The Peerless Saintess

I rose from the floor and, with a satisfying swing of the warhammer the soldier had been holding, sent him straight on a one-way trip to Paradise. Then I rinsed the sticky mess from my lower body with the water in the basin.

Splash… splash…

"You bastard… take a girl's virginity and then head straight to Heaven. You'll probably be bragging about it up there for a good ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠long while."

I gave the headless soldier a crooked little smile. Whatever code of ethics I'd carried over from my previous life had long since drifted off into the far corners of memory. Right now my head was full of one thing only: fighting to stay alive.

I glanced out the window. A fair number of conscripts had gathered, along with one officer who looked like their squad leader.

"Low-rank mercenaries… eight of them… and that last one's not quite a knight. Heavy infantry, maybe…"

I pulled on the chainmail I'd stripped off the soldier who'd, until a moment ago, been serving as both a human dildo and a tutorial. Testing the weight of my now-heavier body, I swung the warhammer a few times and took stock of the situation.

I could probably handle five of the low-rank mercenaries without much trouble. The problem was that heavy infantry. The axe blade fixed to the end of the long spear in his hands—a halberd.

If I charged him with this little warhammer? I'd be skewered on that shaft long before I got close, turned into a cute little girl kebab, or cleaved clean in half into "cute" and "girl." And if I got really lucky, I'd just catch the shaft in the ribs, lose the ability to breathe, get gang-raped by the swarming soldiers, and sold off somewhere.

I sketched out a plan. Burst out, crush the mercenaries' vital spots, and when only five were left, hurl the warhammer at the heavy infantry, grab any usable weapon I could find, and run. Right. I had to do this. Let's go.

I drove my shoulder into the door—and the strength boost was even more absurd than I'd expected. The door I'd shoved simply flew, slamming three soldiers along with it into the building across the way.

"Uh… um… uh?"

Unexpected power. A strange, surging pride suddenly welled up through my whole body. The days of bolting for the hills with my family every time raiders hit the village—goodbye to all of that. I was…

"Strong."

I lunged at the nearest mercenary and swung the warhammer. His body caved in along the arc of the blow. For a one-handed blunt weapon, it was far too devastating—heavy, fast, quiet, and utterly ruthless. It was the very shape of the word suppression.

With every swing of my arm, another man crumpled to the dirt. Before long only the heavy infantry remained, staring ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at me with his halberd raised.

"You crazy bitch… no, you witch…!! What the hell are you?!"

"God."

"What?"

"God is with me."

The hands gripping his halberd began to tremble.

"St–stay back…!! Witch!! She's a witch!!"

"Have you ever seen a witch this beautiful?"

Even as he shook, his eyes flicked up and down. I glanced down myself—my thin linen dress was soaked through with spattered blood, clinging so tightly that every curve of my figure showed through.

"Kyahahaha! Well? Not bad, right?"

"I said stay back, you insane bitch!"

"Don't worry. I'll escort your men safely on their way to Heaven."

"Crazy bitch…"

I spun the warhammer, flinging the blood from its head, and advanced on him at a measured walk. Terror finally broke him; he dropped hard onto his backside and started scrambling backward on all fours.

No wonder I'd felt off the second I laid eyes on him. Disguising himself as heavy infantry just to crawl into a backwater village like this…

Jean II de Luxembourg-Ligny. The man who, in the original history, captured Joan of Arc—me—sold her off, and ultimately sent her to the stake.

So why the hell was a man like that playing dress-up as a heavy infantry and hiding among a band of raiders?

"What are you doing here? What's your real objective?"

"W–what are you talking about, witch… I'm just a scout…"

"Shut up, Count of Ligny."

Through the gap in his helm I saw his face go white. While he was still frozen solid, I closed the distance and tore the helmet off.

"Oh-ho… not bad…?"

Whatever values I'd still been clinging to from my previous life had already gone the way of that flying door and those dead soldiers. I was already Joan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Arc, pure and simple. I had no idea what the original Joan had been like—but right now, something rose up in my mind as naturally as breathing:

Ooh—what a fine man—

A sharp jawline that even a thick beard couldn't hide. Neatly kept dark hair, cut across by an eyepatch.

