While Irene was interrogating the truth deep within the dungeons of Soren City, thousands of miles away beneath the towering Judgment Tower, the final trial of the Saint Candidate was shrouded in a shadow that seemed sacred yet was in truth full of sinister deceit.
The Refugee Camp reeked of wounds, filth, and despair, forming a harsh contrast to the towering, cold Judgment Tower not far away.
In this place of suffering, which the Church regarded as the “edge of purification,” only Roswitha’s figure flickered like a weak yet resolute candle in the darkness.
She had shed the golden-trimmed white robe that symbolized her status and donned simple clothes for ease of movement, tirelessly weaving through the filthy tents almost without sleep.
She knelt in the mud to clean and dress rotting wounds. She held the withered hands of dying elders, whispering prayers softly. She patiently coaxed children, plagued with festering sores and incessant crying, to drink their bitter medicinal broth.
Sweat soaked her golden hair across her forehead, mud stained her fair cheeks, and her sky-pure eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion, always carried a gentle compassion bordering on sorrow.
At first, the refugees—who had suffered persecution and neglect from the Church—were wary and suspicious of this “Saint Candidate,” believing her to be nothing more than another hypocritical act by the Church.
However, over several days, Roswitha’s genuine dedication, her fearless dirt and toil, and the faint yet real healing light that flowed from her fingertips gradually melted the ice.
The refugees’ gazes at her shifted—from indifference and testing to heartfelt gratitude and reverence.
They began to believe that within this silent, reserved girl there might truly be something different from those haughty Church elders.
“Miss Roswitha, please take a rest…”
“Saint Lady, have some water…”
Heartfelt words of concern began to quietly spread among the refugees.
In contrast, the other three Saint Candidates’ “trials” felt more like meticulously staged performances.
Their appearances were always accompanied by splendid ceremonies and incense, staying only briefly in the “cleanest” part of the camp, performing a few symbolic healing spells—usually for the few who wore decent clothes and appeared to have some status—then quickly leaving, as if staying any longer would taint their sanctity.
They lingered at welcoming banquets hosted by Soren’s nobility, accepting praise and offerings, discussing sacred doctrines and future glory, while the camp’s suffering was merely a light brushstroke on their resumes.
Among them, Ilith Sorenstein’s behavior was especially glaring.
Her eyes showed unhidden contempt and disgust toward the refugees, as if looking at piles of filthy garbage.
Her “healing” targets were either rich or noble, and the process felt more like a charitable performance.
When she learned that Roswitha was the “former teammate” who had made her lose face before Irene and nearly cost her life, a poisonous hatred wildly festered in her heart.
“A candidate born of a lowly class dares to compete with me?” Ilith’s lips curled cruelly as she watched Roswitha’s busy figure in the Refugee Camp reflected in a crystal ball. “I can’t touch that wretch Irene for now, but you, this annoying stumbling block… must disappear!”
“If you’re going to regret, regret being that Irene’s former teammate!”
A malicious plan took shape under her meticulous calculation.
On the fifth day of the Saint’s trial, at dawn, Roswitha dragged her exhausted body, continuing toward the Refugee Camp.
She knew the darkness within the Church—indeed, this scene of suffering before her was entirely created by the Church itself!
Hunting witches, preserving the goddess’s glory—is that truly more important than the suffering of all living beings?
In the name of God, forcing people into misery—can such a grandiose excuse ever be justified?
She chose to stay here, hoping to use her meager strength to do something for these forgotten souls.
If she could pass the Saint’s trial and earn the title of Saint, perhaps she could plead for a sliver of hope before the Pope for these people.
Before her lay a heavily injured, dying patient.
Roswitha focused all her remaining magic into the patient, trying to stabilize the flickering flame of life—
Suddenly, the tattered curtain of the hut was flung open roughly!
Dazzling light poured in, accompanied by the clinking of cold iron.
Two heretic inquisitors clad in black uniforms, their chests embroidered with the grim Eye of Judgment emblem, blocked the doorway like messengers from hell.
Their cold eyes radiated unquestionable authority.
“Roswitha Eisenfeld?” The tall lead inquisitor’s voice was flat and even. “By order of Inquisitor Heinrich, Chief of the Heretic Tribunal, you are to return immediately for trial!”
