When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

Slender blades of grass obscured the view like a dense forest.

Only through the gaps between the blades could the misshapen, gray-black clouds in the sky be seen.

Rain and mist brushed against Horn's face, but brought little chill.

His nose, close to the ground, caught the grassy scent emanating from the damp earth.

It seems I've transmigrated.

Horn was so certain because the last thing he remembered was the yellow license plate of a heavy-duty truck and the distant, azure sky.

He had melted into the blue sky.

Sure enough, the moment he widened his view, a hunter's cabin, straight out of a medieval stereotype, stood out on the hillside.

It was made of round log walls, a slat frame, and a thatched roof, with a cross resembling '屮' erected on the gable, and an old, shriveled lynx pelt hanging under the eaves.

Instinctively, Horn tried to turn his head, but no matter how hard he tried, his view remained fixed. He wanted to shout, but couldn't make a sound.

What's going on? Has my soul not yet adapted to the new body?

Just as Horn was trying to control his body and get up, a thumping of footsteps reached his right ear, pressed against the ground.

Horn immediately stopped trying.

Along with the rapidly approaching footsteps came shouting mixed with the clanging of metal.

Horn had never heard the language of the shouting, but he could understand it unexpectedly.

"There's clearly food in the forest, we could clearly avoid starving, why can't we go in to forage?"

It was a slightly hoarse female voice, panting and roaring like a lioness.

"Starve? Starve what starve, didn't I also suffer from the flood? Why don't I feel hungry? Sometimes, you should look for your own problems, isn't it because your faith isn't devout enough? Have you been praying properly all these years?"

Replying to the girl's question was a sneer from an adult male, and the whoosh of air.

A piercing metallic screech flashed, followed by the sound of a body falling heavily to the ground. Lying prone, Horn heard something dragging across the muddy ground.

...Why does that sound seem to be getting closer?

The grass in front of him trembled, and raindrops shook to the ground, splashing mud even onto Horn's face.

Eyes wide, Horn looked straight ahead.

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, a huge, plump butt suddenly parted the grass in front of him, pushing wet soil and sliding to the tip of his nose, completely filling Horn's vision.

A firm sensation came from his face, and Horn couldn't help but stare blankly.

For some reason, he felt that the butt in front of him looked familiar.

He took a deep breath, and the smell was also very familiar.

Before he could remember who it was, the butt had already left Horn's sight.

Supporting herself with the pitchfork in her hands, the girl stood up with trembling legs, her left leg slightly forward, adopting the right iron gate stance from short spear techniques towards the knight in front of her.

Thanks to the girl's grass-parting action, the grass blocking Horn's view finally cleared the way.

Through the girl's legs, he saw the man who had been speaking.

He was about 1.8 meters tall, with a bulbous nose, a walrus mustache, and a mouthful of dirty yellow teeth hidden beneath pale lips.

The black paint on his Milanese half-armor was somewhat faded by the rain, and in his dragon claw-like iron gauntlets, he held a hand-and-a-half sword about 1.4 meters long.

With the hand-and-a-half sword resting on the roundel of his fine iron shoulder armor, he stared at the girl's body, licking his chapped lips with his bright red tongue.

This was a knight, Horn just knew, and he even inexplicably felt a surge of anger.

Behind the man, between him and the cabin, was a group of farmers, men and women, huddled together and shivering like quails.

Most of them wore long, earth-yellow linen robes with head openings, with a woolen vest over them, a hemp rope tied around their waists, and a hooded cloak or headscarf on their heads, barefoot and standing in the mud.

"Is the esteemed Bishop's dispensable friendship more important than your own subjects?" The girl took a step towards the man in front of her, roaring with a tearful voice, "We just want to live, what's wrong with that?"

"The forest is church property, let you into the forest to forage? How can the impure defile the noble land!"

"But I said, our Lord Messala told me in a dream last night that the forest is a treasure trove given by God to the poor, as long as they are poor..."

"When you say Messala, I find it funny."

