A dusky sky shone down on a field of lush green grass.
Yet on either side of the road, countless metal crosses stood in chilling rows, each one bound with a charred corpse.
There were even some who had not fully died, letting out feeble wails.
The stench of scorched flesh filled the air.
It was a long while before Irene came back to her senses, her face turning ashen. “What is going on here? Could it be that bandits attacked the village?”
Rita’s Grandfather, the elderly clergyman, clasped his hands and offered a deep prayer before shaking his head. “…It’s not bandits. It’s the Order of the Church’s Inquisitors.”
“Inquisitors?” Irene seemed unable to comprehend. “Are you saying all these people were Heretics?”
The old man sighed deeply. “How could there possibly be so many Heretics? Recently, the Church has begun hunting ‘Blasphemers’ and the cultists who worship them, as well as ‘witches,’ along the kingdom’s borders. The Church is always like this—better to kill the innocent than let a guilty one escape. As long as the Inquisitors suspect you are a Heretic, they’ll send you to the stake…”
Leila interjected, “Young Miss, I think the village up ahead is just the kind of place the Church suspects of being involved with Heretics and witches. If you can’t bear to watch, we should go around.”
The others nodded in agreement, except for Rita, who stared at the dead with a face as pale as paper.
She seemed to vaguely hear the souls of these people cursing her—
But Irene shook her head, gazing at the distant village where black smoke billowed, her eyes flickering. “No, I’m going to that village. I want to see for myself what the Church is doing in the kingdom. And what about the local lord? Are they just going to ignore this?!”
Leila shook her head, sighing helplessly. “When the Church acts, those petty nobles don’t dare say ‘no.’ If the Inquisitors suspect them of sheltering Heretics, what then? Those lunatics might even go after nobles.”
There was something Leila didn’t dare say aloud: the Church acted so brazenly because His Majesty the King indulged them.
After all, the kingdom needed the Church’s support; otherwise, they couldn’t stand against the Empire. The Empire’s military was much stronger than the kingdom’s, and now the Empire’s Empress Frederica was an ambitious woman indeed.
How could His Majesty dare say ‘no’ to the Pope?
Ansel echoed Leila’s words. After their journey through Eusebius City, the old knight was exhausted, only wishing to return to the border in peace. The Young Miss was always unconventional, inviting trouble at every turn, and every time it left him on edge.
“No, we’re stopping at the village ahead. If there really are Heretics or witches, then we’ll help the Church’s knights add another log to the fire. But if all I see is the persecution of innocent people…”
Irene’s eyes flashed. Though she didn’t finish her sentence, the meaning was all too clear.
Ansel had no choice but to drive the carriage forward. Amid the ranks of burned villagers, Irene’s carriage slowly approached the village known as Windmill Village.
The roadside pyres were Windmill Village’s most striking feature.
The more Irene looked, the angrier she became. Ansel tried to comfort her: “Young Miss, there’s nothing to be upset about. These people are all Heretics.”
“The whole village? All Heretics?”
Irene retorted. She’d heard from the innkeeper about the Church’s brutal hunts for witches and Heretics, but it had meant little to her until now. Seeing it firsthand—such carnage!
This one village alone looked like hell on earth. Who could imagine what was happening in places she couldn’t see? What did they mean by ‘better to kill the innocent than let the guilty go free’?!
Irene noticed that Rita, sitting beside her in the carriage, looked unwell. She assumed the little girl had never seen such a scene and was simply frightened, not realizing that the light had vanished from Rita’s eyes.
Rita bit her lower lip, as if making some kind of decision.
‘The longer I run, the more people will die because of it.’
Is it okay for only me to be happy?
Of course not! The only value I have is if I die, right, Grandfather?
As long as I declare, in front of the Order of the Church, that ‘I am the witch,’ everything will end.
But as she thought this, Rita felt a faint reluctance. She had always been indifferent, simply waiting for a suitable, inconspicuous opportunity to ‘die,’ but now…
The carriage suddenly stopped, and she heard a Church knight shout from outside: “What’s the purpose of the carriage up ahead?”
Then came the old knight’s voice: “Greetings, friends of the Church. We are the family of Revon Marquis, passing through on our way home. It’s getting dark, so we hope to stay in the village for the night.”
“…Just for the night?” The Church knight sounded impatient. “Your documents check out, but you people sure don’t know how to read the room. This village may be tainted by Heretics, and could even be harboring a witch. As God’s messengers, we’re here to hunt down sinners…”
“Please rest assured, we’ll just stay the night and won’t interfere with your devout work purging obstacles for the Lord.”
“Fine, go on in. But don’t say a word. Our Crusader Captain isn’t someone who listens to reason—if you offend her, don’t think you’ll get away easily.”
“Yes, yes, we understand.”