The sudden turn of events made Roswitha tremble all over, abruptly cutting off her divine power output.
She raised her head sharply, eyes full of shock and confusion: “Trial? Why? I… I’m still healing! Please give me a little more time; he… he’s barely holding on! We must—”
“Dying? What’s that got to do with us?” The other short, stout inquisitor sneered with cruel indifference. “Our mission is to bring you back! Now!”
He stepped forward, reaching to grab Roswitha’s slender arm.
“No! Please! Just a moment! A few more minutes!”
Roswitha’s tears welled up as she desperately tried to break free and continue tending to the feeble patient.
To the inquisitors, her movements were undeniably resistance.
“How dare you resist arrest? Guilty conscience!” The tall inquisitor roared. Together they rushed forward, roughly seizing Roswitha’s arms, ready to drag her away.
“Let go of Saint Sister!”
“What are you doing?!”
“Lady Roswitha is a good person!”
The refugees outside the hut were alarmed. Seeing this, they instantly grew furious!
They might fear the Church’s authority, but at this moment, the impulse to protect the “Saint” who truly gave them hope and help overwhelmed their fear.
Men grabbed wooden sticks and stones nearby, while women and children blocked the narrow passage with their bodies, shouting angrily, forming a chaotic yet resolute human barrier.
“Get out of the way! Are you trying to rebel?!” The inquisitors shouted fiercely, drawing their swords.
But facing the surging crowd and those eyes reddened with fury, they dared not strike, and the standoff remained tense.
Roswitha looked at the refugees who stood up for her, feeling both touched and anxious. “Everyone! Don’t! Don’t do this for me… please, let me save him first!”
She struggled, pointing at the weakly breathing patient on the straw mat.
Finally, under Roswitha’s near-pleading insistence and the refugees’ unyielding pressure, the inquisitors reluctantly loosened their grip, their faces dark, eyes coldly fixed on Roswitha as she finished the last treatment.
When the patient’s breathing finally steadied a little, Roswitha wearily stood up, her complexion even paler.
She glanced once more at the worried refugees inside the hut and whispered “Thank you,” then voluntarily stepped toward the inquisitors, extending her hands, voice heavy with fatigue and resignation: “Let’s go.”
Cold, heavy shackles clasped around her reddened, swollen wrists.
Under the refugees’ sorrowful and anxious gazes, Roswitha was roughly pushed and dragged away from the Refugee Camp she had poured all her heart into, toward the suffocating trial chambers deep within the Judgment Tower.
Passing through the cold stone corridor echoing with despair, Roswitha was brought into the courtroom.
The light was dim, and the oppressive atmosphere was suffocating.
Inquisitor Heinrich, the head of the Heretic Tribunal, sat at the high bench like a cold statue.
His hawk-like eyes pierced sharply at the brought-in Roswitha, expressionless but radiating an unsettling gloom.
“Roswitha Eisenfeld,” Heinrich’s voice was low but hit the vast hall like an iron hammer, carrying invisible pressure, “Do you know the crime you are charged with?”
The sudden interrogation left Roswitha even more bewildered. She instinctively shook her head, voice hoarse from exhaustion and tension: “Your Honor… I don’t understand… what crime have I committed?”
Her confusion was nothing but a clumsy act of playing dumb in Heinrich’s eyes.
Anger instantly ignited in his eyes: “Don’t understand? Fine, then I’ll tell you!”
He slammed the armrest, voice rising sharply like thunder: “In the early hours of today, your fellow Saint Candidates Evelyn Stewart and Margaret Rowling died on the spot from severe poisoning in their residences! Ilith Sorenstein was also poisoned; though she narrowly survived, her life still hangs by a thread!”
“They… they were poisoned to death?”
Roswitha was so shocked she nearly lost her balance, her face draining of color instantly.
“The poisoner’s methods were ruthless and the target clear!” Heinrich’s voice was icy. “Besides you, Roswitha Eisenfeld! Who else has the motive, the means, and access to all three? Jealousy of their backgrounds? Resentment at your ‘Saintly’ title being diluted? Or to clear the path to the Saint’s position?! Speak!”
