Joan of Arc (from a game fanfiction)

Twelve thousand English soldiers stood silently arrayed on the high ground, their purpose to repel the French reinforcements attempting to reach Orléans. This had happened countless times in the past few years: the French desperately sent reinforcements into Orléans; these troops clashed with the English in the suburbs; hastily assembled French heavy cavalry and Genoese mercenaries launched reckless attacks; well-trained English pikemen and Swiss halberdiers formed solid squares to halt the cavalry advance; English longbowmen disrupted the skirmishers behind the cavalry with a dense volley of arrows; English cuirassiers flanked the French; the French lines crumbled; English commanders committed reserves; the French lines collapsed completely. The British launched a full-scale attack on the retreating French army, resulting in heavy French casualties. Some time later, the even less disciplined French troops launched another offensive against the British forces besieging Orléans, only to suffer an even greater defeat. Compared to the elite British soldiers, the French troops were nothing more than cowardly peasants with swords drawn. While their courage was commendable, their tactical awareness remained at a very primitive level: during charges, only the cavalry maintained some order; the infantry had virtually no formations or ranks, let alone any tactics or strategy. When attacking, a group of men would rush forward with a "whoosh," ignoring both flanks and rear defenses, focusing only on hacking and slashing the enemy; there was a lack of basic coordination between soldiers; and almost no communication between units. The British had always looked down on such a militia-like force. The reason for deploying such a large army was that the English commander, Sir Johnson de Boer, considered that Orléans was running out of ammunition and food. To further crush the will of the defending soldiers and civilians, the English needed a complete victory—to completely crush, no, annihilate, the French reinforcements right under the noses of the Orléans citizens.
Perhaps then, that "Orléans Bastard" would open the city gates and surrender to the English.
("Orléans Bastard": full name Gilles de Gourey, a French marshal in the Hundred Years' War who led the Orléans in resisting the English for seven years.)
Finally, as the sun rose above the thin clouds to its zenith, the English soldiers standing on the high ground saw the approaching French army.
A force of approximately 15,000 men deployed about two miles from the English: the central section comprised around 5,000 cavalry, including about 1,500 heavily armored knights, forming the main assault force; the left flank consisted of 4,000 relatively well-equipped soldiers, whose different coats of arms on their shields suggested they were the private armies of nobles; protecting the French left flank were over 6,000 militiamen, ragged and armed with a motley crew, but whose morale was remarkably high. To
the English's surprise, the French formation indicated they had no reserves, meaning it was a zero-sum game where the French would either annihilate the English or be annihilated by them.
"What are the French thinking?" Sir Johnson de Boer, the British commander, said to his adjutant. "Does their commander have any military common sense, or are
the young masters of Reims (the coronation site of French kings) personally leading the charge?" His adjutant cautiously replied, "Sir, I've heard an interesting rumor that the current French commander seems to be a girl." "A girl? The French commander? Are you crazy?" "No, sir. There's a rumor that an eighteen-year-old girl claims to be divinely guided to save France.
She's in Yorkshire, from dozens of... " She accurately recognized the French Crown Prince, whom she had never met before and who was in disguise. And I've also heard that even the wild horses that the most famous French knights couldn't tame now submit to her, obeying her every command—" "Enough, Captain," the knight rudely interrupted his adjutant, "She recognized the French Crown Prince because that fellow has an incredibly idiotic face, and she tamed the so-called wild horses because the French knights are incompetent, less than a little girl. Humph, what so-called saint? She's nothing but a delusional country bumpkin. No, maybe she's just a madwoman." "Hahahaha! I'm dying of laughter! The French actually appointed a crazy woman as their commander! Hahahaha! I can't take it anymore, I'm dying of laughter!" Seeing his superior laughing hysterically on horseback, completely ignoring orders, the adjutant felt it necessary to remind the knight of his duties: "Sir, our countermeasure should be—" Hearing the adjutant's reminder, the knight finally snapped out of his daze, "Oh, order the pikemen to advance thirty paces and form ranks, the longbowmen to prepare to fire, the cuirassiers on both flanks to stand by, and the heavy infantry to spread out behind the pikemen's line." "The lines are set, ready to reinforce the pikemen at any time. Also, inform our reserves to prepare for engagement. Furthermore, have the scouts expand their search area; I don't want a few rats sneaking into Orleans while we're fighting the enemy." "Yes, sir." The adjutant accepted the order and went to relay it. Behind him came Sir Johnson's unrestrained laughter: "Hahahaha, I'm dying of laughter! A crazy woman, hahahahaha!" At that moment, a young woman in armor rode up to the French lines. She had healthy, wheat-colored skin, short golden hair, and eyes as blue as lake water. Her slender, athletic figure, which even the cold armor couldn't conceal, combined with her vibrant and energetic aura, made her impossible to ignore.
Holding the French royal standard and riding a black steed, she galloped to the front of the English lines and proclaimed, "English soldiers, listen up! I am Joan of Arc, an angel sent by God. In the name of God, I command you: withdraw from French territory and cease this unjust war of aggression! Only then will God mercifully forgive your sins and allow your blood-stained souls to ascend to Heaven through holy purification!" Hearing Joan's voice, the English soldiers began to whisper amongst themselves, wondering who this brave young girl standing before them was. Seeing his soldiers wavering, Sir Johnson felt a surge of anger. He too, bow in hand, spurred his horse to the front.
His massive frame, clad in black armor, paired with his tall black horse, and exuding the imposing presence of a seasoned warrior, created a suffocating sense of oppression. "Little girl, is it you who shamelessly lies and claims to be an angel of God?" Sir Johnson roared at Joan.
Joan of Arc was not intimidated by Sir Johnson's anger. Instead, she calmly retorted, "Are you the shameless scoundrel who, under the guise of justice, illegally seizes foreign territory, oppresses the local people, and plunders their wealth?" Sir Johnson was enraged. "You sharp-tongued little brat, an ignorant village girl, how dare you act so arrogantly here!" "Before God, we are all ignorant. But I still have the most basic conscience; I will not burn, kill, or plunder in other people's homes, much less shamelessly take pride in it!" This further fueled Sir Johnson's anger. He drew his great bow on horseback and fired an arrow at Joan of Arc! The huge black-feathered arrow, like a bird spreading its wings in a storm, pierced the sky, flying towards Joan of Arc with a sharp whistle!
The French army cried out in alarm at the sight. Joan of Arc was not afraid. She raised the French royal banner high and said, "Lord above, protect your servant who fights for France." As Joan prayed fervently, the massive arrow miraculously passed over her head. The French army erupted in cheers, the name of the Holy Lord resounding throughout the heavens. The English army, however, was in an uproar, many soldiers showing signs of wavering.
Sir Johnson was also puzzled; how could he, usually so accurate, have made such a basic mistake? But there was no time to dwell on that now. The most important thing was to quickly restore the morale of his soldiers; otherwise, given the current state of the English army, they would likely collapse without a fight if they engaged the French.
Sir Johnson, a veteran of countless battles, simply laughed and said, "Little girl, if I had killed you with one arrow, you might not have been convinced. That was just a warning. If you insist on fighting a losing battle, then lead your army to your death." With that, he turned his horse and returned to his own lines.
His adjutant seized the opportunity, raising his arm and shouting, "The French have been terrified by the Lord's archery skills! England will surely win this battle!" This managed to salvage some morale.
Joan of Arc returned to her own lines, waving her royal banner and loudly rallying her soldiers: "Warriors, now we fight for France! Take up your weapons, defeat the enemy before you, and liberate your people of Orléans! The Lord is with you! Long live the King! Long live France!" "Long live the King! Long live France!" Responding to Joan of Arc's voice, the French soldiers raised their weapons high. The armor and lances of the knights reflected the sunlight, and the entire army resembled a giant steel dragon, rolling towards the high ground where the English had fortified their positions.
The first to attack was the French Knights in the center phalanx. The dust kicked up by twenty thousand horses obscured the riders' figures; only the tips of their leveled lances reflected the midday sun.
"Let the enemy approach," Sir Johnson calmly ordered. Putting aside his irritable nature, Sir Johnson was undoubtedly an excellent battlefield commander.
The French cavalry continued their advance towards the English. When the two sides were less than 300 meters apart, a strange sound came from behind the English lances, sounding like countless locusts flying through the sky.
It was the sound of a volley from the English longbowmen deployed in their ranks. In an instant, the sky was blotted out by over a thousand arrows fired in rapid succession, followed by a second and a third wave. In Normandy, three thousand English longbowmen, with this same skillful, dense firing technique, had slaughtered twenty thousand French knights, resulting in a decisive victory for the English, whose forces numbered less than 60% of the French.
Now, the English longbowmen were once again bringing death to the French soldiers. The unstoppable rain of arrows inflicted heavy casualties on the French knights. Even those riders in the charge were powerless to dodge, forced to watch helplessly as arrows struck their bodies and fell to the ground. Without their riders, the horses could not maintain their formation and became obstacles to their advance.
Seeing that the French vanguard's formation had been disrupted, Sir Johnson immediately ordered the crossbowmen waiting in their pike positions to engage in battle. Over a hundred powerful crossbows cast a deathly shadow over the disorganized French knights. While the crossbow bolts lacked the range and speed of a longbow, their unparalleled destructive power became a nightmare for the heavily armored French knights: their sturdy armor was easily pierced by the bolts fired from their mechanisms, and the knights fell in the dust, groaning in agony.
The advancing French cavalry square was now in complete disarray, riddled with arrows and fallen riders, trapped in a state of impasse, unable to advance or retreat.
