Lightning cut through the sky, illuminating Horn's pale face even paler.
He raised his head slightly, able to see raindrops sliding off the sword edge and falling into his eyes.
The longsword hovered just above Horn's head, not more than a palm's distance away, but unable to strike down.
Sidestepping the direction of the sword's fall, Horn heard a continuous series of small popping sounds.
He looked up and saw large and small gray-yellow circular spots appearing on the tall knight's face, sunken in the center like small volcanic craters.
A blood-colored pattern, like spider webs, spread across Barnett's skin from the collarbone to the forehead.
Struck by lightning?
Although evil deeds are punished by lightning, it wouldn't happen so quickly, would it?
Wait, this isn't lightning.
Lowering his gaze, Horn saw a grass fork, with its tip melted, leaving only a single prong, flickering with a white and blue electrical arc.
It pierced through the knight's master-level iron plate armor, through the knight's sturdy flesh, protruding from the middle of the chest.
A huge hole, large enough to fit a fist, was gaping empty in the knight's chest.
Horn could even see the other side of the grass fork through the hole.
The pampered Master Knight Barnett slowly bowed his head, looking incredulously at the grass fork protruding from his chest.
At the edge of the hole pierced by the grass fork, faint black smoke rose, filling the air with the smell of rotten eggs.
The sturdy steel edge had melt to a dark red hue, slowly sliding along the raised chest armor.
This set of dwarf master armor, which cost me a full 30 gold pounds, and before he fell heavily to the ground, Barnett could not utter his life's final words—a denunciation of dwarf product quality.
As Barnett's body crashed down at his feet, through the smell of roasted flesh, Horn finally saw clearly the person holding the grass fork behind the knight.
"Jeanne..."
For the first time, Horn uttered this word, deeply familiar to the original owner yet utterly alien to him.
Her long black hair had turned golden, swaying at her back, foot-long electric snakes danced in the air, hissing "zzz".
The girl named Jeanne, like a statue, her face resolute, holding a grass fork, her bangs moved automatically without wind, resembling the Golden Armored Valkyrie from Norn myth.
Surviving the catastrophe, Horn's joy was not as great as expected when looking at Jeanne's appearance.
His eyebrows twitched, and a word familiar to every imperial person surged into his mind suddenly.
"Witch, witch, witch, witch!"
Someone shouted out this word, causing everyone present to change color in horror.
Witch, the chief enemy of Miseria, known as the king of evil creatures and demons.
Their race consists only of women, initially almost indistinguishable from ordinary humans, and only at some stage in life do they suddenly reveal extraordinarily powerful supernatural abilities.
Being the chief enemy of Miseria, even among many demonic races, witches are the most despised, reportedly adding sin with just a glance, let alone touching one.
The witches' reputation is harmed by their hereditary mental illness, with nearly a hundred percent onset rate, saying a wrong word can cause them to lose control and become violent.
Horn once heard of a fallen prince in Norn who tried to recruit witches in a border town to form a witch army to reclaim his throne.
Unfortunately, before he set out, he was burned alive by his first witch wife during palace infighting.
Together with the entire town of six thousand people, lost their lives in the sea of flames and the witches' outbursts.
Recalling this, Horn retreated two steps without showing any sign.
It was only at this moment that Jeanne awakened from her trance, hastily tossing away the half-burnt grass fork like a hot potato.
"No, no, I am not."
With her hands spread out, Jeanne looked down incredulously, blue electrical arcs crackling around her forearms.
Raising her eyes to look at the villagers, Jeanne swept her gaze but found no friendly eyes like before, instead, a spine-chilling glare she had never seen.
Jeanne grew more frantic, shaking her hands desperately to shake off the electric light, but the more anxious she became, the more mischievous the electric serpents were, reluctant to dissipate.
"Witch, go to hell!"
Hiding at the back of the crowd, someone gathered courage and shouted, followed by a flood of angry curses.
"Did you see that? She definitely used witchcraft!"
"Demon's lover! Tainted woman!"
"This witch, she murdered the noble Master Knight!"
Surprisingly to Horn, the villagers, who had been silent during Barnett's evil deeds, now jumped up furiously to curse.
Within the Empire, loathing witches transcends racial lines and forms a societal consensus.
In countless stories and literary works, the instigator of palace chaos is a witch, the cult group leader is a witch, plagues, famines, even earthquakes are curses from witches.
To the lower class, everything is the witch's fault.
This mindset resembles the belief of French peasants in the sixteenth century that the King's touch could heal scrofula.
