When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist

Returning from the Duke's Castle, beneath the night sky, Madlan and Jeanne did not go to sleep but instead discussed in hushed tones.

"Did you also feel the Duke's reaction was odd?"

"Yes." Madlan frowned, "Wasn't he angry at all? How come he seemed overjoyed, even asking if we had...?"

What Madlan and the others handed over to the Duke was naturally a transcribed copy; the relics preserved by the Nameless Monk and the evidence found in the Blue Blood Monastery were still in Jeanne's chest.

"The appointment is also strange." Jeanne, riding a horse, her beautiful brows furrowed tightly, "How could he appoint Buerwelf as his agent in the camp? Doesn't the Duke know we've detained and punished him?"

"Perhaps he felt Buerwelf stayed in our camp for quite a long time, so he's familiar with the situation?"

Carrying their doubts, as they walked back from the camp gates to the former Pope's Palace, Jeanne immediately noticed someone pulling and tugging at the front door upon reaching nearby.

Even several beastmen Varangian Guards were jostling with some refugees.

The most conspicuous among them was Bishop Buerwelf, in a white robe, tugging at little Jils's apron, his face unable to suppress a wanton smile.

"What are you doing?" Jeanne shouted angrily at once.

Seeing Jeanne and others rushing forth, Buerwelf released Jils and retreated behind two guards.

Jeanne recognized those two guards, weren't they the refugees she expelled from the camp earlier?

Jeanne's heart suddenly felt a few shades heavier.

"Bishop Buerwelf, what's going on here?" Madlan stepped forward and asked.

"What am I doing? I should ask what are you doing?" Buerwelf stared fiercely at Jeanne and them, "Why are you hiding the real evidence?"

"This is merely a necessary measure for preserving evidence."

"I see, you wish to sell out the Duke and Joan of Arc Castle to the Empire, don't you?"

Previously, Buerwelf had been tormented severely, but now, having become the Duke's liaison in the refugee camp, he's naturally seeking revenge.

"We have no such intentions, I must say, our willingness to cooperate with the Duke is very sincere, but that does not mean you can falsely accuse us at will."

Jeanne stared directly into Buerwelf's eyes.

She always anticipated this day would come, but she didn't expect it to arrive so quickly.

After staring at Jeanne for almost half a minute, Buerwelf finally relented.

"Very well, I will take a step back."

Buerwelf glanced begrudgingly at Jils beside Jeanne, "But as a bishop, I don't even have someone to serve me. Why don't you give me that maid of yours?"

"No." Jeanne immediately saw through Buerwelf's intentions; she directly blocked in front of Jils, "Everything must be according to His Holiness the Pope's rules. If you need a maid, I can arrange one for you, but it certainly doesn't have to be Jils."

"What a joke. I'm not from your camp, why should I follow your camp's rules." Buerwelf cursed angrily, "You hide evidence, you don't let me get close to your people, I really suspect whether you have any intention to cooperate."

Meanwhile, refugees had gradually come out to watch the excitement, discussing the events unfolding in front of them.

Ever since Horn left with a large number of high officials, there was somewhat of a power vacuum within the refugee camp.

Even some of the "elders" started re-contacting their former subordinates, the Hundred Households Captain unable to maintain order, and public security became much more chaotic than before.

"Lady Saintess, how about..."

"Lord's Jeanne, but the bishop is still the Duke's representative."

"His Holiness is not here, and the Duke is not someone to provoke."

Among the crowd surrounding Jeanne, hesitant voices from the refugees emerged, but as Jeanne's angry gaze swept over, those voices immediately disappeared.

"Sister Jeanne." Jils tugged at Jeanne's hem, forcing a smile, "Should I just go to him? I can endure for a while."

"No, if it's you today, it'll be more people tomorrow." Jeanne stomped hard on the ground, "We cannot open this precedent."

"Oh, so there's nothing to discuss?" Buerwelf turned around ready to leave, "I'll go and write a letter to the Duke, you shall see whether the Duke will still provide you with provisions."

Hearing this, many of the new camp's Ten Households Leaders and Hundred Households Captains wavered; after all, they haven't walked the arduous journey with Horn, possessing little resolve.