"The French are nothing special, but why do they never learn?" Sir Johnson said to his adjutant. "It seems the battle will end sooner than I expected. By the way, where's that madwoman? Has she run away? Hahahaha!" "Sir, look over there! The French infantry are advancing!" "Immediately order the longbowmen to fire on the enemy infantry squares." The tragedy that had befallen the French cavalry was repeated once again by Sir Johnson's orders against the French infantry: the relatively well-equipped noble private army on the left flank could at least raise their shields high to resist the deadly rain of silver; the poorly equipped militia on the right flank suffered heavy casualties in the attack, and their lack of training even showed signs of disarray.
The experienced Sir Johnson did not overlook this fatal weakness of the French army. Under his orders, the English longbowmen concentrated their firepower entirely on the French right-wing militia, and finally the French right-wing militia began to collapse, the chaos even beginning to spread to other units. It seemed that the English had won the battle—if it weren't for her.
Just as the French army was struggling under the English arrows, Joan of Arc, carrying the French royal standard, appeared in the ranks. She moved nimbly through the battlefield, the English arrows unable to harm a single hair on her head.
"French warriors!" Joan shouted to the surrounding French troops, "Raise your weapons and follow me! In the name of the Lord, advance! For the glory of France, advance! For Orléans, advance!" Inspired by Joan, something astonishing happened: the French cavalry, without retreating to regroup, recklessly launched another charge. Horses laden with arrows tumbled and collapsed to the ground; most of the fallen knights died instantly. A few, struggling to their feet, disregarded the danger of being trampled by their own horses and dragged their heavily wounded bodies toward the English lines. The militia on the right flank, already on the verge of collapse, seemed to have suddenly forgotten their own fate and launched a renewed charge against the English. The nobles' private soldiers on the left flank even threw away their shields, howling as they marched forward.
Although French soldiers continued to fall under the English arrows, a fanatical spirit enveloped the entire French army. They formed an invincible torrent with their own flesh and blood, surging toward the English lines. And holding this torrent together was Joan of Arc, carrying the royal standard!
Soon, the French army, arriving like a thundercloud, engaged in extremely hostile combat with the English pikemen. The spearmen wielding long weapons originally had a significant advantage in countering enemy charges, but the French army's fearless spirit completely overwhelmed the English: French knights charged straight into the jungle of spears, horse and all, and while being pierced by several spears themselves, their powerful charge created a gap in the previously tight spear formation. Their comrades then leaped into this gap, hacking and slashing at the spearmen who had lost their close-quarters defenses, until they were stabbed to death by the second line of spearmen. Then, other knights seized the opportunity when the English were unable to withdraw their spears and attacked the gap created by the second line of English troops. It wasn't just the knights; the militia also displayed awe-inspiring power: they roared as if deliberately courting death, ramming their chests into the enemy, completely disregarding the sharp spears; they struck the English shields with all sorts of weapons, even violently pounding them with their hands, kicking them, shoving them with their shoulders, and headbutting them! Once a breach was created in the enemy's lines, they charged in bravely. Although the warriors at the forefront were cut down almost instantly by the British, the soldiers behind them followed without hesitation until the breach in the British lines was completely torn apart!
Under the full force of the French attack, the British pikemen's formation at the front was shattered beyond common sense, and the heavy infantry deployed behind the pikemen were also caught in a fierce battle. Roars and screams filled the entire hillside, the smell of blood numbing the senses and turning the soldiers in the midst of the fierce battle into bloodthirsty beasts. Blood dripped onto blood, corpses piled up among corpses!
"An unexpectedly fierce battle," Sir Johnson clicked his tongue in the main force, "There really is no foolish thing that French barbarians wouldn't do." "Sir, shouldn't our army send in the reserves?" the knight's adjutant asked anxiously, as more than 60% of those lying in the blood-soaked mud were British soldiers.
"No, it's not time yet. First, order the cuirassiers to flank the enemy from both sides. The infantry in the center are not allowed to retreat any further; anyone who disobeys will be executed on the spot. Also, order the longbowmen to retreat to the rear of their main force and await orders." Clearly, Sir Johnson intended to exploit the fact that the French had no reserves: first, to use the cuirassiers' counterattack to create a stalemate, and then, when the French were exhausted, to use the reserves to deliver a fatal blow
. This idea was sound, but Sir Johnson hadn't considered the awkward situation he would face if the French broke through the central defenses, given that he had already deployed his main force—the cuirassiers. Keep in mind that the English reserve of two thousand men was still three miles away. (This reserve was not only tasked with supporting the main battlefield but also monitoring the French forces at Orléans.)
Just after the English cuirassiers joined the battle, the situation on the battlefield suddenly changed dramatically.
Besides the English pikemen and heavy infantry, the main force of the English central front consisted of 2,500 Swiss halberdiers. These well-trained mercenaries were responsible for connecting the English central force with the right flank of cuirassiers.
At this time, they were enduring a fierce attack from the French left flank. The French left flank consisted mostly of well-equipped aristocratic private soldiers, whose fighting strength was relatively superior. Coupled with their fervent religious fervor, the Swiss halberdiers suffered far greater casualties than the enemy in their battles against the French.
Moreover, a large portion of the heavy infantry, who were supposed to cover the cuirassiers, were temporarily reassigned to the central line, causing the unprotected mercenaries to suffer avoidable casualties. Furthermore, the counterattack by the English right-wing cuirassiers failed to achieve its intended effect (Sir Johnson only committed 1,200 cuirassiers to the counterattack—split between the left and right flanks—while the right flank alone had less than 500). The Swiss cuirassiers' lines were pushed to their limits.
At this moment, a Swiss cuirassier suddenly noticed that the English longbowmen, who had been behind them, were gradually retreating towards the English main line.
This was a normal maneuver; longbowmen, skilled in concentrated area attacks, were of little use in this kind of melee combat where friend and foe were mixed together—unless, like the historically infamous, cold-blooded monarch Edward "Longlegs" against the rebel Wallace, ordered his longbowmen to indiscriminately kill friend and foe—so relocating them to a relatively safer position was perfectly reasonable. After all, longbowmen were a valuable resource.
But to the Swiss mercenaries, lacking the same team spirit as the British, this was clear evidence that the British were trying to abandon them on an unfavorable battlefield! The distrust between the mercenaries and the regular army erupted at the worst possible moment. Accompanied by shouts of "The British are abandoning us and running away first!", the Swiss slinger musketeers, who had just been fighting fiercely against the French, instantly collapsed.
Sir Johnson, witnessing this scene from his headquarters, was furious. To prevent the complete collapse of the line, he ordered his longbowmen to fire on the fleeing mercenaries and the advancing French soldiers, while simultaneously ordering messengers to rush to the reserves. The dense rain of arrows temporarily halted the French advance, but also caused heavy casualties among the mercenaries.
As victims, they didn't consider things like "it had to be done to prevent the line from being breached" like the perpetrators. In their eyes, "The British want to kill us along with the French," which further fueled the question of "how can we be safe?"
At this moment, a quick-thinking mercenary realized, "No matter what, the British won't shoot their own men," and so he slipped into the center of the English phalanx. Other mercenaries followed suit, crowding into the center.
This not only caused chaos in the English center but, more importantly, completely exposed hundreds of English cuirassiers on the right flank to the French lines.
Joan of Arc, who was rallying morale across the troops, noticed this golden opportunity. She spurred her horse to the French left flank and loudly encouraged the weary soldiers: "French warriors, the Lord has opened the way for you! Victory is at hand! Soldiers, muster your courage! For the King, for France, advance! The Lord is with you!" Joan of Arc, raising the French royal banner and brandishing her sword, charged towards the English lines.
Her agile, Valkyrie-like figure deeply moved every soldier, and her unwavering courage stirred the hearts of the French warriors. Led by Joan of Arc, thousands of French soldiers charged swiftly towards the right flank of the English army.
Hundreds of English cuirassiers put up a fierce resistance, but their lines, under the onslaught of a French force six or seven times their size, crumbled almost instantly, like ice cubes doused with boiling water.
The French, penetrating deep into the English lines, encountered English longbowmen who were unable to retreat. Driven by vengeance, the French unleashed a brutal massacre, turning the English longbowmen into piles of mangled flesh. Fountains of blood gushed from the English longbowmen, caught in the brutal hand-to-hand combat, and every second, several English soldiers lost their lives.
Finally, under Sir Johnson's strict orders, a small contingent of English troops managed to establish a new defensive line on the right flank, temporarily halting the French advance. For Sir Johnson, the question was no longer how to annihilate the French army, but how to avoid being annihilated by them. Faced with the overwhelming power displayed by the French under the leadership of that "madwoman" (Sir Johnson's words), his only hope was that his reserves, deployed three miles away, would arrive quickly.
As Sir Johnson waited anxiously, the messenger sent to gather the reserves finally arrived from the rear, but he brought not the much-anticipated reinforcements, but terrible news: the French troops defending Orléans, led by Marshal Gilles de Gourey, had left the city to join the incoming French reinforcements.
Sir Johnson's reserves were now engaged in fierce fighting with the French, outnumbered and in a precarious position, desperately hoping that his troops could quickly defeat the attacking French and provide support.
Last hope had been dashed. Without reinforcements, demoralized, and in disarray, the British army was forced back by the French relentless attacks, pushed from the hillside to the summit. The situation was clear: if the French pushed the British down the hillside and seized the high ground, they could easily crush any resistance.
Sir Johnson's adjutant had also realized this and urged the king to break out: "Sir, even eagles need wings to fly over mountains. Please leave with your guards while the situation isn't too dire." Sir Johnson seemed deaf to his adjutant's pleas, his eyes fixed on Joan of Arc, carrying the royal standard and weaving through the battlefield. "It's all that woman's fault, that woman—no, she's a witch, a witch! I will not lose to a vile witch!" the king roared. Ignoring his adjutant's desperate attempts to stop him, he led the last of the English army—four heavily armored knights—charging towards the French forces swarming across the hills.
