Fan-made game: Joan of Arc

[Fan Fiction] [Game Fan Fiction: Joan of Arc]
Author
: dks Word Count: 30631
1429 AD,
France, outside Orléans.
Twelve thousand English soldiers stood silently arrayed on a high hill, their purpose being to repel the French army attempting to reinforce Orléans. Such events had occurred 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 of the infantry 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 English launched a full-scale attack on the retreating French; the French suffered heavy casualties; and some time later, the even less disciplined French troops launched another offensive against the English besieging Orléans, only to suffer an even greater defeat—
compared to the elite English soldiers, the French troops were nothing more than cowardly peasants with swords drawn. Despite their commendable courage, their tactical awareness remained at a very primitive level: during charges, apart from the cavalry which maintained some order, the infantry were utterly disorganized, lacking any formation or ranks, let alone any tactics or strategy. When attacking, a mob would swarm forward with a "whoosh," ignoring both flanks and rear defenses, focusing solely on hacking and slashing the enemy; there was a lack of even the most basic coordination between soldiers; and almost no communication between units—
the British had never really taken such a militia-like force seriously. The reason for deploying such a large army was entirely due to Sir Johnson de Boer's assessment that Orléans was running out of ammunition and supplies. To further crush the will of the defenders and civilians, the British needed a complete victory—to utterly 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 British.
("The Orleans Bastard": Gilles de Gourey, a French marshal in the Hundred Years' War who led the people of Orleans in resisting the English for seven years.)
Finally, as the sun rose above the thin clouds to its zenith, the English, standing on the high ground, saw the approaching French army.
A force of approximately 15,000 men was deployed about two miles from the English: the central part comprised about 5,000 cavalry, including about 1,500 heavily armored knights, the main force of the assault; 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 their morale was extremely high.
To the English's surprise, the French formation indicated that the French had no reserves, meaning that either the French would annihilate the English in one fell swoop, or they would be annihilated by the English, with no chance of escape.
"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. In Yorkshire, she accurately identified the disguised French Dauphin from dozens of people. And I've also heard that even the wild horses that the most famous French knights couldn't tame now obediently bow at her feet, yielding to her commands—"
"Enough, Captain," the knight rudely interrupted his adjutant. "She can recognize the French Crown Prince because that guy has an incredibly idiotic face. She can tame his so-called wild horses because the French knights are so incompetent they're not even as good as a little girl. Humph, what so-called saint? She's just a delusional country bumpkin. No, maybe she's a complete lunatic, hahahahaha! I'm dying of laughter! The French... the French actually have a female lunatic as their commander! Hahahahaha! I can't take it anymore, I'm dying of laughter."
Watching his superior only laughing hysterically on horseback, completely oblivious... Ignoring orders, the adjutant felt it necessary to remind the knight of his duties: "Your Excellency, our countermeasures are—"
Hearing the adjutant's reminder, the knight snapped out of his daze. "Oh, order the pikemen to advance thirty paces and form ranks, the longbowmen to stand by and fire, the cuirassiers on both flanks to remain in place, the heavy infantry to form skirmish lines behind the pikemen, ready to reinforce them at any time, and inform our reserves to prepare to engage the enemy. Also, have the scouts expand their search area; I don't want a few rats sneaking into Orleans while we're fighting the enemy."
"Yes, Your Excellency." 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 this moment, a young woman in armor rode up to the French lines. This young woman had healthy wheat-colored skin, short golden hair, and eyes as blue as lake water. The cold armor couldn't conceal her tall, shapely figure, and her vibrant, energetic aura made her impossible to ignore.
Holding the French royal standard, she rode a black steed to the front of the English lines and proclaimed, "English soldiers, listen! I am Joan of Arc, an angel sent by God. I command you in the name of God: 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 be purified and ascend to Heaven!"
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. "You little brat, are you the one who shamelessly claims to be God's messenger?" Sir Johnson roared at Joan of Arc.
Joan was not intimidated by Sir Johnson's anger; instead, she calmly retorted, "Are you the shameless one 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, how dare an ignorant village girl 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 sentence further fueled Sir Johnson's anger. He drew his great bow on horseback and fired an arrow at Joan! The huge black-feathered arrow, like a bird spreading its wings in a storm, pierced the sky, flying towards Joan 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 of Arc prayed fervently, the huge arrow miraculously passed over her head. At this sight, the French camp erupted in cheers, and the name of the Holy Lord resounded throughout the heavens. The English side, on the other hand, was in an uproar, and many soldiers showed signs of wavering.
