The Girl They Called a Saint (4)
There were many suspicious aspects about the girl they called a saint.
Why would the French leadership hand military command to a young girl simply because she claimed to hear the voice of God?
Why couldn’t Joan of Arc, the so-called warrior of God, overcome death with a miracle?
Why was Joan of Arc constantly thrust into unknown danger?
And why did the flag known as the Banner of the Saint appear in the status window as Banner of the Saintesses?
All those questions found answers under a single hypothesis.
The hypothesis that there had never been only one saint.
Joan of Arc had not overcome death. Each time she died she was simply replaced, and people called the switch a “miracle.”
The Banner of the Saintesses referred to all the girls who had already been sacrificed before her.
Joan of Arc was an artificial saint manufactured by France to win the war.
That was why, once Paris had been liberated, France moved to “dispose” of her—to bury the truth of the saint project forever.
The saint was never meant to be a created being; she had to remain a noble sacrificial lamb who would continue to shine upon France.
That was the conclusion I reached, and the true, unvarnished face of the Hundred Years’ War’s saint, the enigmatic girl known as Joan of Arc.
The Bishop of Cambrai’s frozen expression told me my conclusion was correct.
“How could you possibly have reached such a thought?”
“It was obvious from the way you behaved.”
“……”
“You kept shoving Jeanne onto the battlefield to die. It wasn’t even subtle.”
Countless saints had already died for the sake of that so-called “miracle.”
If left alone, Joan of Arc would have become the next sacrificial lamb.
The Bishop of Cambrai did not deny it.
“Remarkable. You are correct, brother. The saint was indeed created by France. To be precise, I created her.”
“Does the God you worship rejoice when innocent girls are rounded up and killed?”
“France needs a saint.”
He offered excuses.
“It was a necessary evil to save the greater number.”
He tried to justify his crimes.
“Jeanne’s death is also necessary for France.”
And then he elevated that justification into conviction.
“I will bear every sin upon my own shoulders.”
“……”
Looking at the Bishop of Cambrai’s face—radiating benevolent certainty—I suddenly understood.
“I see it now.”
“You understand, then?”
“No. I understand why the status window told me to protect Jeanne.”
“……?”
“It was because of you.”
Protect the Girl Who Became the Sacrifice of the Hundred Years’ War
📍 Objective: Safeguard Joan of Arc until the predetermined moment of her death
🎁 Reward: Banner of the Saintesses
The status window had given me a quest to protect Joan of Arc. It must have been because the previous saint had died too quickly for unknown reasons, advancing Jeanne’s turn ahead of schedule.
The girl was supposed to burn at the stake.
And the reason the previous saint had died early was almost certainly this very Bishop of Cambrai.
Looking at that nauseating, conviction-stained face, it was clear he would sacrifice as many girls as necessary without blinking.
Of course, none of that was my business.
Whether he was a true humanitarian or a demon who slaughtered innocent girls, it was simply “history.”
Being burned at the stake was Joan of Arc’s predetermined fate—just as Napoleon’s Siege of Toulon had succeeded, just as Yi Sun-sin’s Battle of Myeongnyang had ended in victory.
The girl’s execution by fire would pass the same way.
“……”
Did I really have to stand by and watch?
The hurt look on Jeanne’s face as she left the store kept flickering in my mind.
Beyond that image, the status window’s message glowed.
I suddenly had a thought.
Do I really need to protect her all the way?
The quest text only said “protect the girl.” It never specified “until when.”
It was easy enough to infer the deadline was the stake, but nothing prevented a more creative interpretation.
The wording was open to translation, after all.
Fine. I’ll interpret it my way.
I was only doing what it told me to do.
Bang—!
“Brother, what are you—?!”
The Bishop of Cambrai’s eyes bulged at the sight.
On the chapel wall hung a giant statue of Jesus nailed to the cross.
What Napoleon’s rifle was aiming at was that very Jesus.
More precisely, the two relics hanging from his nailed hands: the Branding Iron of the False Stigmata and the Banner of the Saintesses.
Boom—!
The branding iron on Jesus’s left hand was struck by the bullet and clattered to the floor.
Bang—!
Next, the Banner of the Saintesses on the right hand fell as well.
“Stop him!”
As I walked toward the fallen relics, the Bishop of Cambrai roared.
The heresy courtroom was packed.
Seventy inquisitors in pure white robes sat in a circle, filling every seat.
Every one of them belonged to the English church.
At the center of that circle sat Joan of Arc.
After more than a week locked in prison, the girl’s face was deathly pale.
No one stood beside her.
By rights, a heresy trial required a defender for the accused, yet not a single lawyer had been assigned to the girl.
In contrast, the seventy inquisitors questioning her were all elite theologians.
To brand an ordinary, illiterate country girl as a heretic, they had assembled a team of seventy first-rate church scholars.
“I ask the sinner Joan of Arc.”
Bishop Cauchon, both judge and theologian, opened his mouth.
“If you are not a heretic, prove your faith by reciting the Lord’s Prayer here and now.”
Joan of Arc slowly raised her bowed head.
Though her face was pale, her eyes shone clearer than ever.
“Bishop, are you a devout believer?”
“I am. I am a devout servant of the Lord.”
“Then first prove by your own confession of faith that you are devout enough to hear my prayer. Recite it yourself.”
It was a simple challenge: if you’re so devout, you recite it first.