Sir Johnson, wielding his massive battle axe, shouted at his own soldiers who were fleeing in all directions as he charged towards Joan of Arc. French soldiers who stood in his way were felled like puppets; the white blade of his axe seemed to transform into a windmill crackling with lightning, sweeping away any force that dared to challenge him.
But his men did not possess his strength, and in the end, only Sir Johnson reached Joan of Arc.
Joan of Arc watched as the burly man, covered in blood and panting heavily, approached her with a ferocious expression. Her serene face showed no panic; she simply asked Sir Johnson calmly, "Aren't you willing to repent for your sins?" "Nonsense, you witch in the name of God!" the Sir Johnson roared. Having observed her closely, he was certain Joan was unskilled in martial arts. "Now I'll show you what God's punishment truly is, witch!" With that, Sir Johnson spurred his
horse forward to attack Joan. Joan showed no intention of dodging; instead, she swung her sword to meet the attack. The slender silver sword struck the Sir Johnson's neck with incredible speed and angle. A bewildered look appeared in his eyes as his massive body crashed to the ground. His riderless horse hastily fled the battlefield. Joan of Arc whispered to Sir Johnson's unseeing corpse, "All is according to the Lord's will." Seeing their commander dead, the remaining English troops' will to fight vanished. They discarded their weapons, removed their armor bearing their coat of arms, and fled in all directions. Almost simultaneously, scouts from Orléans brought good news: the French forces defending Orléans, led by Marshal Gilles de Gourey, had utterly defeated the English troops deployed outside the city; the siege of Orléans was lifted!
Cheers resounded everywhere. Our saint, the maiden of Orléans, the French people showered their gratitude upon the young woman who had brought them victory. Amidst the cheers, Joan of Arc simply smiled faintly. To the people's praise, her answer was always, "All is according to the Lord's will." This only fueled their respect for her: behold, this is the attitude a saint should have! The cheers for her grew even louder, even surpassing those for the King.
Unbeknownst to the kind-hearted people, in the shadows of the city, a pair of evil eyes were fixed on Joan of Arc as she marched through the procession. A hoarse voice cursed the saint's fate: "Noble saint, you will fall to the depths of despair at the height of your glory. Like Lucifer who became a fallen angel of evil, you too will lose your holy soul and your radiant ideals—" The prophet's short, grotesque figure slowly merged into the omnipresent darkness. With the momentum of her victory over the main English force at Orléans, Joan of Arc rallied 12,000 soldiers and marched towards Reims, the coronation site of French kings, now captured by the English. Along the way, the English troops, awed by Joan of Arc's reputation, collapsed without a fight. The French army easily recaptured Reims without a single battle.
The French Dauphin was formally crowned king there, becoming known as Charles VII. The following spring, Joan of Arc again organized an army of 20,000 to counterattack Paris. Although the battle ended in a French retreat, the entire French people saw hope for victory.
However, at the same time, an undercurrent of anti-Joan of Arc was unfolding within the French court. For the great nobles, Joan of Arc's achievements were too great, and her prestige among the people and the army was too high, even surpassing that of the king.
It was too dangerous to allow such an uncertain factor, which could potentially cause significant changes in the future political landscape of France, to remain outside the control of the nobles. Thus, a web of conspiracy was gradually unfolding behind Joan of Arc.
Joan of Arc was unaware—no, it should be said—that the political environment at court was developing in a direction unfavorable to her. What troubled her was the dwindling support from the nobles. Of course, the nobles always had their own excuses: famine in their territories, the burning of grain warehouses by English spies, uncollected taxes, and so on.
Joan of Arc racked her brains to solve the army's supply problems, but her resources dwindled daily, and the army's size was repeatedly reduced. Despite her repeated audiences with the French King, the problem remained unresolved. In fact, the astute Joan should have noticed the King's shifty gaze and the whispers and unfriendly stares of his courtiers during her audiences.
However, Joan's energy was entirely focused on the French restoration, and she ultimately failed to notice the dirty political vortex slowly closing in on her.
Finally, during an operation, Joan's whereabouts were betrayed by those she was protecting—the high-ranking nobles—to her enemy, the Duke of Burgundy, a lackey of the English. Due to a deliberate strategic error, Joan's small unit was surrounded by an enemy force many times their size. With external support cut off and supplies exhausted, Joan was captured. The
Duke of Burgundy, overjoyed at his discovery, immediately sold Joan to the English at a high price. The French saint Joan of Arc ultimately fell into the hands of her mortal enemy—the English. The unexpected capture of Joan of Arc, who was both a high-ranking enemy commander and a spiritual leader, delighted the English. For the repeatedly defeated English army, this was nothing short of a godsend, and they immediately convened a religious court to try Joan of Arc.
Facing numerous accusations in court, Joan of Arc uttered the following words: "—Reverends, I am not a witch, I have no demons by my side, only many comrades who believe in me. In your eyes, I am merely an ordinary little girl without power, knowledge, or money, a heretic who presumptuously challenges your authority. But I tell you, the crown of this country was given to our king by God, not by you who commit countless crimes in the name of God.
As long as you continue to do evil in our land, we, the people of France, will unite under the true banner of the Lord and expel you from the sacred territory of France! The unity of all the people of France is my indomitable strength! If I am a witch, then what are you, you defiled beings hiding under the holy light of the Lord?" However, righteous words cannot overcome evil hearts. Based on a series of fabricated evidence, the Inquisition sentenced Joan of Arc to be branded (burned at the stake) for heresy and witchcraft.
1430, Rouen, the eve of Joan of Arc's execution.
A figure clad in a long black robe entered the prison where Joan of Arc was imprisoned. The guards, as if bewitched, collapsed before him. The man in black effortlessly reached Joan's cell without hindrance. A specially made padlock hung on the iron door imprisoning Joan, requiring three keys to open. This had no effect on the man in black; he simply touched the lock, and it opened automatically. He then pushed open the door and entered.
Hearing the door open, Joan assumed it was another priest coming to persuade her to confess, and without turning around, said, "I am not a witch, I do not need to confess my actions." "Of course you are not," the priest replied. "If you possessed the power of my lord Ashertarus (the devil in hell, said to have tempted Jesus Christ), how could a mere little cell confine you?" Joan was shocked. "You are not a priest, then who are you?" When she turned and saw the man in black, a look of understanding appeared on her face. "So you are a member of the demonic path (referring to those who use evil powers). Get out of here immediately!" Hearing Joan's words... A rebuke was met with a soft, mocking laugh emanating from the cloak obscuring the black-clad man's face: "Heh heh heh, you demon, beautiful lady, you are about to be burned at the stake as a 'demonic being.'" "The Lord watches over all things from heaven, and justice will ultimately prevail." "Heh heh heh, justice, what a moving word," the black-clad man continued, mocking Joan of Arc's beliefs. "If there truly is a God and justice in this world, why do so many horrific tragedies continue to occur? Take you, for example, young lady, since you represent..." "Justice represents truth, so why are you still imprisoned here? Is your justice wrong, or is God asleep?" Joan of Arc was not provoked by the man in black, and calmly replied, "I follow the Lord's will in everything." "The Lord's will?" A faint anger escaped the man in black's mouth: "Where is the Lord? Does he exist? You believe in him so much, why doesn't he appear to you? If he is just, why is mine—" As if realizing his slip of the tongue, the man in black stopped, adjusted his breathing, and said in a calm tone, "Miss, let's not discuss this further." "Regarding this ideological issue, I'm here for only one purpose: to get you out of here." "I don't need the assistance of those sorcerers," Joan of Arc resolutely rejected the proposal. "If this ordeal is a test from God, I'll gladly accept it." "What a headache. Why are religious fanatics always like this? Never mind, it doesn't need your consent anyway." With that, the man in black made a gesture towards Joan of Arc. A wave of dizziness surged into her head with the gesture. Despite her desperate resistance, Joan of Arc ultimately succumbed to the power of magic and fainted. The man in black stepped forward, hoisted the unconscious Joan of Arc onto his shoulder, and then said to the corner of the wall, "The rest is up to you. Don't mess it up." Then he turned and walked out of the cell.
A silvery laugh suddenly echoed from the previously empty cell: "Haha, wonderful! I've always wanted to play the role of a saint." A stunning figure slowly emerged from the darkness, her long, waist-length black hair, emerald-like eyes, and delicate ivory skin all displaying her alluring charm. The girl waved her hands in the air, and a shimmering mirror appeared out of thin air.
"Hmm, it doesn't quite look like it." The mirror reflected a vibrant, smiling face, like the sunlight of a northern summer, but closer inspection revealed a hidden, melancholic sorrow in those captivating eyes.
"My lord Akafiel (the demon king of hell, skilled at bewitching hearts and stirring up chaos), please grant me the power to change my appearance—" With a series of incantations, the girl's appearance began to gradually transform, ultimately becoming the likeness of Joan of Arc.
Seeing that her appearance had been transformed, the girl lay down contentedly on the straw-covered bed. "Ah, so exciting! Burning at the stake! But what should I say during my execution tomorrow—that's it! I'll say, 'I will obey the Lord's will.' Okay. Hehehe, I can't wait—" ************ Joan of Arc slowly awoke from her slumber. The dazzling light in the room blinded her. Then she found that her hands seemed to be tightly bound. She tried to struggle a few times, but was surprised to find that her whole body seemed to be bound and unable to move. When Joan of Arc's eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the room, and when she finally realized her situation, the usually calm and collected Joan of Arc let out a short, terrified scream!