“No! It wasn’t me!” Roswitha came back from her shock, voice trembling with intense grievance and fear, “I’ve been at the Refugee Camp the whole time! I had no time! No reason to do such a thing! I don’t even know where they live!”
She pleaded urgently, trying to disentangle the terrible accusation.
“Lies!” Heinrich snapped, cutting her off without a chance to continue, “Who can vouch for your whereabouts? Those peasants you bewitched? Their testimony is worthless!”
His gaze swept over the two inquisitors escorting Roswitha.
The inquisitors immediately caught on, eagerly bowing and adding: “Your Honor, this woman is cunning! When we went to arrest her, she delayed at every turn, using the excuse of healing to resist orders. Had we not forcibly taken her, she surely would have destroyed the evidence! Such behavior clearly shows her guilt!”
“I—I didn’t resist arrest! I just wanted to save a life!”
Roswitha’s tears threatened to fall as she looked at their twisted accusations. Naturally poor at words, faced with this barrage of slander and the cold gaze of the tribunal head, she felt utterly helpless, her defense growing weaker until only anxious silence remained.
At that moment, the heavy oak door of the tribunal was flung open!
“Inquisitor! Please reconsider!” Regilith rushed in, breathless from running, her deep blue hair slightly disheveled, face full of anxiety and disbelief.
She knelt on one knee before the bench, voice trembling with emotion: “Roswitha could never commit such a despicable act! She has been tirelessly tending to the wounded in the Refugee Camp day and night, utterly exhausted with no time to rest! There must be a frame-up! Please, Your Honor, see the truth!”
Almost simultaneously, another figure staggered in, supported by a maid.
“Inquisitor… cough cough…” Ilith’s face was pale as paper, lips bloodless, looking fragile enough to collapse with the slightest breeze. Her voice was faint and choked with tears: “Please… please calm your anger… Sister Roswitha… she is kind-hearted, perhaps… perhaps blinded by jealousy for a moment… I beg you… in light of her healing the refugees… be lenient… cough cough…”
She pleaded while casting “heartbroken” and “forgiving” glances at Roswitha, performing flawlessly.
Heinrich’s cold gaze swept over Regilith, carrying undeniable authority and a barely perceptible hint of disgust: “Knight Commander Regilith, your close relationship with Roswitha clouds your judgment with personal bias, utterly lacking objectivity! Your defense is inadmissible! Stand down!”
He completely ignored Regilith’s reasoned argument, turning his eyes to Ilith, tone flat but utterly dismissive: “As for you, Miss Ilith, being a victim yourself, your emotionally charged statements are mere subjective speculation and equally unreliable!”
Regilith’s heart sank at Heinrich’s cold, absolute gaze.
He had no intention of hearing any explanation! His verdict was decided long ago!
She looked at Roswitha and met those eyes filled with panic, grievance, and a hint of dependence—just like when she was a child facing hardships.
The heavy shackles on Roswitha’s wrists made Regilith’s eyes ache.
Violent struggles tore at her soul.
As Knight Commander, she knew what opposing the tribunal meant: betrayal of the Church, disgrace, and certain death.
‘Must I endure again? For the sake of my family, to wash away the traitor’s stain—am I really willing to sacrifice everything?’
She recalled those she had abandoned—first Irene, then Serena, and now… Roswitha.
This childhood friend, pure and kind, though taciturn, was the most suitable for Sainthood!
If it were her, maybe she could change the Church into what she hoped.
As the daughter of a traitor, she had endured mockery and coldness throughout the Holy City; only Roswitha’s smile brought her some healing.
She had promised to protect her and was willing to bear the sin of betraying her comrades, hoping that the clarity in her eyes would never fade!
But now… must she repeat the same mistake?
For family honor, she sacrificed one person after another. Only now did she realize her hands were stained with blood that could never be washed clean.
If the Church is sinful, then she is complicit!
Looking at Roswitha’s pale, desperate face, Regilith’s hands gripping her sword whitened at the knuckles from the strain, trembling slightly.
‘No… I can’t… but…’
Roswitha, how did it come to this?
Reason and the vow to protect clashed violently, almost tearing her apart. What am I supposed to do?
