MTLNOVEL Chapter 20
A purple-eyed blonde girl asked me.
“Did you call me?”
“I didn’t call you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s more like you were drawn here. Everyone who comes here arrives that way.”
Napoleon did.
Yi Sun-sin did too.
They all visited this place, the Curiosity Shop, drawn by my awakening ability.
The girl was no exception.
After quietly staring at me, the girl spoke.
“Joan of Arc.”
“…”
“Please call me Joan.”
─The Maiden of Orléans, Joan of Arc
[Save the maiden sacrificed in the Hundred Years’ War.]
[Reward: Banner of the Maidens]
The girl was the miraculous saint who ended the Hundred Years’ War—Joan of Arc.
*
If we had to pick the most mysterious figure in human history, it would undoubtedly be Joan of Arc.
The Maiden of Orléans, the Saint of Domrémy, the Miracle Girl… With so many nicknames, she was a puzzling enigma.
An ordinary village girl who couldn’t read suddenly claimed to receive divine visions and saved her nation in crisis—a story so incredible it’d be hard to write as fiction.
This miracle-like tale is recorded as official history in both England and France but remains a mystery debated by historians even today.
While great figures like Yi Sun-sin or Napoleon rose through the ranks from junior officers, Joan was just an illiterate peasant girl.
One day, she claimed to have received a vision from God, got command authority from the French leadership, and crushed the English—all within a month.
A 16-year-old girl from the small village of Domrémy achieved what countless veteran French commanders couldn’t.
Her actions were nothing short of miraculous, always surrounded by various theories:
The theory that Joan was an artificially created hero by the French leadership.
The multi-Joan hypothesis suggesting there wasn’t just one Joan.
The princess theory claiming she was the daughter of the French king.
The mercenary theory that she hired seasoned warriors.
And beyond those, alien contact theories, witchcraft theories, intersex theories, homunculus theories—so many doubts swirled around this mysterious girl.
But to me, Joan wasn’t a mystery; she was just an ordinary girl.
Sweeping the convent yard, sharing bread with children, helping the village, and praying during mass—her daily routine was typical for someone devoted to the Catholic Church.
Except for her doll-like beauty and unusual maturity for her age, Joan was just a devout girl you could easily find anywhere.
How such a girl became the savior of France was indeed perplexing…
“The bishop is Cambrai,” he said kindly, offering his hand.
“I’m Choi Seo-Joon.”
“Joan says you’re a saint.”
“That’s a misunderstanding. I’m just a devout believer, not a saint.”
For reference, I was a 21st-century atheist who believed in science, only stepping into a church as a kid because of friends.
But in medieval Europe dominated by Catholicism, claiming atheism could label you a heretic.
This was a world where God’s existence was taken for granted.
A world where a young girl claiming divine visions could convince the royal court to grant her an army…
“A devout believer? How admirable. The Lord will surely bless you.”
Bishop Cambrai treated me kindly throughout.
Not just him—because I was Joan’s guest, the citizens of Orléans gave me special treatment.
From observing Joan’s everyday life, I understood why.
“Please bear with it a little longer.”
“Ouch!”
Using holy water provided by the convent, the girl tended to the injured.
To my modern eyes, it seemed like low-grade healing potion, but to people back then, it was already a miraculous artifact worthy of being called holy water.
“Thank you, Saint Joan.”
The petite girl pulled a cart filled with holy water, personally seeking out the sick, whether beggars or elders, treating them all equally.
She handed out bread to the hungry and shared holy water with the sick.
Completely selfless, Joan never showed any signs of fatigue.
I followed her around all day, watching her routine.
Dong-dong!
“It’s time to attend Mass now.”
When the bell rang, Joan stopped her work, tidied up the cart, and returned to the convent.
“Thank you, Saint Joan.”
People on the streets greeted the girl pulling the cart, calling her “Saint” without fail.
“Why is she called a saint?”
I wondered.
Joan’s diligence was uncommon for her age, but selflessness wasn’t unique to her.
There were nuns and priests using holy water to heal people occasionally.
Yet, no one called them saints or holy men.
“Hehe, Saint Joan is heading to Mass, I see.”
“Saint Joan, would you like some leftover bread?”
“Saint Joan, could I get some holy water?”
“Saint Joan…”
Only this young girl was allowed the title of “saint.”
Even the rude elderly and playful children treated her with kindness.
It was heartwarming, yet I felt a strange sense of distance in their kindness.
As if their friendliness was a “wall” between Joan and them.
And soon, I discovered the nature of that “wall.”
Why Joan was called a “saint.”
*
Dong-dong-dong-dong!
“England!”
“The English are attacking!”
The next evening, Henry VI’s massive English army surrounded Orléans.
Dong-dong-dong-dong!
The alarm bells shattered the peaceful town, filling it with tension.
People hid in their homes, and only knights on horseback patrolled the streets.
Archers lined the castle walls.
The English army visible beyond the city walls outnumbered the French forces five to one.
“…”
The soldiers’ faces tightened with anxiety.
That’s when Joan climbed the wall.
She carried a giant banner.
A pure white flag depicting angels wandering through a field of lilies.
Just a flag.
But…
“We have a saint on our side!”
“Waaaaaah!”
The atmosphere of Orleans changed drastically.
An almost fanatical fervor, hard to attribute solely to faith, spread among the crowd.
As if the mere presence of the flag guaranteed victory, everyone became highly motivated.
Like brainwashed followers of a cult.
Creeeak!
Then, the gates of Orleans opened, and knights charged toward the English camp.
“Charge! Charge forward!”
“Waaaaaah!”
It was an absurd attack, not a strategy but sheer madness.
Clang! Clang!
The clash of knightly orders began, swords crossing, screams echoing.
The twilight plain turned red with blood and metal sounds.
And…
Flap-flap!
Joan started waving the flag.
Something amazing happened.
Fallen soldiers stood up, fresh skin sprouting from their wounds.
Neighhh!
Exhausted knights remounted their horses and raised their swords again.
“As long as the saint waves the flag, we cannot lose!”
“Waaaah!”
“Charge! Charge forward!”
It was a ‘miracle.’
Simultaneously, a noble ‘sacrifice.’
Flap-flap!
From the back of the girl waving the white flag, blood flowed like the wings of an angel depicted on the banner.
It was the ‘Red Wings of the Angel.’
*
“You’ve worked hard, Joan.”
The kind-looking Bishop Cambrai smiled gently at Joan.
Crack!
The holy water in the bishop’s hand flowed onto the girl’s blood-soaked back.
“Guh…”
Grimacing in pain, the girl endured while the bishop maintained his benevolent smile.
“Your sacrifice has made France safer.”
His smile felt cruel to me.
Dong-dong!
“English army! It’s England!”
Flap-flap!
The girl waves the flag.
Spilling the holy blood of angels.