Joan of Arc found herself bound to a large chaise longue: her arms were pulled to either end of the chair and tied; ropes thinner than fingers were bound in a net-like pattern all over her body, especially tight around her breasts and lower body, shamefully exposing her chest and vulva; her legs were spread apart and bound to the armrests of the chair, preventing her from closing them.
What Joan found most unbearable was that her original clothes were gone, replaced by a thin, gauze-woven overcoat. This practically nonexistent overcoat exposed the girl's most private parts to the light of day.
"Ah, our little saint has awakened." A young face appeared before Joan. He appeared to be about twenty-two or twenty-three years old, his tall, strong body and muscular physique almost perfectly blending with his delicate, girlish beauty, creating a refined yet slightly sinister aesthetic. His right eye was black, his left eye blue, and his contrasting eyes gave off an unsettling aura.
"Hello, my name is Ilbert, Oscar von Ilbert. Welcome to my castle, Your Grace." His words carried a clear hint of mockery. "I hope you have a pleasant time here." "Who are you? What do you want?" "Tsk tsk tsk, how heartless," Ilbert shook his head dramatically. "I'm the one who rescued you from that prison cell. As for what I'm going to do—what do you think a normal man and a beautiful woman can do together?" He then stared blatantly at Joan's half-naked body.
Joan recalled everything: she had been knocked unconscious by this man in the prison cell and brought here. Seeing her current shameful situation, and recalling the ambiguous meaning in Ilbert's words, Joan's face turned deathly pale.
"You...you mustn't come near me." "What's wrong? How can the invincible saintess on the battlefield be afraid?" Ilbert sneered as he reached inside Joan's outer garment, roughly grabbing her full, firm breasts and kneading them wantonly, occasionally teasing her delicate, tender nipples with his fingers.
"No...no, you bastard, let me go!" The sudden attack on the girl's private parts caused Joan's half-naked body to tremble uncontrollably.
Ilbert watched with satisfaction as the girl writhed helplessly in his clutches. He not only fondled her breasts but also ravaged Joan's body, which was tightly bound to the chair and unable to move. "Let you go. Stop dreaming, my saintess." Ilbert deliberately emphasized the words "my saintess." "I went to all this trouble to get you out here, just for one thing: I want to train you into a wanton harlot, a slut who'll sleep with anyone, so you'll bear me a child." "You're dreaming! The Lord will punish you!" "Shut up! What Lord stuff? It's annoying." Ilbert suddenly grabbed at Joan's tender nipple. A sharp pain shot through Joan's breast, almost making her cry out, but her stubborn nature prevented her from yielding. Joan endured the pain, only coldly staring at the man before her.
Ilbert guessed Joan's thoughts. He smiled slightly at her, tightening his grip on her nipples. Not only that, he forcefully pulled her nipples upwards, as if trying to use them as a base to lift her body off the chair. Joan's breasts were gradually stretched, and her originally pink nipples turned a deep purple under the violent torment.
Joan finally couldn't hold back her pain and screamed, desperately twisting her body to escape Ilbert's grip on her nipples. Seeing this, Ilbert twisted Joan's nipples outwards again, an even more intense stimulation instantly filling her entire body. Driven by excruciating pain, Joan's body trembled and struggled desperately, like a frog thrown into boiling water.
Joan of Arc had no idea when Ilbert released her. She only knew that as she slowly regained her senses from the frenzy, her nipples were completely numb, her sweat-drenched hair lay disheveled on her forehead, and her cheeks were wet with what seemed to be either sweat or tears.
"It tastes good, Your Grace," Ilbert said, gently stroking her muscular body covered by a light veil damp with sweat. "Look at yourself, oh, how sexy your body is covered in cold sweat!" With that, he suddenly tore open the white veil covering Joan's chest and began frantically licking her still-sweat-dampened breasts.
"Pervert!" Joan cursed in disgust.
"Pervert, perhaps," Ilbert replied, reaching down to Joan's lower body and brazenly parting her pink labia with his fingers, beginning to fondle her alluring vulva. "But, Miss Saint, I must remind you, you are still just a woman." With that, Ilbert suddenly and lightly poked Joan's anus. Joan's sensitive buttocks involuntarily contracted sharply, her waist arching involuntarily.
"Not bad, not bad, that's quite strong. It'll feel great to do it later." Ilbert continued to tease Joan while quickly removing the tattered veil from her body. Joan's heart felt as if it were being torn apart along with the tattered white veil. She felt the cold air outside freely touching her skin. Shame and unease almost overwhelmed the nineteen-year-old girl. She could only close her eyes helplessly, letting Ilbert ravage her body.
Now, all she could do was silently chant the name of God, hoping that the Lord would quickly save her from this nightmare.
However, God clearly did not hear the prayers of his most devout saint; no miracle occurred.
After playing with Joan's upper body, Ilbert turned his attention to her lower body. He touched Joan's pubic hair, slightly disheveled from being damp with sweat. "Hmm, looks like it needs a trim, to be worthy of the saintess." Joan was shocked. "Lord, what nonsense are you spouting!" "What 'Lord'? It's annoying me." Ilbert reached for an iron ring, perfectly shaped to fit Joan's fully open mouth. Silk was padded inside, and a groove resembling gum lines ran along the outside. The intelligent Joan immediately understood its purpose: to block her mouth without hindering her breathing.
Ilbert grinned maliciously and pinched Joan's nose. Joan knew what he was going to do, but her stubborn nature prevented her from submitting and surrendering to his will. Joan kept her lips tightly shut, shaking her head in vain, but Ilbert's strong hands quickly immobilized her. Slowly, Joan felt herself suffocating, but perhaps dying like this was better than being humiliated. Joan's vision began to blur; she could clearly hear her heart pounding faster and faster, and her limbs began to grow cold. Suddenly, Ilbert released his grip on Joan's nose, and fresh air rushed into her nostrils. Stimulated by this dramatic change, Joan couldn't help but open her mouth and cough loudly.
Ilbert didn't waste this precious opportunity; he seized the chance to grab Joan's jaw and shove the iron ring inside. Joan's mouth was now stretched open to its maximum by the ring, and her tongue began to unconsciously lick it, the taste of raw metal assaulting her senses. Saliva began to flow profusely from Joan's mouth, overflowing and dripping from the gaps in the ring, running down her chin and onto her chest, glistening in the wetness.
Seeing Joan's current embarrassed state, Ilbert laughed loudly, "What, is our saintess still not old enough to wear a bib?" Joan glared at him angrily, then closed her eyes.
"What, does the Holy Maiden have some grievance against me? Well, to make amends, I'll show the Holy Maiden something good." As he spoke, the sound of undressing filled the air beside Joan of Arc, followed by a foul, fishy stench that filled her nostrils. Stimulated by this dramatic change, Joan of Arc opened her mouth and coughed loudly.
Ilbert didn't waste this precious opportunity; he seized the chance to grab Joan of Arc's jaw and shove the iron ring inside. At this moment, Joan of Arc's mouth was stretched open to its maximum by the iron ring, and she coughed and vomited. Her tongue began to unconsciously lick the iron ring, and a metallic taste assaulted her senses. Saliva began to flow profusely from Joan of Arc's mouth, overflowing and dripping from the gaps in the iron ring, running down her chin and onto her chest, glistening in the wetness.
Seeing Joan's current embarrassed state, Ilbert burst into laughter. "What, is our Saintess still not old enough to wear a bib?" Joan glared at him angrily, then closed her eyes.
"What, does the Saintess have some grievance against me? Well, to make amends, I'll show the Saintess something good." As he spoke, the sound of undressing rang out beside Joan, followed by a foul, fishy smell that filled Joan's nostrils.
Then Ilbert's voice rang in Joan's ears: "Saintess, please open your eyes and take a look." Joan knew that opening her eyes would bring no good, so she simply ignored him. But Ilbert forcibly pried open Joan's eyelids, and before her appeared an ugly and enormous penis: the bluish veins on the slightly upturned shaft were clearly visible, and the purplish glans seemed to be oozing some liquid; the foul smell from before was emanating from the penis itself.
Joan, who had never seen a male genitalia before, was stunned. She couldn't believe that such an ugly thing existed in the world. When she realized what she was seeing, a blush of embarrassment spread across her face.
Seeing Joan's awkwardness, Ilbert laughed heartily, "How about it, Saintess? I haven't bathed for a week just for you!" He said this while pressing his penis against Joan's face.
His hot penis slid back and forth across Joan's pretty face, the delicate touch better than the finest silk. The ugly penis slid across Joan's smooth, alabaster face, sometimes making intimate contact with her cheek, sometimes the huge glans brushing against her high nose as it traveled north, finally gently touching the girl's tightly closed eyelids. Soon, several streaks of Ilbert's semen were scattered across Joan's face.
However, compared to the immense pleasure he derived from rubbing Joan's face, what Eliot preferred was the pain and shame suffered by the defenseless girl under such brutality: with her mouth gagged, Joan could only express her indignation through muffled nasal sounds; at first, Joan desperately twisted her head, trying to avoid the filthy penis violating her; as Eliot held her head firmly in place, and the violation intensified, Joan's face, flushed with shame, twitched, her eyelids twitched, her delicate nostrils twitched continuously, and finally, two silent tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto Joan's sexy breasts.
"Don't cry, my saintly lady," Ilbert wiped away the tears remaining at the corners of Joan's eyes with his penis. "The game is just beginning." Then, while slapping Joan's cheeks with his penis, Ilbert slowly moved it to Joan's mouth, which had been forcibly opened with a gag, and thrust it in violently, all the way to her throat. Joan's tender tongue was brutally forced open by the huge penis, the shaft brazenly penetrating her mouth and slamming hard against the girl's soft throat.
