Holding a half-sword in his hand, standing in the increasingly violent pouring rain, Horn quietly watched Jeanne.
He gripped the sword tightly; it felt heavy.
The sword weighed about three pounds, with a pale character carved on the guard, and so unintelligible Elvish script on it.
This sword was barely adequate for dealing with wild wolves and dogs in the forest.
But against Jeanne, who seed like the incarnation of a Thunder God, it was likely just an ornant.
Unless she stretched out her neck for him to chop.
Glancing at the villagers still cheering for him, the veins on Horn’s forehead throbbed.
Sotis he really couldn’t understand what these people were thinking.
The Master Knight isn’t easy to provoke; do they think the Witch is?
A knight oppresses you to no end, yet a witch needs a hundred or thousand knights to besiege, can’t they see the power difference?
Forcing a fellow villager to turn against fellow villagers, are they satisfied when everyone is cut down?
Originally, Horn planned to take the opportunity to escape, but those villagers’ shouts directly exposed him to Jeanne’s sight.
Not to ntion Horn originally ant nothing to Jeanne, even if they had so relationship, would a berserk witch who recognizes no kin care?
With a resentful lift of the longsword, Horn firmly rembered the faces of those who shouted, thinking, the Holy Grandson holds a grudge, just wait.
Unable to escape and unable to fight, Horn pondered for a while and could only helplessly pull out his trump card once more—persuasion.
After pacifying the villagers and then the knight, now he had to pacify the witch.
He was about to beco a servant of three masters.
How should he pacify Jeanne? In the na of the Holy Father? Or appeal to emotions and reason?
Staring into her eyes, Horn took a tentative small step forward.
The bloody light in Jeanne’s eyes suddenly dimd a bit.
What’s going on? A speculation erged in Horn’s heart.
He took another step forward, and the electric light on Jeanne’s body suddenly diminished again, as if retreating.
Could it be...
Taking a deep breath, Horn straightened his back and walked slowly toward Jeanne.
Seeing Horn walking toward her with the sword, Jeanne couldn’t muster any strength.
She didn’t know how to face Horn, this brother she once considered mundane.
When Old Gallar passed away three years ago, when she most needed support, Horn insisted on "escaping" to High Castle City, leaving her alone in the empty cottage.
Just like when she was seven and her biological father passed away.
She thought the second person to offer her a hand was Andok, but in fact, that was the second Gallar.
Horn didn’t expose her naive fantasies about Andok; among countless lies, only his was well-intentioned.
Looking at the young man holding a sword in the rain, Jeanne’s vision blurred a little.
For the first ti, she discovered that the mundane and foolish boy was much smarter than she imagined.
For the first ti, she discovered that the honest and simple young man could show such cruel and cold expressions.
So indifferent, so distant, as if she were a stranger.
The longsword struck a rock, producing a light "ding" sound.
The red in Jeanne’s eyes fluctuated violently, the arcs on her body jumping more frequently.
"I am not a witch!"
She scread her defense subconsciously, desperately wishing she truly wasn’t.
The half-sword sunk into the ground, dragging a long ditch through the soft mud.
"I am not a witch!"
Jeanne spread her arms, electric light surged, charring the nearby bushes, grass, and trees, emitting black smoke, yet not a single one struck Horn.
Horn’s steps paused for a mont but still moved forward resolutely.
"I am not a witch."
With a constant sniffle, her lips tightly pursed, occasionally twitching downward but forcibly raised by herself.
Horn walked silently until only half a step remained.
His grey eyes looked down at Jeanne’s face.
"I am not a witch."
Choking on her words, Jeanne closed her eyes in despair and relief, perhaps thinking this was what she deserved?
The indelible electric light suddenly dissipated entirely at this mont.
But monts later, the anticipated cold touch of the sword blade did not co; instead of her body, sothing sticky touched her.
It was a rain-drenched chest beneath the thin shirt clinging to the skin.
She pressed her ear against that gaunt chest, and could hear the heart beating continuously inside, warm and steaming.
Jeanne instinctively reached out and wrapped her arms around Horn’s waist.
"I believe you, Jeanne, you’re not a witch."
The murmurs by her ear carried the dampness of water vapor, making Jeanne’s nose twinge with sourness, and finally, tears that had been hovering in her eyes spilled down.
The golden light on her black hair suddenly dissipated, and Jeanne clasped Horn’s waist tightly, her body trembling incessantly.