Maybe Barnett was the one oppressing them, maybe they were called unclean people daily, daring only to be angry silently.
But when the witch, whom the monks called "extremely wicked," appeared, they became noble again, able to insult the witch as if they themselves were called unclean by others.
This is the pride and confidence that Miseria taught them.
Pale and standing still, Jeanne was at a loss. Aren't these people her family?
"You, didn't you hate Knight Barnett?"
"I helped you kill him. Why are you... why?"
"Uncle Pique, I'm Jeanne. Aunt Alina, look at me. How could I be a lover of the devil?"
Aunt Alina retreated two steps back into the crowd, while Uncle Pique acted as if he hadn't heard anything, continuing to shout and call for killing.
Jeanne could hardly believe her eyes.
Three years ago, when Old Gallar passed away, Horn "escaped" to High Castle Town, and it was these villagers, these people she thought of as family, who reached out to her.
Why... the same was true before, why?
"Grandpa Ando, it's me, Jeanne. After my father passed away, in my most painful moments, you comforted and took care of me every day. I treated you as my real grandfather, have you forgotten?"
Unlike Alina and Pique who avoided her, Ando jumped with rage.
"Witch, don't spew lies. It was Horn... Master Holy Grandson who gave me money and asked me to take care of you. When did I become your real grandfather? You're defaming me, everyone, she's defaming me."
Jeanne's body stiffened.
"How? That's impossible, impossible." Jeanne murmured, widening her eyes, "Did you all take money?"
No one answered.
In the silence, someone mumbled in a very small voice:
"Interfering every day, if it weren't for the money sent by Little Gallar, who would want to bother with you..."
The voice was soft, but after becoming a witch, Jeanne's senses were extremely sharp, and she still heard it.
"So, you were all deceiving me?"
It was like being hit by a giant hammer, making Jeanne dizzy.
Though she was a witch, she helped them kill Barnett. How many times did she uphold justice for the villagers, how many times did she help them resist the unreasonable demands of Armed Farmers?
Countless times she was troubled by Armed Farmers, countless times she was scolded by priests or knights. She should have earned the villagers' admiration.
According to Jeanne's thoughts, even if they should hesitate, fear, and then pretend not to notice, they should let her escape.
In the stories about the Knights of Chivalry, when they commit crimes, they are often let go by the common people.
But now, what does she see?
No sadness or reluctance, no regret or hesitation, only hatred and insults.
Her dream since childhood was to become a Knight of Chivalry celebrated by minstrels, to guard her hometown and protect the people. Even if she couldn't achieve it now, she should start with small deeds.
Fetching water, harvesting for the disabled villagers, driving wild boars away at the risk of being severely injured, working without pay, fairly presiding over disputes, helping the weak, resisting the strong, lending money or even giving money to those in debt...
Having suffered so much, what was the point of enduring so much hardship?
Is the knight of the world like Knight Barnett?
Are the people of the world like the villagers of Red Mill Village?
Thunk!
A stone flew past Jeanne's ear.
"Go die, witch!"
Blood flowed from Jeanne's ear as she looked at the ground and murmured to herself: "What Knights of Chivalry! What chivalry! Fake, fake, all fake! Dad deceived me, you deceived me, everyone deceived me!"
The world in front of her began to tremble, electricity rose from Jeanne's skin once again, her black hair turned golden, and her black eyes turned red.
A piercing, shrill scream echoed from Jeanne's mouth: "I'm not a witch! I'm not, I'm not! I'm not a witch!"
An arc of electricity cut across the sky, and the clouds seemed to respond, sending down a lightning strike directly onto the grass nearby.
The smell of scorched earth reached her nostrils, silencing the previously clamoring people, who began to retreat.
The serpentine bolts of electricity etched black marks into the ground, while the lonely call of a jay resonated in the mist, echoing the lament of the witch's coming.
Under the surging electric light, the villagers nearby had their hair and hairs standing on end, shoving each other with frightened expressions.
"The witch is going crazy!"
"Everyone run, the witch is about to lose control!"
"What's to fear?" An Armed Farmer stood unfazed, "Don't forget, Master Holy Grandson is still here!"
"That's right, Saint's Grandson is here, what is there to fear, witch, your time is up!"
"Oh, I forgot about this, it must be the witch's curse causing it."
"Look, look, Master Holy Grandson is going to hunt the witch."
Bent over, Horn who had secretly picked up the knight's sword to escape into the forest suddenly halted.
Horn grasped the sword with difficulty, expressionless, he slowly turned, just in time to meet Jeanne's gaze turning toward him.