Her unprepared airway was immediately filled by this uninvited guest, and the foul-smelling, erotic fluid, along with the saliva accumulated in her mouth, poured back into the girl's esophagus, mercilessly flowing into her stomach. Her unsuspecting stomach immediately began to convulse wildly, and a surge of acid rushed to Joan's throat.
After Ilbert's penis touched Joan's throat, it didn't retreat but instead pushed further in. The thick penis mercilessly tore through the resistance of her throat inch by inch, completely blocking the passage of air into her mouth. The painful feeling of suffocation instantly spread throughout Joan's body. In order to breathe a little air, Joan's throat muscles began to swallow involuntarily, and her tongue, which was tightly pressed down by the penis, tried its best to push the intruder out of her mouth. However, this action only brought Ilbert additional pleasure and did nothing else.
Joan's bound feet began to struggle desperately, and the fingernails of her clenched fists dug into her palms. The two sensations of suffocation and vomiting constantly exchanged control of her body. Whichever sensation took the initiative brought Joan endless pain. Joan felt as if her internal organs wanted to jump out of her body. She wanted to curse, she wanted to bite off this ugly thing, but all she could do now was desperately inhale a little air through her nose.
When Ilbert's thick, long penis finally reached its limit, his unkempt pubic hair completely blocking the lower half of Joan's face, Joan truly suffocated.
Ilbert had been observing Joan's condition. The near-frantic spasms and struggles in her throat before she completely suffocated had him so excited that he almost ejaculated into her mouth, but then he noticed that Joan's pupils began to dilate and her lips began to turn purple. Only then did he slightly pull his penis out of Joan's mouth, and at the same time, he forcefully pounded below Joan's heart. A surge of pent-up acid erupted from Joan's stomach, rushing into her mouth and slowly flowing down the corners of her mouth.
"Ugh, ugh, ugh—cough cough cough—" As fresh air flowed into Joan's chest, she coughed desperately, ignoring the penis still blocking her mouth. With each cough, the acid from her stomach was expelled, some of which clung to Ilbert's pubic hair, which was almost pressed against Joan's face.
"Oh, you unruly saint, how could you vomit everywhere? It seems you must be properly disciplined." With these cruel words from Ilbert, the thick penis, once again carrying saliva and stomach acid, was forced into Joan's throat, pushing the stomach acid back into her stomach.
Joan, still recovering from the previous ordeal, was once again plunged into a hell of agonizing torture by this inhuman punishment.
The constant nausea in her throat and the numbness caused by oxygen deprivation repeatedly assaulted the girl's increasingly fragile nerves.
Soon, Joan was suffocating again. Finally, Ilbert, once again "mercifully," pulled his penis out slightly, giving Joan a precious sliver of life. But soon, Ilbert's penis once again stormed into Joan's mouth—in this ongoing deep-throat battle, Ilbert watched with satisfaction as Joan's pretty face turned from red to white, her delicate nostrils twitching with each of his brutal thrusts, and tears streaming from her eyes like broken beads falling to the ground.
Each thrust brought forth a large amount of saliva and gastric juices from Joan's mouth, and the spasms in her mouth and throat as she suffocated were even more exhilarating. Ilbert had decided that he would fuck Joan's soft little mouth until he ejaculated, no matter what.
The pitiful sight of the beautiful woman struggling in pain and suffocation gave him a thrill of controlling someone's life and death, while the tense spasms of the girl's throat tightly enveloped the intruder's penis, the exquisite and tight sensation making Ilbert feel as if he were flying.
Finally, lust overwhelmed reason, and Ilbert began to thrust rapidly into Joan's mouth without regard for her feelings, who was already in a semi-conscious state.
"Ugh—" A weak groan escaped from Joan's nose, her clenched fists loosened, and her gradually dilating pupils and turning purple lips showed that Joan's life force was slowly leaving her.
Stimulated by the final spasms of the girl's mouth, tongue, and throat, Ilbert roared and ejaculated a large amount of semen into Joan's mouth like a flash flood. Under this intense stimulation, Joan's almost unconscious body twitched violently a few times as if electrocuted, and then the man's semen flowed from her mouth and even her nose. At this moment, Joan had lost the ability to resist and could only let the filthy semen drip down her cheeks onto her firm
breasts and flow into her pure body . "Hmph, it's too easy for you to die like this, Saintess. You haven't even given me a child yet, haven't become my wanton sex slave," Ilbert murmured, then a series of mysterious incantations flowed from his mouth: "My Lord Ashertarot, please use your omnipotent power to help your humble servant—" As Ilbert continued chanting, a mysterious power began to pull Joan's soul, which had left her body, back into it. The life force she had lost began to flow back rapidly, and her originally pale face began to turn rosy. Joan was pulled back from the brink of death by Ilbert. " You really have nothing better to do." Just as Ilbert was doing his best to save Joan, a voice sounded behind him, "Why bother with all that trouble? Why not just destroy her will and then control her?" Ilbert didn't need to turn around to know who was speaking. After the spell was completed, he replied, "There's no other way. Finding a prototype that can deceive Hades isn't easy. It requires a combination of a holy body and a fallen heart to succeed. It's pointless to prevent her from falling into depravity on her own. By the way, you didn't mess things up in that area, did you?" "Perfect," a beautiful woman walked up to Ilbert, "I chanted the Lord's name on the stake, and the surrounding crowd was moved to tears. It seems this little girl will be remembered as a saint for generations to come." As she spoke, she reached out and pinched Joan's breast. "Girl, you should thank me." Then, as if she had discovered a new continent, she said, "Hey, why are this girl's nipples perked up? And her clitoris is protruding too. Congratulations, Ilbert, you've found a good subject. May I participate?" Before Ilbert could answer, the woman gently tapped Joan's forehead, and the severely exhausted Joan slowly woke up. Ilbert knew it was futile to stop her now, so he stepped aside, reminding her, "You must be careful." "I'll carefully preserve her hymen for you," the woman replied impatiently, gently cupping Joan's face. "Girl, no, Saintess, let's spend this joyful time together." Joan was awakened from her deep sleep, and upon opening her eyes, she saw a stunningly beautiful woman standing before her. Her beauty was mesmerizing, an ageless allure that captivated even Joan, a woman herself. However, she quickly regained her senses: those who appeared here were likely sorcerers! The woman smiled at Joan of Arc and said, "Hello, Saintess, my name is Shia. You should thank me; I just took your place at the stake." This further confirmed her identity for Joan of Arc: if she wasn't a heretic, how could she have returned unharmed from the pyre and shown no reaction to Joan of Arc? Shia said, half-scolding, half-laughing, "Saintess, how rude of you! Is this how you treat your savior? Well then, you'll experience the horror of the execution ground firsthand." With that, Shia placed a hand on Joan of Arc's forehead, and immediately a sharp, intense pain filled Joan of Arc's body and mind: her skin felt as if it were being peeled off, and a burning pain coursed through every nerve in her body. She could clearly feel the flames burning every inch of her fat. The immense pain made her want to scream, but only hoarse, gurgling sounds came from her throat. Watching Joan of Arc struggle desperately under the tight restraints, Shia withdrew her spell with satisfaction. "How was the burning at the stake, Miss Saint?" Joan of Arc's strength, already nearly exhausted by Ilbert's torment, was further weakened. Now, she could only utter a muffled, indistinct sound through her gag: "Evil—path—" Upon hearing this, Shia laughed instead of getting angry. "If I'm evil for using magic, then what are you now?" With that, Shia reached out and gently rubbed Joan of Arc's nipples. Unlike Ilbert's frenzied torment last time, under Shia's skillful caresses, Joan of Arc's breathing became heavy, and her sensitive nipples tingled. As a woman herself, Shia knew exactly where a woman's sensitive areas were. Her soft, gentle caresses minimized Joan of Arc's pain, while increasing the comfortable tingling sensation. "How interesting, Saintess's nipples are erect." While flirting with Joan, Shia relentlessly humiliated her. "How could Saintess become aroused by the caresses of such a wicked man? Is this what your Lord expects of you?" "Ugh—no—" Joan felt the change in her body, and what terrified her was that this change was beyond her control: she was actually feeling pleasure in this situation! This was against the Lord's commandments! But she could no longer control her body. Shia continued her teasing, tenderly taking Joan's cherry-like nipple into her mouth, gently stroking the girl's delicate areola with her tongue, and occasionally using her soft lips to gently pinch Joan's slightly engorged nipple, rubbing it slowly from side to side. This slight, electric-like pleasure quickly spread throughout Joan's body, the sweet feeling making her feel instantly intoxicated. In an instant, Joan's gaze became hazy. The experienced Shia immediately sensed the change in Joan's body. She slowly ran her fingers along the inner thighs of Joan's shapely thighs, reaching the girl's most private area—her vulva. "Beautiful saint, I envy your angelic purity. You know how much I desire you now. Come, let us cross the river of love together." As Shia spoke, she gently parted the pink labia covering her vulva, her fingers reaching Joan's delicate clitoris. The sudden intrusion caused Joan to let out a soft moan, but this moan was clearly tinged with lust. Seeing that her actions had succeeded, Shia pressed on, pinching and kneading Joan's pink clitoris. "Mmm, mmm, mmm..." Joan felt a burning, tingling sensation spreading from her lower body throughout her entire body; an indescribable feeling was gradually taking over her senses. As Shia relentlessly teased Joan of Arc's clitoris, the sensation gradually escalated into an uncontrollable desire. Joan of Arc even arched her back, hoping that Shia could bring her even greater pleasure.