Sir Johnson was also puzzled. How could he, who was usually unerring in his aim, make such a basic mistake? However, there was no time to dwell on that now. The most important thing was to restore the morale of his soldiers as quickly as possible. Otherwise, once they engaged the French, the English army, in its current state, would likely collapse without a fight.
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 troops to your deaths." With that, he turned his horse around and returned to his own lines.
His adjutant seized the opportunity, raising his arm and shouting, "The French have been terrified by your archery skills, Sir! 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 central 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 volatile temper, 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? Did 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 occurred with the French cavalry was repeated once again with Sir Johnson's order: 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 the English had won the battle—if not 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, unharmed by the English rain of arrows.
"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 forward towards 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 noble private soldiers on the left flank even discarded 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 towards 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 won'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 lines and await further orders."
Clearly, Sir Johnson intended to exploit the fact that the French had no reserves: first, to create a stalemate with a counterattack by the cuirassiers, and then to deliver a fatal blow to the exhausted French forces using the reserves.
This strategy was sound, but Sir Johnson failed to consider the awkward situation he would face if the French broke through the central defenses, having already deployed his main force—the cuirassiers. The English reserve of two thousand men was still three miles away. (This reserve was not only tasked with supporting the main battlefront but also monitoring the French forces at Orléans.)
Just as the English cuirassiers joined the battle, the situation on the battlefield suddenly changed dramatically.
The main force of the English central line, besides the English pikemen and heavy infantry, consisted of a force of two thousand five hundred Swiss cuirassiers. These well-trained mercenaries were responsible for connecting the English central force with the right flank of the cuirassiers.
At this moment, they were enduring a fierce attack from the French left flank. The French left flank consisted largely of well-equipped aristocratic private soldiers, whose fighting strength was relatively superior. Coupled with fervent religious fervor, the Swiss cuirassiers suffered far greater casualties than the French in their battles against the French.
Furthermore, a large portion of the heavy infantry, originally intended to cover the cuirassiers, were temporarily reassigned to the central line, leaving the unprotected mercenaries paying a constant, avoidable price. Adding to this, the English right-wing cuirassiers' counterattack 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 only managed 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 force.
This was a normal move. Longbowmen, skilled in concentrated area attacks, were useless in this kind of melee combat where friend and foe were mixed together—unless, like the infamous, cold-blooded monarch Edward "Longlegs" against the rebel Wallace, ordered them to indiscriminately kill friend and foe alike. Therefore, relocating them to a relatively safe location was understandable. After all, longbowmen were a valuable resource. However
, to the Swiss mercenaries, who lacked the same team spirit as the English, this was clear evidence that the English were trying to abandon them alone on an unfavorable battlefield! The distrust between the mercenaries and the regular army erupted at the worst possible moment. Accompanied by shouts of "The English are abandoning us and running away first!", the Swiss hook-and-sickle spearmen, who had just been fighting fiercely against the French, instantly collapsed.
Sir Johnson, witnessing this scene from his own lines, was furious. To prevent the complete collapse of the lines, he ordered his longbowmen to fire on the routed mercenaries and the advancing French soldiers, while simultaneously commanding 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 lines from being breached" like the perpetrators. In their eyes, "The English 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 English won't shoot their own people," and so he slipped into the center of the English phalanx. Other mercenaries followed suit, crowding into the center of the English ranks. 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 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!" As she spoke, Joan of Arc charged ahead, raising the French royal banner and brandishing her sword, towards the English lines.
Her graceful, 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 roared and surged towards the English right flank.
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, were like ice cubes doused with boiling water, vanishing almost instantly.
The French troops, having penetrated 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 minced flesh. Fountains of screams, mingled with blood, gushed from the English longbowmen's ranks, who were tragically caught in the hand-to-hand combat; every second, several English soldiers lost their lives.
Finally, under Sir Johnson's strict orders, a small contingent of English troops in the center managed to establish a new defensive line on the right flank, temporarily halting the French advance. Now, for Sir Johnson, the question was no longer how to annihilate the French, 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 the reserves deployed three miles away would arrive quickly.
As Sir Johnson anxiously awaited his arrival, the messenger sent to gather the reserves finally arrived from the rear. However, instead of the much-anticipated reinforcements the British had been waiting for, he brought devastating news: the French troops defending Orléans, led by Marshal Gilles de Goulet, had left the city to join forces with the incoming French reinforcements.