He was frozen in place, terrified and stunned that anyone had recognized him—yet every inch of his bearing still radiated aristocratic breeding. His low voice inspired trust just by existing, and those deep-set eyes would have earned him the favor of any woman who looked into them.

I picked up the arming sword that had fallen to the ground and walked toward him slowly, then sliced through the armor straps one by one.

Snick… clink… clack…

"What the hell… are you doing? As a soldier of Burgundy, I will not yield!"

"Oh my? Don't worry. We're going to have a lovely— time."

"What are you talking about… you witch…"

"Relax, handsome. In a little while—"

I cut myself off. He looked up at me, puzzled.

"I'm going to fuck you like a dog."

Confusion flooded the nobleman's face. What had she just said? Dog? Fuck? What in God's name did that mean?

He opened his mouth to demand an explanation—and his consciousness went dark. I'd struck him hard across the carotid artery, and he collapsed on the spot.

"Hey—it's okay to wake up now—"

"Ugh… where…"

"Hmm, where do you think? Want to guess?"

The man hung suspended from a post in a dark barn, bound tight. Candlelight set around the room shone through Joan's linen dress, making her look far more alluring than she had by day as she stood before him, watching.

"So then, Count of Ligny? What business brings you all the way out to a countryside hole like Domrémy?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm just a heavy infantryman named Alex."

"Ah—so you're not quite ready to talk yet."

Joan stepped in and backhanded him across the face. Bound and unable to move, he took the blow full on and spat blood.

"Crazy bitch… I told you, I'm just a heavy infantryman named Alex. I don't even know who this Count of Ligny is."

"Fine. We'll go with that, then. Mister Alex. So—are you ready for a conversation?"

"Just kill me cleanly, witch. You'll get nothing out of my mouth."

"Oh my? What a waste. A fine man like you…"

She sliced through his belt with a knife, and the trousers of the man hanging there simply slid down to the floor.

"W–what are you…?"

"Just torture. What were you hoping for, you pervert Alex?"

"Don't mock me, filthy witch! I won't fall for your sorcery!"

"I said it's just torture. What are you on about?"

Smiling, she drove her fist straight into his balls.

"AAAAAARGH!!!!!! Hrrrrrrrrrgh—kuhhhhhh—"

Watching him writhe and thrash against the ropes in pure agony, she felt an unexpected rush of excitement. Was this another effect of that notification window—of the System?

"If you ever feel ready to talk, just let me know—♥"

"Grrhhh… crazy bitch… go to hell… uuuugh…"

Every time the pain began to ebb, she hit his balls again, then went back to her seat and wiped the warhammer clean with a handful of straw. Each time he let out a raw, animal cry—but as the hours wore on, the cries grew quieter. At some point he seemed to be sobbing, but she paid it no mind.

"You're the type who needs a long time to get ready for a conversation, aren't you? Yap—"

Thud.

"Hhhiiiii…"

After about two hours of that, the man finally spoke.

"Please… stop…"

"Your speech is a little short. Yap—"

Thud.

"Hhh… hiiii…"

Another hour later, he tried again.

"Please… stop… hhh… I beg you…"

"Looks like you're ready to talk! You're welcome anytime! So—why did you come all the way out to a countryside hole like Domrémy, Count of Ligny?"

"To find… the girl from Domrémy…"

"If you're going to mumble half-answers like that, should I take it to mean you have no intention of cooperating?"

"Hiiii… no, no… I came looking for a girl named Jeanne from Domrémy."

Me? Why? Why would a noble disguise himself just to hunt down a commoner woman like me?

"Why? With a name like that around here, she'd just be a peasant, wouldn't she?"

"Th–that's…"

"Come on… spit it out."

"Orléans…"

"Orléans what?"

"That girl is the Princess of Orléans."

"Ah, now you're just spouting nonsense. Clearly there's no room for conversation."

She roughly cut the ropes that held him. He crumpled to the floor in a heap. His lower body was already a mass of bruises from dozens of blows, and facing a woman who looked so young had shattered both his mind and body—he was a candle flickering in the wind.

"Ready?"

"Please stop hitting me. I think I'm going to die…"

"Not that."

