Chapter 68
Saint.
Born in a village.
Raised under her parents' influence, she was deeply devout, and like most commoners she had received no proper education, so she was illiterate and couldn't even read.
She was a thoroughly ordinary village girl in every respect, but the flames of war burned her homeland to the ground.
It was then that a voice came to the thirteen-year-old girl.
Follow God's will and save this troubled world.
To an ordinary girl, that voice was far too heavy a burden, and at first she even thought of laying it down.
But the tide of history would not let her go.
So in the end, she answered God's call and became a saint, though even then she had to endure further hardship and adversity before being recognized as a true saint.
- Do you really think some filthy bitch like you heard God's voice?
Not many people truly bothered to listen to the words of a girl who claimed to have heard God's voice.
Her body had matured far earlier than that of other children her age, stirring imaginations far removed from holiness.
A saint reflected in a mirror becomes a witch.
So she was doubted and had to prove herself.
Yet that process of proving herself slowly, bit by bit, began to carve an unhealable wound into her chest.
All-knowing and all-powerful, so they claimed.
That was simply the age they lived in: one in which people believed in a God who never showed Himself and never extended a hand of salvation to those fallen into ruin.
If one were to find any difference there.
Saint.
Joan of Arc, despite the persecution, had completely sacrificed herself to walk the path of saving her country.
Saint.
Roseline, unable to endure the absurdity of the Holy Kingdom any longer, had, though not openly, effectively broken away from it.
Watching Joan of Arc's path, Roseline ended up deeply projecting her own feelings onto her without realizing it.
As for Roseline's past before she became a saint, Kim Yul had no way of knowing about it... So this was nothing more than coincidence.
But.
A development that so vividly captured the fact that religion may be sublime, but the people surrounding it are never sublime.
The actors precisely recreated that horrible, damp gaze—not the look one gave a saint carrying out a sacred duty, but the gaze of someone looking at a female they simply wanted to possess.
But she left all those suspicious gazes behind her.
Joan of Arc proved herself.
As if proving that she had indeed received God's revelation, she found the sword hidden in the cathedral using the angels' tale as a clue and took it as a holy relic, and even prayed to change the wind's direction.
By showing the various miracles a saint could manifest, she gradually won over the people around her.
And then.
"My banner has risen high, yet the eyes of those sleeping beneath it are closed forever. Please, tonight, let the cold dew gently warm their brows."
A clear, refreshing song spreading through the gray smoke.
"I remember that the enemies across the river were also Your children. Let them dream of home, and before the scales of judgment let them stand as nothing more than lost sheep."
Not the thrill of defeating the enemy.
Compassion for the dead, obedience to the fate assigned to her, and love for God.
The actor's fragile-looking yet resolute performance and singing were more than enough to capture Joan of Arc's delicate emotions.
"So use me as Your instrument. Until the fields of France ripple gold once more, let darkness and fear rest for a while, and let me become the torch of light that shines upon them. Let only Your glory remain in this land."
Together with that, the soft yet sacred magical staging was enough to instill sanctity, awe, and a shiver in the hearts of those watching the stage.
As the final syllable scattered into the air.
Even onstage.
Even below the stage.
The world fell silent, as if it had stopped breathing.
Though the song had ended, no one clapped or cheered; they only wiped away tears or silently offered prayers.
The image of the female warrior who had just been commanding the battlefield.
The image of the saint comforting weary soldiers—all of it was gone.
With only the exhausted back of a girl carrying a burden far too heavy for her shoulders left as the final image, the curtain fell for a moment.
Roseline could only wipe the tears streaming down her face with a handkerchief.
"Hiccup, sniff, sob, sob."
Even the racket from the seat beside her was powerless to shatter Roseline's emotion.
.
.
.
The interlude flew by quickly, and the flow of the story took a drastic turn.
A splendid coronation held beneath the protection of the kingdom's saint, Joan of Arc, who had led them from victory to victory.
A nobles' banquet, set in stark contrast to the commoners mired in misery.
A saint advocating the enemy's annihilation through aggressive strategy and swift offensives, and the royal court trying to squeeze as much advantage as possible from the high powers through negotiations and treaties.
Their young, spirited patron, Charles the Dauphin, had by now become the power-drunk King Charles VII.
Before long, Joan of Arc had become, to him, an awkward liability—something he couldn't quite cast aside, yet one that could even drag royal authority down.
"Of course. There's no way Kim Yul would ever pull off a normal happy ending, desuwa."
At the grumbling voice beside her, Roseline unconsciously nodded.
But unlike Chloe, who had only offered a piecemeal review of the play's scenes.
Roseline couldn't help but superimpose the Holy Kingdom and Charles VII once again.
"Hearing God's voice is no longer the important thing. In a time this chaotic, what people want is stability. So, Roseline. Please, restrain yourself."
A vivid sense of the conversation from that day she had wanted to erase resurfaced before her eyes.
What spread out before her was the battle at Compiègne Castle, where she had thrown herself in with nothing but a sense of justice, only to receive no proper support.
And then.