Her eyes flicked toward Ilith, that woman’s lips curving in a sly, triumphant smile.
That woman—she’s definitely behind this!
Heinrich ignored Regilith’s fierce struggle in her eyes and Ilith’s fake performance.
His patience seemed exhausted.
“Evidence is conclusive, Roswitha. You poisoned your fellow candidates out of jealousy and hatred—an unforgivable crime!”
He suddenly stood, voice like a final death knell: “Ignore her lies! Take her away! Keep her under strict guard while awaiting the final verdict! Everyone, withdraw!”
The cold command brooked no argument.
Guards stepped forward, roughly hauling the dazed Roswitha away.
Regilith was forcibly separated, only able to watch helplessly as Roswitha was taken off.
The last look Roswitha gave her was filled with helplessness and farewell, tearing Regilith’s heart to pieces.
Ilith, supported by a maid, left with the crowd.
When the tribunal was left with only Heinrich, the cold anger in his face instantly faded, replaced by deep calculation.
He waved his hand, and a trusted aide appeared quietly, respectfully handing over a sealed letter still warm with wax.
Heinrich unfolded the letter, quickly scanning its contents.
Upon seeing a crucial piece of information, his bottomless eyes suddenly blazed with terrifying light!
The letter clearly stated: Soren City Secret Report: Verified by key witness (former substitute Rita), Saint Candidate Roswitha Eisenfeld’s true identity is the long-wanted Church fugitive—the “Witch”!
“Witch… Roswitha…” Heinrich muttered the names softly, lips curling into an ice-cold yet ecstatic smile. “So it was a brilliant escape! A perfect deception! Eisenhart, you sly old fox, you hid deep enough to almost fool me!”
Previously, he had been somewhat troubled over how to pin a weighty, convincing charge on Roswitha.
“Poisoning a Saint Candidate”—such an opportunity just happened to appear.
After all, Roswitha was publicly acknowledged as a Saint Candidate by the Church; labeling her a witch outright would be to slap the Church’s face! Heinrich still cared about appearances.
“Ilith…” Heinrich thought of that self-righteous woman, a hint of contempt flashing in his eyes, “she unintentionally did a ‘good’ thing. She provided a perfect, procedurally justified reason for arrest, silencing all whispers. Now…”
He immediately summoned a herald and issued a ruthless and clear order, his voice echoing through the empty tribunal hall:
“Announce to the entire city and all parishes: Saint Candidate Roswitha Eisenfeld, due to extreme jealousy and wicked nature, poisoned the other three Saint Candidates, causing the deaths of Evelyn Stewart and Margaret Rowling with irrefutable evidence! Her actions desecrate the divine and defy natural law! The Heretic Tribunal’s final judgment sentences her to death by fire!”
“Execution location: the square in front of the Judgment Tower!”
“Time: noon, three days from now!”
The herald bowed and left quickly.
Heinrich stood alone atop the towering tribunal bench, his gaze seeming to pierce through the thick stone walls, looking toward the cold spire of the Judgment Tower.
The public execution served three purposes:
First, under the name of “justly judging the poisoner,” to calm the shock caused by the death of the candidates and appease various factions.
Second, to use Roswitha—the true “Witch”—as bait to lure out the remnants of the “Shadow Sword Sect,” long hidden enemies of the Church, to be eradicated once and for all!
Third, and most crucial: publicly executing a “witch disguised as a Saint” in front of all eyes would be the most shocking demonstration of Church authority and the strongest consolidation of the faithful’s belief! Using the blood and fire of a “witch” to cleanse all doubt!
“Witch Roswitha… the rats of the Shadow Sword Sect… and Eisenhart…” Heinrich’s eyes burned with cold, unyielding flames, whispering, “Your end has come.”
“The Holy Father is the true God!”
Of course, Heinrich had no intention of truly carrying out a public execution. Such events were long and fraught with risk, prone to unexpected changes.
Tonight, Roswitha would die in the Judgment Tower’s prison.
The one publicly executed three days later would be a poor scapegoat.
He eagerly anticipated the despair on Eisenhart’s and those heretics’ faces when, desperate to rescue her like moths to a flame, they found someone else on the pyre—
Premium Chapter
Login to buy access to this Chapter.