When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

Lightning flashed across the sky, making Horn's pale face even paler.

He tilted his head slightly, watching the rain slide off the sword's edge and into his eyes.

The longsword hovered above Horn's head, only a hand's breadth away, but it couldn't come down.

Dodging to the side, away from the sword's descent, Horn heard a series of tiny explosions.

He looked up to see the tall knight's face covered in gray-yellow circular spots of varying sizes, with sunken centers like miniature volcanoes.

A tree branch-like pattern of blood-red veins spread across Barnett's skin, like a spiderweb extending from his collarbone to his forehead.

Struck by lightning?

Although reaping what you sow is true, it shouldn't be happening this quickly.

Wait, that's not lightning.

His gaze shifted downward, and Horn saw a pitchfork, its tines also melted, leaving only one prong, glowing with a white-blue arc of electricity.

It pierced through the knight's masterfully crafted fine steel plate armor, through the knight's solid flesh, protruding from the center of his chest.

A large hole, big enough to fit a fist, was hollowly embedded in the knight's chest.

Horn could even see the other side of the pitchfork handle through the hole.

The pampered knight, Barnett, slowly lowered his head, staring in disbelief at the pitchfork protruding from his chest.

The edges of the hole made by the pitchfork were filled with black smoke, carrying the smell of rotten eggs.

The solid steel edge had turned into a molten state with a dark red sheen, slowly sliding down the raised breastplate.

This set of dwarven master armor cost me a full 30 gold pounds. Before collapsing to the ground, Barnett failed to utter his last words—a complaint about the quality of dwarven products.

As Barnett's body crashed down at his feet, through wafts of roasted flesh, Horn finally saw the person holding the pitchfork behind the knight.

"Jeanne..."

For the first time, Horn spoke the word that the original owner of this body knew intimately, but was utterly unfamiliar to him.

Ebony black hair had turned into flowing gold, swaying around her lower back, foot-long electric serpents danced in the air, emitting hissing sounds.

The girl named Jeanne, like a statue, had a resolute expression, holding a pitchfork, the tendrils of hair at her temples moved without wind, resembling a golden-armored Valkyrie from Norse mythology.

A close escape, but the joy in Horn's heart was not as great as he had expected, looking at Jeanne in this state.

His brow twitched, and a term familiar to all people in the Empire suddenly surfaced in his mind.

"A w-w-witch!"

Someone shouted the word that made everyone present pale with fear.

Witches, the head of the three great enemies of Messala, known as the king of monsters and evil spirits.

Their group consists only of women, initially almost indistinguishable from ordinary people, but at some point in their lives they suddenly reveal themselves, possessing powerful supernatural abilities beyond comprehension.

As the head of the enemies of Messala, even more than many demons and alien races, witches are the most despised. It is said that even looking at one increases sin, let alone touching one.

What led to the witches' bad reputation was their inherited mental illness, with a morbidity rate close to one hundred percent. One slip and they would lose control and go berserk.

Horn had once heard that in Norn, a down-on-his-luck prince had tried to win over a witch in a small border town, forming a witch army to reclaim the throne.

Unfortunately, before he could even leave the mountain, he was burned to death by his first witch wife in an internal harem struggle.

Along with the entire town of six thousand people, they lost their lives in the fire and the witch's loss of control.

Remembering this, Horn took two steps back without revealing any emotion.

Only at this moment did Jeanne wake up as if from a dream. She threw away the half-remaining pitchfork in her hand as if it were a hot potato.

"No, no, I'm not."

Spreading her hands, Jeanne looked down in disbelief. On her arms, blue electric arcs crackled and coiled.

Looking up again at the villagers, Jeanne's gaze swept over them, but she did not receive the usual kind looks. Instead, she saw a bone-chilling look she had never seen before.

Jeanne panicked even more. She shook her hands hard, trying to shake off the electric light, but the more anxious she became, the more mischievous the electric serpents became, refusing to dissipate.

"Witch, go to hell!"

Hiding behind the crowd, someone mustered the courage to shout, followed by a torrent of abuse.

"Did you see that? She definitely used sorcery!"

"A demon's lover! A defiled woman!"

"This witch, she killed the honorable Knight Lord!"

Unexpectedly, the villagers who had previously watched Barnett's misdeeds without saying a word were now jumping and shouting in anger.

Within the Empire, hatred of witches is a social consensus that transcends race.

In countless stories and literary works, the instigator of palace turmoil is a witch, the leader of a cult is a witch, and plague, famine, and even earthquakes are the witch's curse.

In the eyes of the common people, everything is the witch's fault.

This mentality is like the English and French peasants of the sixteenth century firmly believing that the king's touch could cure scrofula.