His head filled with question marks. What was this woman talking about? What was she planning to…?

"Ready to get fucked like a dog."

The moment those words hit him, his body betrayed him with a shameful ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠erection. But his manhood was already past the point of obedience—and Joan climbed astride him once more.

"Count the straw on the roof if you want. Or close your eyes. Either works for me."

Having done this once already that afternoon, she mounted him without hesitation, bearing down until she took his massive cock inside her.

"Hhh…"

But once he was in, the sheer size of him—far larger than before—sent a fresh wave of pleasure-edged pain through her.

"Hhnn… nngh… haaah…"

"Hhh… hiiik… haaagh… hup…"

As pain and pleasure tangled together, the man began to moan as well.

"If you'd… hhh… cooperated from the start… hnn… it would have been… haaang… better…"

"I may… hnn… lust after your body… but… hup… I won't… hik… fall to a witch like… ugh… you…"

"Don't worry… haang… this is… only the beginning… nnnngh…"

With his arms still bound behind him and her body riding him, he couldn't move an inch. Shame began to color his face a deep red.

"Come on, come on—let's get one good shot out of you~ shhhiii—"

"Shut up, you filthy witch!! Hhh…"

"Oh my? Acting so fierce when you're enjoying it—"

Joan licked along the nape of his neck, rising and falling on him again and again.

"Haah—haah—feel good? Does it feel good? Haang—tell me how you feel right now. Hhh—"

"I will… hhh… never yield to a filthy witch's… ugh… sorcery… aah…"

"What about your wife? Haang—does she do you like this too? Haang…"

"Ugh… filthy witch… don't… defile my wife… with that filthy mouth of yours… hhh… uuuugh…"

As he came defending his wife, Joan rode out the aftershocks of the act, slowly licking her way up along his throat to his ear—and there she stopped, whispering against it.

"If you say, 'Please stop, Master,' I'll let you go home."

"Shut up… you filthy bitch…"

"Oh my—looks like your willingness to talk just dropped again. What a shame—yap—"

Her fist slammed into his balls once more, still hypersensitive from the climax he'd just had. He foamed at the mouth and blacked out on the spot.

When he opened his eyes again sometime later, his mind was already drowning in terror.

"Please, I beg you. Spare me. I don't want to be hit anymore…"

"Hit where?"

"I… uh… I don't want to be hit… please let me go home…"

"And which part is it that you don't want hit…?"

"M… b…"

"I can't hear you—one more time. Ya—b"

"Please stop hitting my balls… I beg you… Ma…"

"I thought I heard something, but it's still not clear—ya—"

"Ma…. Master…"

The moment the word "Master" left his lips, a massive shock rolled through him—and he came right there on the spot. His cock twitched and jerked as he sobbed, spilling seed onto the dirt floor.

"Uhhhnnngh…. hhh… hhh…"

"All right. Say it."

"…?"

"Say it."

"Say… what…?"

Joan frowned and kicked him once more, square in the balls.

"Aaaaiiiieee—gh—"

"Say it!"

"Ma… Master… please spare me… Master… I'll do anything…"

"Now the conversation's finally flowing. It would have been so much nicer for both of us if you'd been like this from the start. Right?"

"…"

"Hmm? No answer…?"

"You're right, Master. It's all my fault."

Trembling, he pressed his face to the dirt and bowed his head. Caught in a strange, heady excitement of her own, Joan lightly stroked his hair with the tip of her foot and went on.

"All right. From now on, you're a doggy."

"…?"

"? Answer?"

"Yes."

"A doggy that talks like a person?"

"… Woof."

Joan burst out laughing, clapping her hands over and over.

"I'm kidding, kidding… hahaha, you're a person too—how could I call you that—"

Then she roughly yanked the rope still looped around his neck, forcing him down into the dirt, and her voice went hard.

"From today on, you're Slave No. 1. Got it?"

"Yes… Master…"

Shame flooded him along with the sense of total surrender—and yet a strange pleasure held him tight. Even as he ground his face into the dirt floor, his erection would not go down.

"Well then. Since you're already hard, how about one more round."

"P…"

"Hm?"

"… Please… Ma… ster…"