Her ear was pressed tightly against Horn’s chest, listening to the warst and most powerful heartbeat she had ever heard.
At this mont, Horn’s heart was pounding, almost jumping out of his throat.
Holding a ticking ti bomb in one’s arms, who wouldn’t be scared?
Actually, there was a mont when he wanted to swing his sword when all of Jeanne’s electric light disappeared.
But at that instant, Horn noticed sothing was off.
Previously, when the Holy Father possessed him, everyone thought Jeanne had received divine revelation, they just didn’t believe it, which led to Horn’s possession by the Holy Father.
In other words, Horn and Jeanne were highly bonded.
If Horn is holy, then Jeanne is holy.
If Jeanne is holy, then Horn can be holy.
If he kills Jeanne, it would confirm Jeanne’s identity as a witch.
Once the villagers realized it, they would find that a witch must be evil, so the knight killed by the witch must be righteous, thus Horn who the knight wanted to kill must be evil, right?
Everyone has eyes; everyone can see Jeanne killed the knight to save Horn. Would the devil help the holy?
Clearly not.
Therefore, either the knight is evil, and Horn and Jeanne are holy, or Horn and Jeanne are evil, and the knight is holy.
By then, even the slow villagers would hesitate, wondering if Horn is actually a devil? Was killing Jeanne a case of internal conflict among devils?
He could only keep her; although Horn is very repulsed by such experiences, with the current situation, he had no choice but to accept it reluctantly and even maintain a good relationship with her.
But if he decided to keep her, he must clear her na, which brought the Holy Demon dichotomy paradox back into play.
With a pained and helpless close of his eyes, he reopened them and faced the confused crowd.
His gaze was firm, gripping the sword hilt, and he pointed the sword tip at the twitching corpse of Barnett.
Taking a deep breath, he shouted sharply:
"This is a devil!"
Clouds lood like curtains, covering all the light, only the crawling lightning occasionally illuminated the faces of confused people.
Under a series of twists and turns, most villagers were already dizzy, standing in bewildernt and utter confusion.
"Don’t you all understand? This Knight Barnett was disguised as a devil, or else why would he want to kill ?"
Horn feigned regret, shaking his head as he portrayed a professional shaman, "My mother had already told . I just wanted to give him a chance for redemption. Did I move an inch when he swung his sword?"
"So Jeanne took action at Miseria’s indication, just as the holy father ntioned ’to cleanse all demons’!"
On the hill, an eerie silence fell; too much had happened too fast for them to digest.
A few sharp ones had spotted the issue, glancing at Horn and Jeanne who were sticking together, palms beginning to sweat.
"I see." Jeska, with his one eye, wiped the sweat from his palm on his clothes, clapped his forehead as if he had a sudden revelation, and turned to the crowd, "Think carefully, when the longsword was approaching, the Holy Grandson was still smiling."
"No wonder he is the Saint’s Grandson, predicting it so easily."
"Darn it, so Knight Barnett was a devil, no wonder the taxes kept rising each year!"
Prompted by those seven or eight vagrant folk, the rest of the villagers began to agree with Horn’s claim, even cursing the deceased Barnett.
At this mont, Horn also breathed a sigh of relief, had anyone questioned him, he would have to send Jeanne to do so bloody work.
"But, but she used witchcraft magic just now, didn’t she?" a young voice called out.
Following the voice, it was a thirteen or fourteen-year-old boy in an apprentice monk’s robe.
Horn rembered him; he was Kosse’s nephew, a monk from the monastery, considered Kosse’s protégé.
"What witchcraft? That was divine art bestowed by Miseria!" Horn stiffened his face, eyeing the young boy, "Why are you saying these? Who instructed you, what’s your motive, did Miseria permit you to speak?"
The young monk opened his mouth, trying to speak, but Kosse had rushed over, covering his mouth and dragging him into the crowd.
"Barnett was a devil, witches are devils’ servants, how could they kill witches? It should be the other way round, besides, she was instructed by Miseria in a dream earlier, can witches comprehend holy teachings?"
Not waiting for an answer, Horn answered himself loudly: "No!"
A bolt of lightning surged through the sky, a stronger wind pushed rain onto Horn’s thin linen shirt tightly clinging to his body.
"You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, where’s the witch?"
Embracing Jeanne’s slender yet strong waist, he turned sideways, displaying her to the crowd.
Horn took a deep breath and said solemnly and loudly, "This is the Saintess, baptized and acknowledged by the Holy Father, Holy Tree, and Saint Master!"
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