensive strategy. Clang! Clang! The two knight orders collided, and a bloody melee erupted. Swords crossed, screams echoed, and the twilight plain was stained with blood and the ring of steel.
And then—
Flutter—, flutter—.
Jeanne began waving the banner. An astonishing phenomenon occurred. Fallen soldiers rose again. Fresh flesh sprouted from severed wounds. Horses neighed and reared as exhausted knights lifted their swords once more.
“As long as the Saint wields the banner, we shall know no defeat!”
“Uwaaaaaah!”
“Charge! Charge!”
It was a miracle. At the same time, it was a sublime sacrifice.
Flutter—, flutter—.
Blood flowed down the girl’s back as she waved the pure white banner—blood shaped like the angel’s wings depicted upon it. The crimson wings of an angel.
*
“You have done well, Jeanne.”
Bishop Cambrai smiled kindly at her. Hisss—! Holy water from the bishop’s hand streamed over the girl’s blood-stained back.
“Nngh.”
As the girl bit her lip to endure the pain, Bishop Cambrai offered her a benevolent smile.
“Thanks to your sacrifice, France is safer than ever.”
That smile struck me as unbearably cruel.
Ding-ding-ding—
“The English army! It’s England!”
Flutter—, flutter—.
The girl waved the banner, shedding the blood of a holy angel.