Nobody knows how to be a villain better than me.

After all, she only had one night to stay here.

The Saintess of Orleans turned her head and looked up at the bright, starry night sky. The deep darkness made her lose herself in thought.

A sense of weariness and exhaustion welled up inside him for no apparent reason, and his dark blue eyes slowly closed.

Meanwhile, Rouen Cathedral.

In a spacious bedroom, precious spices burned in the fireplace, emitting a refreshing fragrance. The exquisite purple lambskin carpet and the long pine table laden with sumptuous food and precious gold and silver utensils all exuded luxury.

With the clinking of cups and plates, Archbishop Pierre, who had grown so large that he could barely fit in a chair, swung his knife and fork with gusto, filling his stomach and eating with gusto.

He had spent months racking his brains trying to convict that village girl from Dongremi, and he was so exhausted that he lost more than ten kilograms in the process.

Now that things are finally settling down, we definitely need to make up for it properly.

Feeling sorry for himself, Pierre ate and drank to his heart's content. Then, he got up and moved his obese body, carefully opened the drawer of his desk, took out the confession, looked at it with satisfaction, and put the evidence of his crime into the box full of gold coins under his bed.

As the box was opened, the dazzling golden light ignited a fervent passion in Pierre's eyes in an instant.

With ten thick, clumsy fingers, Pierre inserted himself into the box, tossing the gold coins up again and again. He let them slip through his fingers, listening patiently to the melodious clinking, his face filled with rapture.

Ah, my beauty, my angel.

Mine, all of it is mine!

"puff!"

Just as the obese bishop was hugging and kissing a pile of gold coins, a cold wind swept through the room, and the candles on the golden candlesticks suddenly went out.

Chapter Nine: Joan of Arc is dead; burn paper money if needed.

Joan of Arc, fast asleep, felt herself drifting and confused, and realized that she had unknowingly returned to her hometown of Domrémy, that familiar land.

As the gentle breeze of her hometown blew and she smelled the fragrance of the earth, memories of the past flashed through the young girl's mind.

His hometown of Domrémy is one of the small, isolated regions in northeastern France that remains loyal to the French monarchy.

When she was born, her parents owned about 50 acres of land and ran a farm. Her father also held a minor official position in the village, responsible for collecting taxes and leading the village's care.

Her parents' businesses and jobs seemed glamorous and respectable, but she had three older brothers and one older sister.

Because she had to support five children in her family, which was not actually wealthy, she did not receive a formal education. As she grew up, she began to take on farm work, and herding sheep was her main job.

Although she often worked hard and didn't have enough to eat, whenever she shared her dinner with those who were even poorer and more destitute in the war, gave them her bed to rest, and did what she could for them, the gratitude and sincerity shown on their faces was her greatest satisfaction.

Therefore, those days are beautiful memories that bring her joy and satisfaction, and are well worth reminiscing about.

Joan of Arc's thoughts returned, and she looked out over the boundless fields, a golden expanse stretching as far as the eye could see.

The ripe wheat ears have become full and golden. The warm air blows by, creating waves of golden wheat and carrying the aroma of wheat grains.

Joan of Arc was so engrossed in watching that she subconsciously walked into the field, spread her arms, and swept across the wheat on both sides, feeling the weight of the harvest.

Ah, before I knew it, it was already May 30th.

At this time of year, the wheat is almost ripe.

Wow, I've been gone for so long...

Joan of Arc raised her hand to her forehead, and couldn't help but sigh inwardly.

In a daze, her gaze seemed to travel through time and space, seeing her carefree self in the fields.

Swaying wheat ears, a pure blue sky, and leisurely drifting white clouds...

Running through the golden wheat fields, the gentle breeze from the stream whispers in our ears, bringing with it the joyful laughter of our companions.

Gradually, a smile unconsciously appeared on Joan of Arc's upturned lips.

This is probably the life she envisions.

Unfortunately, what we see before us is nothing but an illusion, a dream.

From the time she could remember, Domrémy was surrounded by Burgundian territory, during the darkest and most chaotic period of the Hundred Years' War between England and France.

War and smoke, bloodshed and death, cries and wailing were almost everywhere you looked.

During her childhood, the village was attacked several times, one of which even set the entire village on fire.

Houses were collapsing, lambs huddled and bleated in burning enclosures, and the air was thick with the smell of burning.

Having dealt with the Burgundians, the blood-stained father, along with his trembling brothers, did their utmost to fight the fire, while the disheveled mother and sister shouted and searched for her.

At that time, I was recklessly squeezing into the fence, trying to save the lambs I had raised myself.

But as the fire spread, she quickly became lost in the choking smoke, her consciousness fading.

To make matters worse, the burned-out fence began to fall apart and tilt, and she, trapped inside, was about to be crushed by the burning logs and die on the spot.

Unexpectedly, the sinking giant tree was repelled by an invisible force, and the sparks and flames that flew up gathered in mid-air to form a humanoid silhouette with crimson angel wings.

This was the last thing she saw before she fell into a coma.

After that, all I remember is that embrace—it was warm, soft, and reassuring.

When she woke up, she was lying on the nearby grass, holding a lamb, and miraculously unharmed.

Clearly, the Holy Spirit in the flames saved her.

The wooden cross left around his neck was His grace.

But not everyone is as lucky as her.

Looking around, the former home has been reduced to a pile of black rubble in this fire.

People who have lost their home, their food, their relatives and friends, and their hope, sit numbly on the ground, weeping uncontrollably, their eyes devoid of life.

From that moment on, she heard the voice of God.

He said he wanted to save the people of the world.

His voice was gentle yet filled with pain.