Finally, Joan felt a liquid slowly flowing out of her vagina. Just as Joan was enjoying Ash's caresses, Ilbert's voice boomed in her ear: "Oh, our saintess's reaction is so intense! Is this how you usually act when you secretly masturbate?" Ilbert's words were like a bucket of cold water poured over Joan, and her whole body instantly stiffened. Joan struggled to deny it, "N-no—no." As a devout believer in God since childhood, the commandment "Thou shalt not commit adultery" was already firmly rooted in her mind. Now, suddenly finding her youthful body defiled by "impure" lust, Joan frantically tried to return to her usual state, but her body, already experiencing intense pleasure, refused to allow it. The gradually increasing pleasure was slowly leading Joan's body to the brink of collapse.
Seeing Joan's panicked appearance as she struggled painfully between her spiritual steadfastness and physical intoxication, Ash felt a surge of "I really want to bully her a bit." First, she removed the gag from Joan's mouth, then gently took her delicate, small tongue, stained with the man's semen, into her mouth. Under her skillful sucking, Joan unconsciously began to extend her tongue into Shia's mouth.
At this moment, Shia deliberately bit Joan's tongue lightly, the sensitive buds quickly transmitting pain to Joan's brain. Before Joan could react, Shia's slender fingers deftly flicked Joan's already slightly erect clitoris, sending an indescribable, intensely hot sensation rapidly spreading from Joan's uterus throughout her body and reaching her brain. After a rapid spasm in her vagina, Joan clearly felt a warm liquid flowing out, running down her thighs from her vaginal opening.
Joan couldn't describe what that overwhelming sensation, which had made her feel weak all over, was, among any known sensations she possessed. For a young girl raised in an environment of abstinence, the shock this wonderful little orgasm had on her conservative mind was unimaginable to outsiders. Under this immense impact, Joan's consciousness almost went blank. Her lifeless eyes, the saliva constantly dripping from the corners of her mouth, and her unconsciously trembling body all spoke of the girl's helpless soul.
Shia tenderly pulled Jeanne's head between her full breasts. "Poor little thing, what did those guys teach you? You haven't even experienced the most basic orgasm. Come on, be with your sister Shia, and I'll teach you what true womanly happiness is." With that
, Shia kissed Jeanne's lips deeply once more. Under Shia's guidance, their tongues intertwined and swirled in each other's mouths, licking every corner. Their saliva flowed freely with their tongues, the mixture exceeding their capacity, most of it dripping down their chins. Soon, their pressed breasts were covered in saliva, resembling a small pond from afar!
Meanwhile, Shia continued to caress Jeanne's genitals, reluctant to leave. Long, slender fingers gently parted the flesh covering her vulva, slowly invading the forbidden land where no foreign object had ever entered before. Just as Shia was about to go further, a strong hand grabbed her wrist—it was Ilbert. He said slowly, "You haven't forgotten your promise, have you?" Shia frowned helplessly and pulled her hand back.
Just as Ilbert stopped Shia from further violating Joan, Joan had already recovered from her climax. The feeling of betraying God filled her with immense shame and indignation. "I didn't ask for that, Lord, please forgive this sinful lamb," Joan silently confessed in her heart.
At this moment, she discovered that Shia was shamelessly intertwining her tongue with her own. "I've become like this entirely because of you evil people!" Anger burned in Joan's chest, so she took advantage of Shia's unpreparedness and bit her tongue hard.
"Ah—you, you little bitch!" Shia covered her mouth and jumped aside. Because Jeanne had lost too much strength, the bite had only slightly broken Shia's tongue, but it still caused the female mage considerable pain.
Standing to the side, Ilbert quickly understood what had happened and couldn't help but burst into laughter: "Hahaha, Shia, Shia, didn't you always say that both men and women would be lost to your lips? How come this time—" "Shut up!" With Shia's roar, a fireball flew towards Ilbert.
Ilbert easily deflected Shia's attack, clasping his hands together and saying to Shia, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was just a joke, don't take it seriously." Shia knew that there was still a considerable gap between her strength and Ilbert's, so she didn't dare to act rashly. She could only turn her anger towards Joan, "You little bitch, do you want to die? Do you believe I will make you wish you were dead, and regret being born as a woman?" Joan ignored Shia's threat and just prayed to God, "Almighty Lord, Almighty Lord, in glory without limit—" Joan's voice was immediately interrupted by Shia. She grabbed Joan's jaw hard, forcibly pried it open, and stuffed the muzzle into Joan's mouth again. "Let's see how you bite now." With that, Shia turned to Ilbert. "Is it alright if I teach this bitch a lesson?" "Go ahead, as long as you don't ruin my plans." "Don't worry." Shia moved to Joan's side and said viciously, "You little slut, uh, no, Saintess, welcome to hell!" Joan knew cruel torture awaited her, but she remained silent, her eyes tightly closed, silently praying to God. At this moment, Shia placed a wooden basin next to Joan and took out a long, thin metal tube, one end of which was sharpened to a point. Shia forcibly pried open Joan's eyes and waved the metal tube in front of her. "See? This is your punishment." With that, she plunged the metal tube into Joan's neck!
Because the tip of the tube was too sharp, Joan didn't feel any pain. She had thought Shia was going to kill her to vent her anger, but unexpectedly, the tube only penetrated slightly, not deep enough to be fatal. Seeing a flicker of doubt in Joan's eyes, Shia grinned sinisterly, "Don't worry, Saintess, I won't kill you. This tube is just to drain some blood. You probably don't know, but when a person loses more than a fifth of their blood, all their sensory organs become more sensitive. It'll be even more fun to play with you then." Joan clearly felt blood flowing from her body, drop by drop, into the wooden tub beside her. The trickling flow steadily drained Joan's life force from her body. Joan felt her head growing heavier and heavier, her eyelids drooping involuntarily, her hands and feet gradually losing sensation, slowly growing cold, until she was even too weak to move her fingers and toes.
At the same time, her thoughts began to become increasingly chaotic, a series of childhood memories flashing through her mind, and many long-forgotten details suddenly becoming clear again. "Is this what it feels like to be approaching death? Lord, please accept my sinful soul," Joan began to pray silently with her remaining strength.
But Shia would not let Joan find relief so easily. Seeing that Joan of Arc's life force was on the verge of collapse, she removed the blood vessel from Joan's neck and used magic to stop the bleeding. Facing the completely defenseless Joan, Shia confidently released her restraints, simultaneously using magic to force Joan's eyelids open, so that Joan could clearly see the atrocity about to befall her.
Next, Shia used a magical potion to dilute a basin full of Joan's blood, then presented the basin to Joan, saying, "Saintess, this potion not only makes the blood watery, but also gives it a strong stimulating effect. Please enjoy it." She then turned Joan over, so that her back was facing up. Before Joan could understand what she was doing, Shia had already placed her hand directly on her anus, then pushed her fingers in slightly. The pink anus immediately caved in, and Shia's first knuckle entered Joan's anus.
Although Joan of Arc was too weak to even move a finger, the slight trembling of her skin revealed how far Shia's actions had gone from a young girl's imagination: how could anyone put their hand into such a filthy place?
"Not bad, it's soft and squishy inside, quite cute. By the way, Miss Saint, relax a little." With that, Shia continued to insert another knuckle of her finger, the inserted finger lightly touching the tender flesh of her rectum.
"How could I possibly relax?" Joan cried out in her heart. Her body, utterly exhausted, was powerless to resist the invasion. Despite her body's overwhelming disgust and resistance, her nerves, heightened by blood loss, faithfully transmitted every sensation to Joan's brain. Cold sweat covered her body; humiliation and anger filled her heart, but she could do nothing but wait.
Finally, Shia withdrew her hand with satisfaction. "Not bad! A fine instrument indeed." Just as Joan breathed a sigh of relief, Shia swiftly inserted a funnel into her anus!
The rough metal instrument mercilessly stretched open her tight anus, cruelly scraping the tender rectal walls. Under this intense stimulation, Joan's already limp body miraculously struggled, trying to escape this torture.
Seeing this, Shia used one hand to firmly hold Joan's body down, while the other hand pushed the funnel deeper with even greater force. As Joan of Arc uttered deathly cries of "Ugh—Ugh—No—No—," Shia finally pushed the entire inlet tube of the funnel into Joan's rectum. Then, Shia began to regurgitate the blood flowing from Joan's body!
While performing the enema, Shia continued to humiliate Joan: "Congratulations, Saintess, you are the first person in human history to use their own blood for an enema! Hahaha—" The room was filled with Shia's morbid laughter.
Sitting to the side watching all this, Ilbert muttered to himself, "Never offend a woman.
It's too dangerous." As Shia used magic to continuously force the "enema fluid" into Joan's body, Joan began to feel the pressure in her abdomen increasing, and waves of intense cramping pain came from her lower body. Just thinking about what the liquid being continuously poured into her abdomen was, the pressure was enough to make one collapse!
Slowly, Joan of Arc's lower abdomen began to swell. "Shia, don't go too far," Ilbert said, seeing Joan's eyes rolling back and her breathing becoming abnormally rapid and heavy. Fearing things might get out of control, he intervened. Shia, hearing this, reluctantly stopped what he was doing and pulled the funnel out of Joan's body.
Due to the intense stimulation, Joan's lower body muscles were already in a semi-uncontrolled state. As soon as Shia pulled out the funnel, a small amount of red liquid gushed from Joan's anus. Shia quickly plugged Joan's anus with a plug, temporarily stopping the outflow.
Then, Shia placed Joan of Arc on the floor in a cross-legged sitting position, tied her hands behind her back, and then bound her lower legs and ankles together. Finally, she used a rope, one end around Joan's neck and the other end tied to her ankles. This forced Joan to sit cross-legged on the ground as if bowing. Ilbert didn't understand what Shia was doing. Joan was too weak to even sit; she was barely holding on with Shia
's support. Tying her up was pointless. What Shia did next puzzled Ilbert even more. Shia expended considerable effort to cast a "Complete Restoration" spell on Joan. Restored to her strength, Joan, though somewhat weak from blood loss, still managed to mumble through her mouth, "Shameless—Demonic—" Shia impatiently made a gesture, and the plug that had been inserted into Joan's anus suddenly popped out, causing her to defecate almost instantly.
