When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist

The boots or straw sandals stomped on the muddy ground with a crackling sound, raising a lot of dust.

Countless torches appeared like fireflies in the night, gathering around the central wooden platform and bonfire.

At each corner of the wooden platform was a tall torch, while on each side were three temporary speakers made of rolled iron sheets.

In front of the camp, over ten thousand able-bodied young men had gathered, not just a mass of refugees with the old, weak, and sick, but solidly over ten thousand able-bodied young men.

Under the torchlight, their faces flickered unpredictably.

In the center of tens of thousands of refugees, dozens of bonfires were lit, fiercely burning and emitting a vigorous crackling sound.

Beside each bonfire, there were people arranged by Horn, continuously presenting evidence and narrating the Duke's conspiracy.

One by one, pieces of evidence were shown to the crowd, and names were passed among the people.

In fact, when Jeanne and other refugees first revealed the news of Blue Blood Wine, they had already believed about eighty percent.

They came here just for that final uncertainty in their hearts.

But upon arriving at the scene, with other victims, physical evidence and ledger books from the Monastery, and the anomalous accounts around 1425 presented by Horn, coupled with some recollections from local elders, that uncertainty disappeared completely.

They were not alone; when countless testimonies came together, it became irrefutable evidence.

"Quiet!"

"Everyone, quiet!"

"The Holy Grandson is here, quiet!"

Under the successive shouts of the Ten Households Leader, Hundred Households Captain, and black-clad soldiers, the crowd gradually quieted down.

Standing before the altar, Horn finally turned around, holding a tin speaker in his hand.

"You've all come here today, I believe, in pursuit of the truth. Now, do you know the truth?" Horn's emotionless voice spread all around.

The refugees looked at each other, uncertain of what Horn meant by this.

"You already know the truth, so what do you plan to do about it?"

As if suddenly doused with cold water, the angry crowd calmed down a bit.

Indeed, what to do? Are they really going to oppose those fearsome Extraordinary Knights?

Knowing the truth about the Blue Blood Wine and the Green-clothed Flute Player, what can they do? Are they going to fight against the Extraordinary Knights?

On one hand, there are the lives of their friends and family; on the other, their own lives—the balance within the refugees' hearts wavered continuously.

Before they could figure it out, an observant refugee suddenly pointed at the wooden platform and shouted:

"Look."

"Is that... is that Bishop Buerwelf?"

In the exclamations of the refugees at the front, an incredible figure was ushered onto the wooden platform by Imperial Guard soldiers.

Buerwelf—the bishop of the Joan of Arc Castle parish, a high-ranking religious noble the refugees dared not make eye contact with.

Horn's emotionless voice rang out again:

"Now, Bishop Buerwelf is in front of you. Regarding the Blue Blood Wine, he knows everything; here are his signed documents and testimonies. What would you like to do?"

Soft whispers flowed among the people, yet they didn't even dare to voice a single loud question.

How many years has it been, how many brutal massacres? Where would they dare to rebel?

The refugees' fear of knights and the Empire was deeply inscribed in their bones, something Horn had long understood.

This was the knight in their hearts; that knight was much harder to kill than the real ones.

What Horn needed to do was add fuel to the fire, to make them temporarily forget about the knight in their hearts, at least until daylight.

Seeing no response, he surveyed the crowd for a moment, then pointed in one direction: "You there, believer, come to the stage!"

"Me?" Colton pointed to himself.

An Imperial Guard Company Commander stepped forward, grabbed Colton's arm, and rudely dragged him out of the crowd, pushing him up the wooden platform.

"What is your name?"

"I, I'm called Colton."

"Can't hear you! Take this, louder!"

Horn handed the tin speaker to him.

"I'm Colton!"

"You came here, for whom? Tell me, louder."

"For, for..." Colton's stammering voice suddenly became smooth, "For my child—Little Colton."

"He died in the Blue Blood Monastery, correct?"

"Correct!" Colton replied through clenched teeth.

"Do you want revenge?"

"Yes!"

"Good, I'll give you a chance." Horn pulled out a short dagger from his coat and shoved it into Colton's hand, "Stab him once."

Following Horn's gesture, Colton saw Bishop Buerwelf on the ground and immediately retreated two or three steps until his back pressed against the chest of the black-clad Imperial Guard.

"You, you must be joking..."

Horn, however, did not force him, merely smiled: "Did you come alone? Is there no one with you?"

"No."

"Do you have a wife?"

Colton remained silent for a full ten seconds before replying dryly:

"Dead, after Little Colton died, she went mad and jumped off the roof, dying from the fall."

Horn softly asked, "What about your father?"

"Dead, when I was little, he let us eat rice porridge, but he didn't eat, starved himself to death."

"What about your mother?"

"Never met her, died in childbirth."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"Brother died of illness; sister was sold by Father."

After saying these things, there wasn't even the sound of heavy breathing in the scene.

"Then, are you willing to resign yourself?"

"Ah, such things..." Colton raised his head, just about to say something, but looking into Horn's eyes, he couldn't continue.

"Are you willing to resign yourself?"