He should have just been fantasizing about himself tomorrow.

For the village, for the country,

Moreover, for the sake of the Lord, they left their homeland and chose the path of battle.

In the golden wheat field, the Saint of Orleans, with her hands clasped together at her chest, conveys a beautiful prayer to the heavens with a devout heart.

When she opened her eyes again, her gaze fell upon the boundless expanse of wheat before her, the tranquil village houses in the distance with their crowing roosters and barking dogs, and the wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys. Joan of Arc was momentarily stunned, a pure smile blooming on her pretty face as her thoughts surged.

In the beginning, thanks to the grace and protection of the Lord, she led the army to victory in the Battle of Orléans, liberated Reims, and put Charles VII, who had the talent of a wise ruler, on the throne.

At that time, Charles VII, after his coronation, wanted to recognize her achievements, so he inquired about her wishes and promised to fulfill them with the resources of the entire nation.

She did not hesitate for long before pleading with the king:

Her hometown of Domremy was impoverished due to war, and she hoped to be able to exempt it from taxes.

Charles agreed that, in the name of the royal family, Dom Remy would never be taxed.

She saw the happiness she had dreamed of.

They are currently high in the sky above Dom Remy.

Above the golden wheat field, an innocent maiden raises her gently clasped hands to receive the boundless light from the heavens, like a saint bathed in radiance.

The heavens are the glory of God, and the firmament is the work of God.

The warm light spread across the earth, reaching even the other side of the world.

My end is here, my destiny is here, and my life is here.

My life is equivalent to nothingness, like a shadow wandering everywhere.

Lord, I entrust this body to you—

May new hope follow despair.

In the midst of murmured prayers, the beautiful dream world shattered like glass, and the sleeping girl, as her consciousness returned, gently awoke.

Feeling the warmth falling on her skin and the glimmer of light entering her eyes, Joan of Arc murmured unconsciously to herself.

Daylight broke...

However, as the saint of Orleans gradually opened her eyes, she fully adjusted to her surroundings. Looking up and around, she was astonished to find that what awaited her was not the chains and cold faces of jailers, but blue sky and white clouds.

And, he found himself in a golden wheat field!

"Yo, are you awake?"

Just as Joan of Arc was filled with astonishment and confusion, a familiar mocking voice came from behind her.

The Saintess of Orleans turned around abruptly, looking in astonishment at the man who was resting his chin on his hand, smiling as he sized her up.

"You can even laugh so happily in your dreams, so you must be sleeping well."

The casual teasing echoed in her ears, bringing Joan of Arc back to her senses. She pursed her lips tightly, her face full of resistance.

"Samael, I told you, I don't need your salvation!"

With that, the Saintess of Orleans immediately stood up, turned her back to the demon behind her, and strode forward.

"Where are you going? To Rouen to turn yourself in?"

The ancient snake didn't seem to care, raising its hand to stroke its chin, its mocking smile growing even wider.

"Sorry, it's too late. You didn't just sleep one night, you slept for a week."

Therefore, seven days earlier, Jeanne Darque, the Saint of Orléans who had sacrificed herself for God and the nation, had already been sent to the stake.

what? !

I'm dead?

Joan of Arc, who had just taken a step, was startled by what she heard. Her pupils dilated in shock, and she turned around in astonishment, staring blankly at the demon with a face full of pleasure.

Chapter Ten: Let's get down to business, Samael!

What exactly happened that day?

After a brief silence, Samael grinned and snapped his fingers. The surrounding ether surged, mixing with the rising, blurry vapor, vividly depicting the execution that had taken place a few days earlier.

On May 30th, the saint, in shackles, was escorted from the prison tower to the square.

She was so devout that she continued to pray even as she was tied to the stake.

Even as she walked toward the execution ground, there was no resentment or fear on her face. She remained as gentle and calm as ever, whether she was facing the onlookers, the guards escorting her, the executioner in charge of the execution, or even the clergy who stood in the light but did dark deeds.

She never hated anyone, and she accepted her fate with equanimity.

Before her execution, she asked the priest beside her if she could hold a small crucifix.

Finally, the fire was lit, and the executioner was ordered to keep the flames at a distance from her, in order to make her die as painfully as possible.

Under the gloomy sky, a human body was writhing in agony amidst the flames. The citizens who had harbored all sorts of malice towards this girl could not bear to look and turned their heads away. Almost everyone present shed tears of sympathy.

Even the executioners, afterward, were tormented by their consciences and murmured such things to the law enforcement officers.

"If Joan of Arc were a witch, I would gladly end her with my own hands, but in the moment before she died, I saw a white dove flying by."

Everything was so tragic, so poignant.

"Congratulations, Jeanne Darque, for casting yourself into the flames and forging a person of dazzling faith. Now you are remembered by the world and have become the true Saint of Orléans."

The demon faced the saintess, pondered leisurely, and bowed slightly in greeting; the more solemn he was, the more ironic it seemed.

"What on earth did you do?"

Joan of Arc clenched her pearly teeth and cherry lips, looking intently at the demon before her, and pressed him for an answer through gritted teeth.

She knew very well that she had never stepped onto the pyre, nor had she ever experienced the pain of being burned alive.

Faced with this aggressive questioning, the devil raised his hand to his forehead, somewhat helpless, seemingly feeling deeply saddened that his hard work was being questioned.

"What, is this script not good?"

"The truth! Answer me! Who was the person on the pyre?!"

Zhen De's tone was cold and hard, unmoved. She frowned and confronted the man in front of her, as if light and darkness were divided and separated under the same sky.

"Let's treat this as the final test question and try to guess it."