The carriage rolled into the village. After passing the checkpoint guarded by knights, Rita heard the old knight spit and mutter under his breath, “Damn white dogs of the Church, acting so brazenly in the kingdom.”
The carriage moved slowly through Windmill Village’s central square, a suffocating silence pressing down on them.
Even from inside the carriage, Rita could smell the sickening reek of burnt flesh and woodsmoke, so thick she could hardly breathe.
It was as if she were the one responsible for all of this.
She lifted the curtain. In the center of the square, several new crosses had been erected, each one bound with trembling, ashen-faced villagers.
Firewood was piled at their feet, and the Church knights stood around them, holding torches, their faces expressionless.
Her gaze was drawn irresistibly to the figure in front of the crosses.
It was a female knight clad in shining silver armor, her blue-and-white cloak snapping in the ash-laden wind.
A few strands of golden hair spilled from beneath her helmet like cold metal threads.
She wore no helmet, revealing a young face as rigid as carved stone. Her blue eyes held no warmth—only the cold, lofty look of judgment.
She was lecturing the terrified villagers herded into the square. Her voice was clear and bright, yet carried a bone-chilling cold that pierced straight into Rita’s ears:
“…You must understand, the wrath of the Lord cannot be blasphemed! The filth of ‘Blasphemers’ and ‘witches’ is like a plague—only the purest flames can cleanse it!”
She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over those pitiful souls tied to the crosses, her tone taking on a strange sort of ‘justice.’
“Suspicion is the authority granted to us Inquisitors by God. For those under suspicion, we do not kill recklessly. Rather, we offer them a chance to prove their innocence and return to the Lord’s embrace!”
She pointed at the piles of firewood about to be set alight, her voice suddenly rising, suffused with a chilling ‘holiness.’
“Watch closely! This fire is the flame of God’s judgment! Those who are consumed and turned to ash—this proves their souls are pure, summoned by the Lord, cleansed of suspicion, and lifted up to heaven!”
She paused, her lips curving in a barely noticeable arc, her gaze growing even colder and sharper:
“And those… who struggle and wail in the flames, or even manage to survive—this only proves that they harbor the power of demons within! They are accomplices of witches or Heretics! Their very existence is the ironclad proof of blasphemy!”
“So, being burned to death proves you are innocent! If you don’t burn to death, that proves you are guilty! This is the Lord’s supreme justice!”
These absurd words, dressing cruelty up as “divine judgment,” pierced Rita’s heart like an icy dagger, her face growing even paler.
She heard Irene’s furious voice: “What kind of nonsense is that?! So whether you’re innocent or not, once you’re on the stake, there’s only one outcome—death?!”
“…That’s the Church’s logic. There’s no point reasoning with them—they’ll always find some high-sounding excuse to justify themselves.”
Helga’s voice was cold as frost. “Irene, let’s just pretend we didn’t see anything. If we speak out, those fanatics might not even spare us.”
Though she said this, the anger and pity in her eyes betrayed her true feelings.
Clarette sighed softly. “In our Empire, there’s no such madness…”
As soon as she spoke, she hurriedly covered her mouth. What did she mean by ‘in our Empire’? Wasn’t she a kingdom citizen? Luckily, no one seemed to notice her slip of the tongue.
Everyone began to talk at once.
But for one person, these words had a devastating impact.
Rita.
The last trace of color drained from her pale face.
Her once timid, bewildered eyes now lost all light, turning dull and lifeless.
The female knight’s words echoed in her mind—
“Burned to death proves innocence… Not burned to death proves guilt…”
…
“Better to kill the innocent than let a guilty one go free…”
…
“If I keep running, more people will die because of it…”
Her Grandfather’s worried call sounded distant, Irene’s angry breathing blurred. All she could see were the villagers’ hopeless eyes on the crosses, all she could smell was that nauseating burnt stench, all she could hear was the silent screams of the dead cursing in her ears.
“Only if I die… will these innocent people be freed…”
A crystal-clear thought, like the hammer of final judgment, shattered the last of her reluctance and hesitation.
“Because I am the witch, right, Grandfather?”
“Enough!”
A clear, desperate cry split the suffocating silence of the square!
In a flash of shock, all eyes turned as the carriage door was flung open!
The petite girl Irene had guarded so carefully leapt out like a bird with broken wings, stumbling and falling to the cold, filthy ground in her haste.
“Rita!” Irene cried, jumping out after her.
Rita struggled to her feet. Her small figure looked tiny amidst the vast square, the grim crosses, and the cold knights, yet carried a desperate, tragic courage.
Ignoring the blood seeping from her scraped knees and elbows, she lifted her head, summoning every ounce of strength, and shouted at the golden-haired female knight, at all the Church knights, at the deathly silent square:
“Stop! The witch you’re looking for… is me!”
“I am the ‘witch’ you speak of!”