When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist

Is it really so sudden? Has it failed in the end?

The moonlight before Colton's eyes began to blur, and a deep drowsiness seemed to almost consume his consciousness.

Little Colton, Papa is coming for you, Papa didn't die weakly, Papa died to kill the Knight, Papa...

...Who's pulling at the longspear in his hand?

Colton blinked with effort, and through the blurred tears, he saw a boy crying just as painfully.

He looked about fifteen or sixteen, his eyes full of tears, trembling with fear, yet still he charged at a Knight with the longspear in hand.

Then a dark, short sword by his side was picked up by an old woman; her eyes were nearly blind from crying, and shouting her daughter's name she stumbled toward the Knight.

It wasn't just them; at some point, more and more refugees started running against the crowd, one after another charging forward.

They trembled, shouting with anger mixed with sobs, using their flesh to block the Knights' onslaught, falling one by one to the ground.

Yet countless hands still unhesitatingly picked up the weapons from the ground, weapons continually passed through mud-stained and painted rough hands.

Flails, pitchforks, hoes, even bricks; the refugees, shouting in fear, smashed bizarre weapons onto the Knights.

Not everyone even had a weapon.

"Get away, you filthy wretches."

A Knight swung his longsword and decapitated the refugee clinging to his horse's leg, only to find in surprise that the headless body still clung tightly to the horse's leg.

"You, you all..."

Before he could finish, he felt a piercing coolness shoot up from his waist.

A thin boy, his face drenched in tears from fear, yet grasped the dagger, stabbing it firmly into the Knight through a gap in the armor.

The boy held fast even in death, and the Knight's retaliatory stroke severed the boy's head onto the ground.

"Bang!"

The Knight tumbled stiffly off the horse, the last thing he saw was the face of that boy whose head he had severed.

That face bore a look of relief and vengeance fulfilled, a sense of satisfaction.

It wasn't just those refugees; the laborers on the rooftop also stood up, maybe lacking the courage to face the Knights directly, but they had their ways of resisting.

Stones were hurled down, striking the helmets of the Knights, mud and dung flowing through the helmet seams onto their faces.

Unknowingly, the speed of these twenty Knights had slowed from a charge to a jog, some even faltering.

Friscia cursed in shock and fury: "Filthy wretches, I am an honorable Knight, doing this will send you to the Fire Prison..."

His curse was answered by a close heavy thud, causing Friscia to turn rearward to see a Knight dragged to the ground by a snagging scythe.

The Knight got up quickly, drew his sword attempting a staunch foot battle, yet faced a black-clad soldier already aiming a clockwork gun.

Their distance less than ten yards.

With the gun's report, a fistful of ten or so holes emerged on his neck guard, a stone bullet passing straight through his throat.

As the Holy Gunman searched for his next target while clutching the gun, the Knight's throat spent its last breath on blowing blood bubbles through armor seams.

Only then did Friscia realize the gravity of the situation—this place was different from across the river; here too many refugees existed.

The roofs were low, ground uneven with barricades not yet removed; their speed couldn't rise at all.

Even if only these factors were present, Friscia remained confident of escaping—they couldn't pierce armor with pitchforks anyway.

But the issue was those ghastly, fearful black sticks, capable of breaking their armor from afar.

As the drug's effects waned, regret flooded Friscia's mind; he shouldn't have crossed the river.

Yet in momentary distraction, a sudden blackness before his eyes emerged, mud was thrown then stuck on his face, covering his visor's slit.

"Who threw the mud?"

Before words were out, thrusting pitchforks stabbed his mount's neck, brought by the surging refugees.

"Papa, Mother, I'll avenge you!"

"Damn scoundrel, son—ah—"

"Give my house back! Give my home back!"

In the view narrowed by mud, refugees howled maniacally, lunging at Friscia.

"Have you gone mad?" Swinging the longsword wildly, chopping down suicidal-charging refugees, Friscia yelled in incredulity, "Are you possessed by demons?"

His eyes met countless hands brandishing countless weapons, formerly meek as quail commoners now hideously fierce, roars scarier than lion's.

Panicked to drive warhorse onward, yet seemed trapped in marshes, Friscia struggled.

His right-hand wildly waved the longsword, left-hand continuously wiping mud from visor.

Then something cut the saddle's strap, a huge force from waist followed, then spinning into imbalance.

Only upon heavy impact on the ground became aware of the moonlit and firelit dyed night's sky overhead.

The clockwork gun's barrel topped his forehead.

"Wait, I have ransom..."

"Bang—"

When Horn gathered forces, standing again at bridgehead, fewer than ten Knights remained on this river side.

The swarm of refugees engulfed them, cries of panic and terror mingling with powerless anger wielding longswords.