Defeat, capture.
The opposing commander, Count of Ligny, treated Joan respectfully and suggested contacting Charles VII to pay the ransom and take Joan back, but.
"Tell them that France no longer needs her."
The actor's cold voice filled the stage like a death sentence.
In the end.
Abandoned by the kingdom, Joan of Arc was taken to Paris, the land of France she had wanted to reclaim.
At last.
"Kyaa-hah! Who on earth is that!"
"Pff."
As if smashing the gloomy atmosphere in an instant.
A phantom of a black-haired man, all too familiar to Roseline and Chloe, appeared before their eyes.
With an appearance that seemed fit to serve an evil god rather than a goddess, and vestments far too lavish for a bishop, he oddly wore the outfit perfectly.
A languid, low voice, as if it were trying to ensnare their souls, began striking their eardrums.
"How often do you hear the voice of angels?"
"I have never failed to hear it when necessary."
"The angels you said you saw—were they wearing clothes?"
"Did you think God couldn't even clothe the angels who serve Him?"
"Did Michael have body hair?"
"Then did you think they should shave it all off?"
"Didn't the angels give you advance warning that you would be judged?"
"What danger am I in? The angels said my soul would be free. They said Heaven was open to me and told me not to complain about martyrdom."
Kim Yul... no, Bishop Cauchon's questions were petty yet relentless, but Joan answered every one of those trivial questions with a face so devout it was almost painfully sincere.
Though it was an inquisitorial scene that could have been weighty, laughter kept bursting from the audience.
An absurd farce.
It felt as if it were satirizing the Inquisition itself, but Roseline didn't particularly mind the process.
At the very least.
They hadn't thrown a thirteen-year-old girl into a fire pit just to see whether she really had divine protection.
......That's what I had thought.
"Ah, God. I beg You, please watch over this frail life and care for this country and its people......!"
The climax of the stage.
With every audience member holding their breath, Joan of Arc's final song rang out.
When her will to nobly sacrifice herself as a mortal spread the divine protection that had dwelled in her body until the very end, scattering it across the world to share it with everyone.
Crack──!
Breaking the silence, the sound of a chair armrest being brutally smashed rang through the entire theater like a sound effect.
"Hiccup."
Only after seeing Chloe trembling and swallowing her hiccups with her mouth covered did Roseline finally realize that she had committed vandalism.
For once.
Roseline really wanted to see that archbishop's sly, lecherous face.
She wanted to see it so badly she'd punch it like before and flatten his nose again.
* * *
Kim Yul's next move, after accidentally witnessing Roseline turn a chair armrest into powder, was extremely quick.
"Well, please tell everyone I said they all worked really hard. Something urgent has come up, so I'll be going now."
"Oh, dear."
Kim Yul had quickly slipped out of the monitoring room to avoid the pitying stares from the cast and was trying to flee the theater with thunderous applause at his back, but.
"Author?"
If you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.
The saint, with hawk-like eyes, didn't miss Bishop Ko-yul's back as he tried to flee.
Kim Yul broke out in a cold sweat and, for now, knelt down.
"All characters, names, groups, and events appearing in the work are fictional and were not based on real people or events......!"
As if reciting the Miranda warning, fictional disclaimers poured one after another from Kim Yul's mouth.
Roseline paid it no mind and strode over to the shivering Kim Yul.
Unlike the anxious Kim Yul, who was on pins and needles at the thought that an inquisition punch might fly at any moment.
Roseline gently reached out and grabbed his neck.
It was a situation where, with just a little more force, Kim Yul might pop and even pull off a hidden Dullahan-class advancement.
"I enjoyed that funny play very much; it was deeply moving."
Unexpectedly, a gentle voice flowed from Roseline's lips.
Kim Yul's head drooped, like Demon Slayer's Upper Rank Three after meeting his dead wife again in a flashback and hearing the whisper, 'That's enough.'
"Tragedy certainly has its own kind of charm. I especially liked the way it satirized the absurdity of reality."
"H, haha......"
"But still."
Roseline lovingly gathered the sinful little lamb into her arms.
"Still, wouldn't a happy ending be better?"
Under the merciless squeeze of the holy-power pouch.
Kim Yul could only bury his nose in it and hold his breath.
It was summer.
* * *
Hero.
The one chosen by a god or by God's proxy.
The one charged with sealing the Demon Realm and saving the world.
Ordinary people could also devote themselves to humanity in the Demon Realm, but there were things that made a hero a hero.
One was God's proxy itself: the saint.
The other was an artifact imbued with God's will: the holy relic.
Like the Hero Seraphine's relic, Fragarach.
A holy relic, by its very existence alone, shone to keep heroes from getting lost in the Demon Realm, guiding them and granting them the strength to overcome adversity.
And now.
At the ruins of the church where young Roseline used to play.
A single auspicious ray of light descended from the sky and fell.
Though no one saw it except the birds roaming freely in the sky.
At the spot where that light arrived.
A new holy relic.
A sword engraved with five crosses.
Sainte Catherine began to emit a faint halo.