Chapter 22 : The Girl Called a Saint (3)

A bow cannot defeat a gun.

Speed, range, destructive power, rate of fire. In every aspect, the gun overwhelms the bow.

Above all………….

Ding!

[The energy of the battlefield has been detected.]

[Napoleon’s rifle unlocks its trait.]

[Grape Shot General, Napoleon]

[Accuracy: 60% increase]

I held a unique-grade relic in my hands.

Bang!

Napoleon’s rifle, with its accuracy increased by 60%, shoots down the arrow aimed at Joan of Arc.

The startled archer quickly nocked another arrow………..

Bang!

A flying bullet pierced the archer’s forehead, sending him tumbling down the fortress wall.

By the time an archer could draw a bow boasting a 70kg draw weight, Napoleon’s rifle could fire ten rounds.

Bang─! Bang─! Bang─!

I eliminated every archer who posed a threat to Joan of Arc.

Of course, arrows weren’t the only danger she faced.

“There! It’s the saint!”

“Capture the saint!”

Realizing they had no chance of victory unless Joan of Arc was eliminated, the English soldiers abandoned the fortress walls and charged at her.

But that wasn’t my concern.

Joan of Arc had exceptional knights protecting her.

“Sir Gilles de Rais.”

“Do not worry.”

A knight with a pale complexion stepped forward.

Gilles de Rais.

Joan of Arc’s closest knight—who, after witnessing her being burned at the stake as a witch, would fall into despair and turn to dark magic.

But right now, Gilles de Rais was an outstanding holy knight.

Alongside him stood Duke Alençon, Jean de Dunois, La Hire, and others.

Joan of Arc was surrounded by the heroes of the Hundred Years’ War.

They formed an impenetrable wall, holding back the advancing English troops.

Joan of Arc’s survival was not just due to her own abilities.

It was made possible by the dedication of such remarkable knights.

And so,

“The gates of Tourelles have opened!”

“Advance!”

Joan of Arc survived her first death.

Even after overcoming her first death, Joan of Arc continued to face numerous threats.

Arrows flew at her, assassins came and went, poison was sent to her.

An unusual number of dangers lurked on her path.

But none of them could push her to death.

It wasn’t some divine miracle.

“Jeanne, today you must wear your helmet.”

“Understood.”

By her side stood someone who knew the future.

Clang!

A catapult’s boulder, aimed at her head, bounced off Yi Sun-sin’s helmet.

Bang!

An arrow aimed at her knee was neutralized by a bullet.

Thud!

The saint’s flag struck down the soldier trying to push her off the fortress wall.

Death.

Death.

Death.

Three recorded instances of her death in history had passed.

She overcame them all.

Not by ‘miracles’—but through her own strength and my assistance.

And now, only her final death remained.

The death that would complete the epic of the saint.

‘The stake.’

At sunset by the Loire River, countless wounded knights and soldiers lay on the ground.

They were prisoners of war—captured English and Burgundian soldiers.

Sizzle!

“Ugh, thank you, Saint.”

Joan of Arc tended to the wounded from the war.

She treated not only her own men but also the captured English soldiers.

She did not distinguish between friend and foe as she cared for the injured.

From the early dawn, when the sun first broke, to the evening when the river was dyed red.

She worked tirelessly, her hands and clothes stained with blood, tending to the wounded.

Sizzle!

“Urgh, th-thank you.”

As she poured holy water over a soldier’s bleeding knee, an English prisoner expressed his gratitude.

The pale face of a man, once shadowed by death, now showed a hint of color.

By morning, she had saved over two hundred people.

“Stop, Jeanne.”

Someone approached Joan of Arc as she was tending to the wounded man.

A middle-aged man with a kind expression—it was Bishop Cambrai.

He smiled gently and raised his hand.

At that moment, the knight who had accompanied the bishop thrust a spear into the chest of the man Joan of Arc was treating.

Thud!

The man died helplessly.

Joan of Arc’s eyes trembled.

“Oh.”

“We did not receive the ransom for the prisoner.”

Bishop Cambrai consoled Joan of Arc with a sorrowful expression.

“It is unfortunate, but there is no other choice, Jeanne. Since no ransom was paid, we have no choice but to grant a merciful death.”

“He must have gone to the Lord in peace.”

Bishop Cambrai’s words sounded cruel, but they were not necessarily wrong.

The idea that ‘killing prisoners is an act of cruelty’ has been widely accepted for less than 100 years, even in modern times.

The first Geneva Convention, which advocated humane treatment of prisoners, was established in 1864.

A convention incorporating human rights principles only came into existence after World War II, in 1949.

Before that, prisoners were considered the property of the victor, and their fate was at the victor’s discretion.

Of course, even with this understanding, Bishop Cambrai’s decision could only be seen as brutal…………..

“You must ensure that the prisoners are sent off as mercifully as possible.”

“…Understood, Bishop.”

Bishop Cambrai justified the massacre under the guise of ‘mercy.’

That day, the banks of the Loire River were stained red with the bodies of thousands.

It was the moment when the rumor that Joan of Arc was a ‘witch’ began to spread.

“You don’t need to pay attention to public rumors, Jeanne.”

I comforted Joan of Arc as I changed the bandages on her stigmata.

Thanks to her efforts, the French army had reclaimed Paris, an incredible achievement.

Yet rumors of Joan of Arc being a ‘witch’ had begun to circulate.