Moreover, before them stood a bishop of a diocese; if the Pope were here, of course, they wouldn't be afraid, but with him gone, Buerwelf became the top-tier prestigious authority.

"Bishop Buerwelf, please wait a moment."

"Oh come on, Lord Jeanne, it's just a maid, right?"

Voices calling out from the refugees, many of whom were previously punished by Horn, dared not rebel against Horn but weren't afraid to oppose Jeanne.

In the eyes of the refugees, Jeanne didn't hold any noble status, merely having some family ties with the Holy Grandson.

In the view of many, Jeanne's elevation from a Witch to a Saintess was purely due to nepotism.

The camp's security and punishment decisions, though made by Horn, were executed by Jeanne, leading those hooligan refugees to harbor long-standing dislike towards her.

Under such circumstances, some clueless refugees began following those originally bearing grudges, moving towards the bishop.

While those from the old camp leaned towards Jeanne's middle position, the rest stood bewildered in their original spots.

Just three hours after Horn's departure, the camp showed faint signs of splitting into three factions.

Taking a deep breath, Jeanne signaled to Kolman beside her, raising two fingers, which was their pre-arranged gesture.

Two fingers implied "brief", meaning announcing the camp into an emergency state.

This wasn't about a maid, but about the camp, about these twelve thousand people, and who they would fall under control of.

She hadn't planned to start the power tussle so early, but alas, Buerwelf became rampant with his newfound power, even wanting to suppress her and Madlan's authority.

His means were lobbying those originally marginalized ex-hooligans and ex-bandits, these unstable elements.

It proved that for hooligans and rogues, only violence and death could make them submit.

Though there was a risk of accidental harm affecting refugees, possibly causing an uproar, for she was not the Holy Grandson, and could only assert authority in this manner.

Jeanne was no longer the naive village girl from before; she'd learned too much about such matters through Knight Sifal and Danji's interpretations and Horn's stories.

If necessary, she certainly wouldn't show mercy.

Just as Jeanne was about to shout, "Bishop Buerwelf felt ill, send him to the ice cellar to die suddenly of illness in the west," a voice suddenly cut through the sky.

"Do you still consider yourselves as chosen people of Miseria?"

The refugees in the camp surprisingly lifted their heads.

Buerwelf shivered violently, his legs weakened, even struggling to stand straight.

Under the moonlight, the crowd gradually turned towards the source of the voice, Jeanne couldn't believe it and immediately turned her head, her eyes widened.

Horn, who should have already headed to the Holy Seat City, once again appeared before the people.

The crowd cleared a path as the youth clad in a plain patched coat appeared at the end of the road; Blood Covering Cloud hung from his waist, and an indescribable light shone in his eyes.

Every step he took seemed to tread upon the chests of those hooligan refugees surrounding Buerwelf.

"Your Holiness, you have returned?"

"Good evening, Your Holiness."

"Ah, how did I get lost, ending up here by the bishop."

Facing the greetings from the refugees present, Horn didn't respond; instead, with no expression, he walked step by step into the middle of the crowd.

Facing all the believers, with his hands behind his back, he remained silent.

No matter what the believers said, whatever greetings were given, he responded with silence, continuously sweeping his gaze back and forth across the people before him.

The believers, not knowing what to do, stood awkwardly, gradually becoming uneasy, whispering among themselves and even starting to fearfully blame each other in low voices.

But Horn still remained silent, as if entangled in endless silence.

And so, the entire camp gradually got consumed by the waves of quietude, everyone hushed.

They shut their mouths, gazing at Horn.

In an instant, in front of the Pope's Palace, it was so quiet that only the sound of the howling wind remained.

Buerwelf opened his mouth to say something, but his voice seemed stifled in his throat, not a single word could come out.

Evidently, it was barely a minute, yet for the refugees present, it seemed like a year had passed.

Turning around, Horn walked a couple of steps forward, reaching a position where everyone could hear him.

Facing the refugees present, he didn't need the so-called "brief", he simply opened his arms.

"Believers, I have returned." He said, his voice not too loud.

"His Holiness the Holy Grandson, we adore you!"

"Holy Trinity, the Holy Grandson has returned."

"Brothers, prayer truly works!"

The voices originally supporting Buerwelf were immediately overshadowed by the cheers welcoming Horn's return.