Perhaps Barnett was the one who oppressed them, perhaps they were cursed as unclean every day and could only dare to be angry but not speak out.

But when the "heinous" witch in the mouths of the monks appeared, they became noble again, able to insult the witch as they were insulted as unclean.

This is the pride and confidence that Messala taught them.

Standing pale in place, Jeanne was at a loss. Aren't these people her family?

"You, don't you hate this knight Barnett?"

"I helped you kill him, why are you... why?"

"Uncle Pike, I'm Jeanne, Aunt Alina, look at me, how could I be a demon's lover?"

Aunt Alina took two steps back and hid in the crowd, while Uncle Pike pretended not to hear and continued to shout for her to be killed.

Jeanne couldn't believe her eyes.

Three years ago, when old Galar died, Horn "escaped" to Highfort Town. It was these villagers, these people she considered her family, who reached out to her.

Why... and before, why?

"Grandpa Ando, it's me, Jeanne. After Dad died, when I was most in pain, you came to comfort and take care of me every day? I treat you like my own grandfather, have you forgotten?"

Unlike Alina and Pike's retreat, Ando was furious.

"Witch, don't slander me. It was Horn... Holy Grandson Lord who gave me money and asked me to take care of you. When did I become your grandfather? You're defaming me, everyone, she's defaming me."

Jeanne's body stiffened.

"What? Impossible, impossible." Jeanne murmured with wide eyes, "Then, did you all take money?"

No one answered.

In the silence, someone muttered in a very small voice:

"Always meddling in other people's business, if it weren't for the money that Little Galar sent, who would bother with you..."

Although the voice was small, Jeanne's senses were unusually sensitive after becoming a witch, and she still heard it.

"So, you've all been lying to me?"

Like being struck head-on by a sledgehammer, Jeanne felt dizzy.

Although she was a witch, she helped them kill Barnett. How many times has she helped the villagers uphold justice, how many times has she helped them resist the unreasonable demands of the armed farmers?

Countless times she was embarrassed by the armed farmers, countless times she was scolded by priests or knights. She should have gained the villagers' respect.

According to what Jeanne thought, even if they should be hesitant, afraid, relieved, and finally pretend not to notice, opening a path for her to escape.

The chivalrous knights in the stories are all let go by the common people in this way when they commit crimes.

But what does she see now?

No sadness or reluctance, no regret or hesitation, only hatred and abuse.

Her dream since childhood was to become a chivalrous knight in the mouth of a bard, guarding her hometown, practicing chivalry, and protecting the people. Even if she can't do it now, then start with small things.

Helping the disabled in the village fetch water, harvest crops, driving away wild boars at the risk of serious injury, unpaid labor, fairly presiding over disputes, helping the weak, resisting the strong, lending money and even giving money to those in debt...

Having suffered so much, having committed so many sins, what is the point?

Is the world's knight like Knight Barnett?

Are the world's people like the villagers of Moulin Rouge Village?

"Clang!"

A pebble flew past Jeanne's ear.

"Go to hell, witch!"

Blood flowed from Jeanne's ear. She looked at the ground and muttered to herself: "What chivalrous knight! What knighthood! Fake, fake, all fake! Dad is lying to me, you are lying to me, everyone is lying to me!"

The world in front of her trembled, and electric light rose again from Jeanne's skin. Her black hair turned golden, and her black eyes turned red.

A piercing scream came from Jeanne's mouth: "I'm not a witch! I'm not, I'm not! I'm not a witch!"

Electric arcs flashed across the sky, and the dark clouds in the sky seemed to respond, sending down a bolt of lightning that struck the grass not far away.

The smell of burning reached her nostrils, and the people who were still clamoring shut their mouths and began to shrink back.

Electric serpents danced, splitting black marks on the ground, and the Eurasian jay called lonely, echoing the witch's birth in the mist.

Under the surging electric light, the villagers nearby had their hair and body hair standing on end. They pushed each other, their faces terrified.

"The witch is going crazy!"

"Everyone, run away, the witch is going to lose control!"

"What are you afraid of?" An armed farmer stood still, "Don't forget, Holy Grandson Lord is still here!"

"That's right, Holy Grandson is here, what are you afraid of? Witch, your death is near!"

"Oh dear, I forgot about this. It must be caused by the witch's curse."

"Look, look, Holy Grandson Lord is going to hunt the witch."

Bending down to secretly pick up the knight's sword, Horn, who was about to run into the forest, suddenly stopped.

Horn held the sword in his hand with difficulty. Expressionless, he slowly turned around, just in time to see Jeanne, who was also turning to look at him.

ps Regarding the specific situation of English and French peasants in the Middle Ages and early modern times believing that the king's touch could cure scrofula, see 《The King's Touch: Studies in the Supernatural in the Reign of the English and French Kings》