The massacre on the Loire River had spread to both the French and English sides.

The initial claim that ‘the French army killed prisoners’ evolved into an exaggerated rumor: ‘The saint slaughtered the prisoners.’

Even though Joan of Arc had tirelessly treated the captives, the truth was buried beneath the rumors.

Even among the French citizens, some began to fear her as a witch.

Of course, the rumors were insignificant.

The number of people who truly believed she was a witch was but a handful.

“Everyone knows Jeanne is not a witch.”

It was merely a malicious rumor spread intentionally by the English.

Joan of Arc remained a saint.

I wrapped the bandages around her back and gently stroked her golden hair.

“Have a safe journey to the coronation, Jeanne.”

“Sir Jeosun, aren’t you coming with me?”

“No, because I do not belong here.”

The French dauphin, Charles VII, had officially proclaimed himself king.

His coronation was to be held in Paris, where Joan of Arc was to be granted a noble title.

“If you come with me, it’ll be fine.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’ll wait here.”

I entrusted Joan of Arc to Gilles de Rais, who was waiting outside the door.

“Sir Gilles de Rais, please take good care of the saint.”

In the end, Joan of Arc left with a disappointed expression.

I gave a bitter smile, but it couldn’t be helped.

I was not someone who could stay in this place forever.

Eventually, I would have to leave, so I needed to maintain my distance from her.

If I grew too attached, leaving would be difficult.

And so, Joan of Arc departed for Paris to attend the coronation.

And she never returned.

Days passed, yet Joan of Arc, who was supposed to return from the coronation, did not come back.

During that time, Charles VII declared himself king, and the English forces withdrew from Paris.

“She’s a bit late.”

One day, as I wondered about Joan of Arc’s delayed return—

Boom!

The doors of the castle I had been assigned to were flung open with a thunderous crash, and someone rushed in.

It was Gilles de Rais, the knight who had accompanied Joan of Arc to Paris.

But his face was filled with rage.

Sensing that something had gone terribly wrong, I rose from my seat.

“What happened, Sir Gilles de Rais?”

“The saint… Jeanne has been captured by the English bastards!”

“What? What do you mean?”

I was so shocked by the unexpected words that I asked again.

Joan of Arc was not supposed to be captured by England yet.

There was still a long time before Charles VII, now the king of France, would betray her.

“Bishop Cambrai! That bastard handed Jeanne over to the English Church!”

From Gilles de Rais’s enraged words, I understood the situation.

The rumor of ‘witchcraft’ had spread, and Bishop Cambrai was using it to put Joan of Arc on trial for heresy.

‘Is this their way of ending the war?’

The Hundred Years’ War would ultimately end with the noble sacrifice of the saint, Joan of Arc.

Both the English, who feared her, and the French king, who found her growing fame burdensome, reached a silent agreement.

The stake.

The process had changed slightly, but history was repeating itself.

I immediately mounted my horse and rode toward Paris, where Joan of Arc’s trial was being held.

Her execution by fire was a fixed event in history, but I had never expected it to happen like this.

I couldn’t accept that things were unfolding exactly as Bishop Cambrai intended.

To put it bluntly, it was disgusting.

That hypocrite, always wearing a kind smile while staying in the background, had been sacrificing Jeanne all along—now, even at the very end, he tormented her.

Even if this was history, it made my stomach turn.

But I was unable to enter the Parisian church where the trial was being held.

“I’m sorry, but you cannot enter.”

“…Why not?”

Even when I asked for a reason, the holy knight guarding the church refused to step aside.

“The bishop has ordered that no one who was close to Joan of Arc be allowed inside, as there is a risk of escape.”

Blocked at the entrance, I hesitated, wondering if I should knock out the knight and force my way in.

Just as I was about to put my plan into action, a familiar face appeared from inside the church.

A priest with a gentle expression, always wearing a benevolent smile.

“What is the matter?”

It was Bishop Cambrai.

After hearing the situation from the knight, the bishop turned to me and spoke.

“Come inside.”

As if he were granting me mercy.

“I will lead you to Jeanne.”

Bishop Cambrai guided me through the church’s cloister.

We arrived at a massive chapel where prayers were being recited.

“This is not a courtroom.”

“If you wait here, you will be able to see Jeanne.”

“Bishop.”

“Yes, my brother?”

“Why did you hand Jeanne over to the Church?”

I asked while staring at Bishop Cambrai’s smiling face.

“You, more than anyone, know that Jeanne is not a witch.”

The massacre at the Loire River had been orchestrated by Bishop Cambrai, not Joan of Arc.

Joan had actually tended to the wounded prisoners.

Yet she was now on trial for heresy because of the ‘witch’ rumor that spread due to that massacre.

“To end the war that has lasted a hundred years.”

“For the past century, far too many have died and suffered.”

Bishop Cambrai spoke with a sorrowful expression, revealing his true feelings.

“Jeanne’s sacrifice is truly heartbreaking, but if the sacrifice of one noble soul can save many, I will not hesitate to make that choice.”

“Even if it means I will fall into hell.”

It was the face of a true saint—someone willing to condemn himself for his beliefs.

I stared at his conviction-filled expression and asked,

“Bishop.”

“Speak.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“…What do you mean?”

“How many saints came before Jeanne?”

“…Say it, you bastard. How many have you killed?”

Bishop Cambrai’s face went completely blank.