But the Lord’s Prayer was in Latin, and even trained theologians rarely memorized it by heart.
Naturally, Bishop Cauchon could not recite it.
He had asked the question thinking, If even I cannot do it, how could you?
“I shall call upon other clergy to recite it.”
“The bishop who questioned me must do it himself.”
“……We shall move on.”
Bishop Cauchon continued.
“I ask the sinner.”
“Speak.”
“Do you believe you have received God’s grace?”
Cauchon had planned to accuse her of presuming to interfere with God’s will whether she answered yes or no.
No matter the reply, it was a trap designed to brand her a heretic.
And yet.
“If I have not received His grace, I ask that He grant it. If I have received it, I ask that He continue to give it.”
Joan of Arc’s answer—neither affirmation nor denial—left Bishop Cauchon flustered.
“……We shall move on.”
The entire exchange continued in the same manner.
Every clever trap Cauchon set, Joan of Arc evaded with clever grace.
Unable to find any real evidence against her, the bishop resorted to his final card.
“I have heard that while imprisoned, the sinner wore men’s clothing.”
Joan of Arc had done so to protect her chastity in prison.
Yet for a woman to wear men’s clothing was a religious crime against Scripture.
Of course, doing so to preserve purity should have been ruled innocent—but this courtroom existed only to brand Joan of Arc a heretic.
Moreover, Cauchon had just suffered the humiliation of losing a battle of words in front of every theologian present.
“For the crime of violating Scripture, I sentence the sinner to burning at the stake.”
Using the men’s clothing as pretext, Bishop Cauchon condemned Joan of Arc to death by fire.
Her objection was overruled.
In the end, knights dragged Joan of Arc to the square of the archdiocese.
Before the crowd gathered to watch the spectacle, she was bound to the stake.
“……”
Joan of Arc wore a look of resignation.
Though thousands had gathered, not one person spoke or tried to help her.
A religious trial was sacred; the punishment it decreed came from the Lord Himself.
The executioner holding a burning torch approached the girl.
His face was twisted with guilt and fear at the prospect of killing a saint.
“Do not hate me.”
“I do not hate you.”
Whoosh—!
Flames roared to life beneath the stake.
Joan of Arc closed her eyes and clasped her hands in prayer.
At that exact moment, commotion erupted at the edge of the square.
“Stop him!!!”
The Bishop of Cambrai’s desperate shout rang across the plaza.
“You must not let that man interfere with the execution!”
Bang—! Clang!
The familiar crack of gunfire mixed with the metallic clash of weapons.
And then—
“JOAN OF ARC!!!!!!!!!!!!”
At the cry that called her name, Joan of Arc opened her eyes.
When she turned and saw who it was, her pupils widened.
“…Seojun-nim?”
There I stood, holding the Banner of the Saint.
Crunch—!
Right in front of her, I snapped the flag that symbolized the saint in two.
“!”
The Banner of the Saintesses has been destroyed.
The reward artifact has been lost.
I had shattered the quest reward with my own hands, yet I felt nothing.
“I wouldn’t take it even if you offered.”
I hurled the broken flag away.
I had no use for a banner soaked in the blood of sacrifice.
To Joan of Arc, it was nothing more than shackles that demanded her death.
“Youuuuuuuu—!”
A furious roar shook the square.
“How dare you destroy a holy relic?!”
The Bishop of Cambrai charged toward me, face twisted with rage.
Before he could reach me, I sprinted for the stake.
Thud!
I slammed the butt of Napoleon’s rifle into the executioner blocking my path, then swung the Twin Dragon Sword at the flames devouring the stake.
Whoosh—!
The fire was extinguished in an instant.
“Impossible! The sacred flames—?!”
I ignored the stunned bishop, slicing through the ropes that bound Joan of Arc.
She staggered and nearly collapsed; I caught her in my arms.
“Seojun-nim?”
“Just wait a moment.”
The instant I set her down, the Bishop of Cambrai lunged.
“How dare you interfere with a sacred trial!”
His fist flew at me, glowing with decades of accumulated holy power.
The light was far brighter and stronger than anything the knights he had sent to their deaths had possessed.
Despite wielding such power, he had never lifted a finger in the actual war.
He had only ever demanded sacrifice.
“You son of a bitch.”
I raised the Twin Dragon Sword.
Twin Dragon Sword — Special Ability Unleashed
With a three-foot blade I swear to the heavens, and the mountains and rivers tremble.
The Twin Dragon Sword blazed with pure white light.
Just as it had when Yi Sun-sin cut down Bae Seol.
I brought the sword down on the charging Bishop of Cambrai.
Kwaaaaaaaaang—!
A deafening roar split the air. The bishop was blasted backward.
“Cough!”
He slammed into the square’s outer wall and collapsed, vomiting blood.
When I turned around, Joan of Arc was staring up at me with a dazed expression.
“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself anymore.”
“……”
The girl’s violet eyes trembled.
Tears welled up, then spilled down her cheeks.
They were tears of joy.
Tears that could never have existed in the original history—tears from a saint who had overcome her own death.
“Thank you. Truly…”
The smile of a girl freed from sacrifice was blindingly bright.
A distortion point has occurred in the flow of history.
The Distorted One is being expelled from the world.
The world went dark.
When I opened my eyes again, I was already back inside the general store.
And beside me…
“Seojun-nim… where are we…?”
Was a girl with golden hair and violet eyes.