However, with her extraordinary willpower, Joan of Arc managed to forcefully seal the enema fluid in her rectum before it could escape. Only then did she feel waves of increasingly intense pain assaulting her brain, while the unidentified drug mixed in the enema fluid repeatedly irritated her intestines. The sensation was like someone repeatedly punching her in the abdomen—utterly agonizing and worse than death.
A thick layer of cold sweat covered Joan's muscular body, glistening under the indoor lights, as if coated with oil. Now, Joan had to concentrate all her energy on fighting the rising urge to defecate; she had no time to condemn the two wizards.
Seeing that Joan was temporarily stable, Shia approached Ilbert. "I need your cooperation in testing a new spell." "I'm willing." Shia then pulled Ilbert to Joan's side, and a series of incantations that even Ilbert didn't understand flowed from Shia's mouth, ending after a considerable time, but nothing unusual happened.
"What are you doing?" Ilbert asked Shia in confusion.
Shia shrugged. "I don't know either. I read this spell in an old book, and it's perfect for this situation. Ah, it seems to be the spell itself—hey Ilbert, look! It worked!" Ilbert looked in the direction Shia was pointing and saw Joan of Arc's originally small and firm breasts slowly growing larger and larger.
"The spell's effect is breast enhancement! I think you'll like it. Wait, how could this happen?" To Shia's surprise, Joan of Arc's breasts began to grow without limit, eventually piling up on Joan of Arc's knees like two large round watermelons. Her originally cherry-like nipples were now larger than Shia's clenched fist, and milk gushed out from the milk ducts like a fountain!
Ilbert turned around, feigning anger. "Go away, how can we play like this?" Shia clung to Ilbert like a little girl who had done something wrong. "I'm sorry, I...I...I'll use 'Magic Cancellation' right away—" "Never mind," Ilbert grabbed Shia, who was about to cast the spell. "Do you still have enough stamina to use a level seven spell? We'll talk about that later. But next time, don't use unfamiliar spells randomly, it's very dangerous. Remember that!" "Ilbert!" Shia threw herself into his arms. "I...I really—" "Alright, don't cry, it's okay, I forgive you. You know, we only have each other in this world." Ilbert gently stroked Shia's long hair and said slowly.
"You...you two damned evil people, what have you done to me?" Joan's tearful voice startled the two from their sweet world.
"You little slut, you're asking for it!" Shia turned around, about to teach Jeanne a lesson, but was stopped by Ilbert. "I've figured out how to use your failed magic." He walked towards Jeanne.
"Y-you want to—uh-uh—" Jeanne's mouth was gagged with a piece of gauze that appeared out of nowhere.
Ilbert walked up to Jeanne, patted her large breasts, "Saintess, may I borrow your breasts?" Before Jeanne could react, Ilbert forced his thick penis into her nipple!
Jeanne felt as if a red-hot nail had been driven into her extremely sensitive nipple; the immense pain almost drove her mad! Meanwhile, Ilbert frantically thrust into Jeanne's breasts. The milk remaining in her nipples became an excellent lubricant. The tightness and wonderful sensation of the mammary glands far surpassed that of the vagina, giving Ilbert a feeling of ecstasy that made him forget everything else. Joan of Arc could never have imagined that her breasts would become a tool for the enemy to vent his lust. Waves of excruciating pain ripped from her breasts, tormenting every nerve.
Joan wanted to scream, but her mouth was completely sealed shut. The pain in her breasts, the stimulation in her lower body, and the endless humiliation finally pushed Joan to her limit. Facing these heretics, the dignity of being an apostle of God was no longer enough to support the immense pressure borne by a mere nineteen-year-old girl. Joan seemed to hear a bowstring, taut within her body, snap.
Just as Ilbert roared and ejaculated into Joan's breasts, her anal sphincter collapsed with a desperate groan. Her rectum, already unable to bear the strain, pushed a mixture of feces and enema fluid towards her anus, and a stream of scarlet liquid gushed out. "Ugh!!!" In Joan's dying struggle, reddish-brown filth flowed continuously from her completely relaxed sphincter, instantly filling the room with a pungent stench.
While using magic to expel the air from the room, Shia pointed at Joan of Arc and yelled, "What kind of saint is this? You're worse than a dog, defecating everywhere!" She then stomped on Joan's enormous breasts several times. Joan was numb to it all. The shame of her shameless act of defecating in front of the enemy temporarily overwhelmed her consciousness. The humiliation, exceeding the limits of her self-respect, nearly caused her to collapse on the spot.
Her expression was now stiff, tears streaming down her face. Although the gauze in her mouth had been removed at some point, Joan was clearly incapable of speaking, simply lying paralyzed in the excrement, staring blankly at the scene before her. Despite Joan's pitiful state, Ilbert, showing no mercy, moved to Joan's other breast, cupping the nipple and preparing to insert it.
Just then, a crystal ball placed on a nearby cabinet began to emit a blue light. Ilbert and Shia both knew what this meant. "How could it be so fast?" Ilbert said.
"I don't know, but it's fine this way, at least we have the stuff. Alright, Ilbert, you rest here for a bit, I'll take care of the preparations." "This—" "Well, the ritual is ultimately up to you, and I can't help anyway, so at least let me help you with the arrangements." With that, Shia summoned a few imps to clean the room, while she herself began drawing a magic circle on the floor in the center of the room.
Seeing this, Ilbert had no choice but to accept Shia's kindness and began to sit down and meditate. For some reason, he started thinking about the past: back then, Ilbert was the heir to a blacksmith's business in a small village, Shia was a maid at a nearby church, and Ilbert had a younger sister, Yanashida, three years his junior. The three were childhood friends. If nothing unexpected happened, Ilbert would probably inherit the blacksmith's business, Shia would become his wife, and Yanashida might become the mistress of a farm, and the three of them would live a simple, ordinary life.
But what happened on Shia's sixteenth birthday changed their destinies.
That night, several high-ranking priests and a cardinal stayed overnight at the church, and Shia was sent to deliver dinner to them. The beautiful young woman attracted lewd glances, and right there in the church, in the realm of God, Shia was gang-raped by God's servants.
Upon hearing this, Ilbert was enraged and rushed to the church to demand justice for Shia. Unfortunately, so-called justice always sides with the powerful. Ilbert was accused of attempting to murder clergy and was wanted, while Shia was also accused of being an accomplice.
Under the church's immense power, the two had no choice but to flee. Yanashida, unwilling to be separated from her brother, also joined the escape. Ilbert, fearing his sister would become a target of church retaliation, had no choice but to take her with him. But the three young fugitives ultimately couldn't escape the church's grasp; on the edge of a cliff, their pursuers caught up with them.
To cover up a scandal involving its high-ranking officials, the church falsely accused Yanashida of being a witch and ordered the three to be killed on the spot. Under a hail of arrows from pursuers, Ilbert, carrying Shia and her sister, leaped off a precipice. Perhaps their fate was sealed; the river below saved them, but not everyone. Anashita had already perished from multiple arrow wounds before jumping.
The river carried the bodies of Ilbert, Shia, and Anashita to the dwelling of an old wizard. Driven by revenge, Ilbert and Shia joined the path of magic without hesitation.
In his continuous study of magic, Ilbert discovered that resurrecting Anashita was impossible, but her soul could be reincarnated through some means. That was on the days when Hades, the King of the Underworld, made his unpredictable visits, taking advantage of the King's relatively weak control over souls. A person with a direct blood relation to the deceased could have intercourse with a woman possessing a holy body but a corrupt heart, causing her to become pregnant. Then, through a series of spells, the deceased could be reincarnated.
This is why Ilbert and Shia kidnapped Joan of Arc and subjected her to all sorts of humiliation: they wanted to corrupt Joan of Arc's heart while she remained a virgin. They could have had more time, but no one could have predicted that the day of Hades's pilgrimage (which is unpredictable, with intervals ranging from days to centuries) would arrive at this time. Despite their less-than-ideal preparations, they had no choice but to take the plunge.
Just as Ilbert was lost in thought, Shia's clear voice pulled him back to reality: "Alright, Ilbert, we can begin." Shia had already drawn a massive magic circle on the ground, and Joan of Arc lay slumped in its center. "She can regain her senses now. Let the revered saint witness her fall." The power of magic surged within Joan of Arc once more, summoning her consciousness back from its dazed state. She felt someone behind her, parting her legs and exposing her most private parts.
"No, stop!" A chill ran through Joan of Arc: she was about to be raped!
This would be the most tragic disaster for any woman, let alone Joan of Arc, who had sworn to dedicate her life to God
. "Don't be afraid, maybe not," Shia released a seductive aura onto Joan, arousing her desires. A wave of intoxicating pleasure emanated from Joan's tormented breasts. Joan felt her already throbbing nipples harden under the stimulation of the pleasure.
"W-how could this be? What happened?" Joan was astonished by the change in her body; she could hardly believe that she was experiencing pleasure under the enemy's evil magic. It
wasn't just her nipples that were being stimulated; Joan felt the man behind her gently licking her shoulder blades. Joan's body, which had become increasingly sensitive after the cruel torment, suddenly became less tolerant of pleasure. With simple and direct movements, waves of deep and prolonged stimulation erupted deep within Joan's body, and the continuous tides of pleasure gradually overwhelmed her consciousness.