Before the girl could finish speaking, the knight interrupted her with a sneer: "I'll give you two choices, either let me get off once, and I'll spare your life, or, like your brother, have your head chopped off by me!"

"Vile creature, you will be punished!"

A figure pushing himself away flashed in her mind, and the girl trembled all over, raised the pitchfork in her hand, and pounced on the knight.

The pitchfork brought a sharp whistling sound, drew an arc, and accurately stabbed towards the knight's neck.

But before it could touch him, the knight easily blocked the pitchfork with the strong blade of his sword, casually rolled the sword upwards, almost disarming the girl directly.

The girl's knight breathing technique was only at the first stage, not to mention her martial arts. In front of an armored knight of the squire rank, she could only be toyed with.

As the girl and the knight moved away, Horn's vision expanded once again.

Although he couldn't turn his head, the range he could see was at least much larger due to the disappearance of the obstruction.

His gaze swept around. The position he was currently in was a low hill, at most ten meters high.

Below the hill, turbid floodwaters flowed slowly, with only the towering red mill revealing half of its head. Planks, carriages, thatch, corpses of people or livestock floated in the water.

Rain rushed through the wind like waves, unable to shake the gray-white mist that seemed to solidify within the black pine forest.

In front of the black pine forest, a small path extended to Horn's eyes. On the opposite side of the path was a headless corpse wearing a padded jacket.

It seemed to be the girl's "scapegoat brother" that the knight was talking about.

To be beheaded, what a kingly treatment... Wait!

Eh, that's not right!

Looking at the headless corpse over there, he tried hard to move his gaze down to his chin, but no matter how hard he tried, Horn couldn't see or feel even a trace of his body's existence.

The scapegoat is actually myself?!

I was a dead man before transmigrating, and I'm still a dead man after transmigrating, then isn't this transmigration a waste?

Although I hit the jackpot before transmigrating, at least I had a complete corpse!

No wonder I can only move my sight but not my perspective, it turns out I only have a head left.

Perhaps because a one-headed body is easier to cool down, Horn quickly calmed down.

According to that yellow-toothed knight, was this body the original owner's, the older brother of that girl?

Turning his gaze back to the girl and the knight who were fighting, Horn carefully looked at the girl.

She was about 1.7 meters tall, the age of a high school student, with black, shiny hair braided into a pigtail hanging down her waist.

Underneath the men's bound-sleeve linen shirt was fair skin, and on her lower body were animal skin breeches.

The girl wore a knee-length robe over it, with a slender belt around her slender waist, and the pitchfork in her hand danced like the wind.

Unfortunately, such attacks were harmless.

Even if they could land on the knight once or twice, they would at most scratch off some paint from his armor.

What good iron could a pitchfork be made of? It would be a great honor if it didn't break.

Compared to fighting, the knight was more like teasing the girl.

Every time, he could clearly hit her with his long sword, but he insisted on using the blade to slap her, constantly consuming the girl's strength.

After about two and a half minutes, the knight finally got bored.

Facing the incoming pitchfork, he rushed in and grabbed the pitchfork with his iron hand.

Before the girl could react, the pommel of the sword heavily smashed into the girl's forehead.

In an instant, the girl's forehead swelled high, turning bluish-purple.

Staggering, the girl took three or five steps back, holding the pitchfork and trying to stand firm, but she couldn't support herself and fell to the ground.

It was not until this time that Horn was finally able to see the girl's face clearly from the front.

Unlike the rough skin of other farm girls, this girl's face was flawless, as delicate as mutton fat, with eyes that were blacker than obsidian and whiter than white marble.

Raindrops wet a few strands of her messy hair, sticking tightly to her cheeks, and whether it was rain or tears, it was sliding from the corners of her eyes along her cheekbones to her chin.

So familiar.

That is, that is an important person, someone who cannot be forgotten. A sharp pain came from his brain, and Horn couldn't help but frown. Who is it? Who exactly is it?

Jeanne d'Arc.

This name appeared abruptly in Horn's mind.

Like lighting a fuse, the memories sealed in his mind exploded.

A new author at the starting point, asking for collection and recommendation, please, please.