Joan's breathing suddenly quickened, her body tensed, and the suppressed desire within her surged forth like a burst dam, destroying all obstacles. Despite her reluctance, a powerful orgasm swept over her; her sensual body arched, her pale buttocks swayed uncontrollably from side to side, and her long, tightly bound legs trembled violently. Pleasant pleasure emanated from her tightly clenched lips. With
each rhythmic spasm of Joan's body, a stream of love fluid shamelessly flowed down her thighs to the ground.
Just as Joan was immersed in the afterglow of her orgasm, the man's skillful tongue plunged deeply into her vagina, stopping just before reaching her hymen. This unexpected intrusion nearly brought Joan to another climax.
As the tongue continued to move in and out, the full labia on either side of her vagina were also stimulated, and Joan's mind and body were once again brought to the brink of collapse. "God! Save me! I—don't—let me die—no—" At this moment, Joan of Arc was completely unaware of what she was saying. She only knew that intense pleasure was surging through her entire body, from head to toe, leaving no part untouched.
Shia came to Joan of Arc's side. "This won't do, Saintess. God is watching you from heaven.
Do you intend to face Him in such a lewd manner?" Shia's words reminded Joan of this, and the burning desire within her was slightly suppressed by her responsibility as a servant of God. But just as Joan of Arc regained a little of her sanity, Ilbert, standing behind her, suddenly thrust his enormous penis into Joan of Arc's delicate vagina, reaching the very core.
"Ah, ah, no—" Amid Joan of Arc's cries, the thick penis mercilessly smashed through all obstacles, completely shattering the hymen that the girl had guarded for nineteen years! The excruciating pain, like being pounded in the lower body by a giant rod, nearly made Joan of Arc faint. At the same time, the shame of being violated by a man filled her heart. "My body has been defiled. I am no longer worthy to be the master's servant." This terrible thought kept swirling in Joan of Arc's mind, refusing to leave.
Ignoring the agonizing pain of the woman beneath him, Eliot continued thrusting his massive penis repeatedly into Joan's vagina. Each thrust of the enormous glans plunged deep into her uterus, causing Joan to feel as if all the air inside her was being expelled. And with each withdrawal, the excruciating pain of the penis forcefully pulling out the delicate flesh of her vagina made Joan wonder if her internal organs were being ripped out with it!
Under this intense agony, Joan felt as if someone was smashing her genitals to pieces! Even more terrifying for Joan was that, despite this brutality, her pent-up lust intensified; the pleasure she experienced amidst the pain nearly drove her to madness. The
final blow to Joan came when Shia suddenly inserted his fingers into her anus. The simultaneous, intense stimulation of her vagina and rectum overwhelmed Joan of Arc with an unimaginable sense of fullness that robbed her of all thought. Stars flashed before her eyes, and she could barely breathe.
This slight feeling of suffocation further amplified her sensations with the increasing sexual stimulation.
Finally, the small spark in her lower body, amplified by the series of stimulations, ignited into a raging inferno that engulfed Joan of her entire being! A surge
of intense pleasure shot through Joan of Arc, causing her to scream out shamelessly. The tender flesh inside her vagina convulsed rapidly, gushing forth copious amounts of vaginal fluid. Under this all-encompassing stimulation, Joan of Arc finally lost consciousness. Her last thought before this was, "Merciful Lord, please—" Seeing that Joan of Arc had lost consciousness in the throes of orgasm, Shia hurriedly activated the magic circle on the ground according to the instructions. With the fluctuations of magical energy, the graceful figure of a pale-skinned girl appeared within it. Although his face was obscured, Ilbot, who was struggling to hold back his ejaculation inside Joan of Arc, recognized her immediately: "Sister!" The rest was simple: Ilbot only needed to ejaculate when Anashida's soul merged with Joan of Arc's body, thus ensuring Joan of Arc conceived a child born with Anashida's soul. At this crucial moment, a holy light suddenly emanated from Joan of Arc's body, preventing the lingering souls nearby from crossing the line.
"A manifestation of the Holy Mark!" Shia, who had worked in the church for a time, immediately recognized the source of this holy light. She never imagined that the unconscious Joan of Arc could enter a state of oneness with the divine!
The situation was extremely dangerous: Ilbot was on the verge of ejaculation; if he lost control and ejaculated, the magic circle, deprived of its power source, would immediately disintegrate, and Anashida's soul would vanish into nothingness.
Anyone else might have panicked at this moment, but Shia was quite knowledgeable about the affairs of the church. "I never imagined you really were the 'chosen one of God.' However, having met someone as knowledgeable as me, I can only say that your Lord played a joke on you, Saintess." Shia approached Joan of Arc, aimed her right fist at the nipple that had been mercilessly ravaged by Ilbert, and forcefully thrust it in. "Ah—" The excruciating pain jolted Joan of Arc awake from her unconscious state. A pale yellow liquid flowed from the girl's uncontrollable urethra, trickling down her trembling thighs to the ground.
Awakening, Joan of Arc was filled with a mix of negative emotions: shame, sorrow, anger, helplessness—.
The stigmata could no longer exist on Joan of Arc. In the instant the holy light disappeared, the pale white soul entered Joan of Arc's body, and at the same time, Ilbert's thick penis ejaculated a large amount of hot semen deep into Joan of Arc's uterus.
"How is it?" Ilbert asked Shia anxiously as soon as he finished ejaculating, ignoring the lingering pleasure on his penis.
Shia solemnly continued to use magic to monitor Jeanne's condition. "The holy light just now caused considerable damage to her soul. I'm afraid she won't be able to retain any memories of her past life." Hearing this, a look of disappointment was clearly visible on Ilbert's face, as if he had lost the most precious thing in his life.
"There's nothing we can do about it. After all, we are souls stolen from the underworld. Souls tainted by darkness cannot resist the holy light. So, Ilbert, it seems we'll be experiencing what it's like to be parents, not brothers and sisters-in-law," Shia quickly comforted Ilbert. "And we're facing another problem now. Who knows when this saint will manifest another holy mark? We're not afraid, but the child in her belly—" Before Shia could finish speaking, Ilbert strode over to Jeanne, grabbed her hair, and asked fiercely, "So, Saintess, is there anything else you want to say?" Jeanne had suffered too many blows, both mentally and physically. From their conversation, she learned that she was pregnant with Ilbert's bastard child, and she felt utterly hopeless. Faced with Ilbert's interrogation, Joan of Arc merely glanced at him slowly and said, "Those who believe in the Lord will gain—" "Lord my ass!" Ilbert violently slapped Joan of Arc more than twenty times, then, to Shia's astonishment, he pried open Joan of Arc's left eyelid and shoved his still-erect penis into her lake-blue eye! Crimson blood splattered everywhere!
In that instant, Joan of Arc was overwhelmed by Ilbert's brutality, only reacting when his penis was inside her eye socket. Just as Joan of Arc was about to scream, Ilbert's vicious curse sealed off all her movements, leaving her only the freedom to clearly perceive all the violence that was happening to her!
Ilbert seemed to think that simply inserting it into her eye socket wasn't enough, so he thrust it in again with force, his thick penis crushing Joan of Arc's remaining left eye and completely slamming into her skull, the glans hitting Joan of Arc's brain.
"Hahahaha, the saint's eye sockets are indeed extraordinary, they're squeezing me so tight! Fine, let me just blast your brain through like this! Roar—" With a beast-like roar, Ilbert ejaculated his massive amount of semen into Joan's head. Joan's brain felt as if it were soaked in semen, the excess semen flowing from her eye sockets, sliding down her cheeks like tears. Joan's only remaining right eye also lost its original vitality, tears silently forming in its socket, but not falling.
Ilbert turned to Shia and said, "Now we don't have to worry about this 'nurturing device and semen collector' causing any holy signs to manifest." **********
... An old soldier, holding a wine glass, stood on the table and shouted, "So, those Englishmen fled in terror after our cannon fire. I think they might have already escaped back to their hometowns by now!" The crowd burst into laughter.
Then someone said, "If only Joan of Arc were still alive." This heavy topic stirred up memories. The old soldier continued, "Yes, back in the day, I participated in the relief of Orléans. Joan of Arc was truly—damn Duke of Burgundy! Damn Inquisition!" Just as everyone was immersed in the somber atmosphere, a voice broke in: "Excuse me, are you the great heroes who repelled those shameless Englishmen?" With the voice, a young man with his eyes covered by a cloak appeared in the tavern. The soldiers had no liking for this mysteriously dressed person; only the old soldier reluctantly answered, "What can I do for you?" "Excuse me, I'm the owner of a brothel. I heard there are war heroes here, so I brought some prostitutes to entertain you all for free." With that, he pushed the woman behind him in front of the soldiers.
Upon hearing that there were women available for free, the soldiers immediately swarmed around and hastily ripped off the women's cloaks.
"Wow, what huge breasts!" "Hey, why is this woman missing an eye?" "But she's pretty." Amidst the murmurs, only the old soldier stood frozen to one side. "They look so alike! Cough, what am I thinking? That's impossible. But they really do look so alike." "Hey, boss, I came first if you weren't coming." His subordinate's voice pulled the old soldier back from his distant memories. "You little bastard, I'd like to see you dare... Everyone line up, one by one." The old soldier cast aside his doubts and strode toward the woman who had been stripped naked. On the way, he didn't forget to thank the generous brothel owner, saying, "Thank you, young man." "You're welcome," the young man's different colored eyes, hidden under his cloak, gleamed with cunning. "Have fun, everyone." At the same time, he spoke in a voice that no one else could hear to the woman pinned beneath the soldier, "Have fun too, Miss Saint." Another debauched orgy unfolded in a corner of Paris.

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Joan of Arc (from a game fanfiction)

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