Sir Johnson's reserves, deployed in the rear, were now engaged in fierce fighting with the French, outnumbered and in a precarious position, desperately hoping his troops could quickly defeat the attacking French and provide support. Their
last hope had been dashed. Without reinforcements, demoralized, and poorly commanded, the British army was being relentlessly pushed back by the French, forced from the hillside to the summit. The situation was now clear: if the French could just push the British back down the hill and seize the high ground, the French army, with its advantageous terrain, could easily crush any British resistance.
Sir Johnson's adjutant had also noticed this and urged the knight to quickly lead a breakout: "Sir, even an eagle needs wings to fly over mountains. Please take advantage of the situation before it gets too bad and leave with your guards."
Sir Johnson seemed not to hear his adjutant's advice, 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 filthy witch!" the knight 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 troops covering the hillside.
Sir Johnson wielded his massive battle axe, shouting at his own soldiers who were fleeing in all directions, as he charged towards Joan of Arc. French soldiers who blocked his path 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 confront him.
But his men lacked his strength, and in the end, only Sir Johnson charged towards Joan of Arc.
Joan looked at the burly man, covered in blood, panting heavily, his face contorted in a ferocious grimace, as he approached her. Her serene face showed no sign of panic; she simply asked Sir Johnson calmly, "Aren't you willing to repent for the sins you have committed?"
"Nonsense, you witch in the name of God!" the lord roared. Through his observation, 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 and launched an attack on Joan.
Joan of Arc showed no sign of dodging; instead, she swung her sword to meet the attack. The slender silver blade struck the knight's neck with incredible speed and angle. A bewildered expression appeared in his eyes as his massive body crashed to the ground. His riderless horse fled the battlefield in panic. Joan of Arc softly addressed the unseeing corpse of Sir Johnson, "All has been done according to the Lord's will."
Seeing their commander dead, the remaining English soldiers' will to fight vanished. They discarded their weapons, removed their armor bearing their coat of arms, and scattered 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. Orléans was relieved!
Cheers erupted everywhere. Our saint, the maiden of Orléans, the French people generously showered their gratitude upon the young woman who had brought them victory. Amidst the cheers of the crowd, Joan of Arc merely smiled faintly. To the praise she received, her answer was always, "I do everything in accordance with the Lord's will."
This only fueled their respect: behold, this was the proper attitude of a saint! The cheers for her grew even louder, surpassing even those for the king.
Unbeknownst to the kind 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 her 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 sin, you too will lose your holy soul and your radiant ideals—" The prophet's short, obscene figure slowly merged into the omnipresent darkness—
carrying the momentum of her victory over the main English army at Orléans, Joan of Arc rallied twelve thousand soldiers and marched towards Reims, the coronation site of past French kings, now captured by the English. Along the way, the English troops, intimidated by Joan of Arc's fame, collapsed without a fight, and the French army easily recaptured Reims without a single battle.
The French Dauphin was formally crowned King there, becoming 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 let such an uncertain factor, which could potentially cause significant changes in the future political landscape of France, remain outside the control of the nobility. Thus, a web of conspiracy was gradually unfolding behind Joan of Arc.
Joan of Arc did not notice—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 aid 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 reduced again and again. Despite her repeated audiences with the French King, the problem remained unresolved. In fact, during her audiences with the King, the astute Joan of Arc should have noticed the King's shifty gaze and the whispers and unfriendly looks of his courtiers.
But Joan of Arc's energy was entirely focused on the restoration of France, and she ultimately failed to notice the dirty political vortex slowly closing in on her.
Finally, during an operation, Joan of Arc'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. Through a deliberate strategic error, Joan of Arc's small unit was surrounded by an enemy force many times their size. Cut off from reinforcements and exhausted, Joan was captured.
The Duke of Burgundy, overjoyed, immediately sold her to the English like merchandise at a high price. The French saint Joan of Arc had finally fallen into the hands of her mortal enemies—the English. The English were ecstatic to have captured Joan, who was both a high-ranking enemy commander and spiritual leader. For the repeatedly defeated English army, this was a godsend; they immediately convened a religious court to try Joan.
Facing numerous accusations in court, Joan of Arc uttered the following words:
"—Your Excellencies, 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 nation was given to our king by God, not to you who commit countless crimes in the name of God. As long as you continue to do evil on 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 in 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.
In Rouen, 1430 AD, on the eve of Joan of Arc
's execution, a figure clad in a long black robe entered the prison where Joan was imprisoned. The guards, as if bewitched, collapsed before this man, who effortlessly reached Joan's cell without hindrance. The iron door imprisoning Joan was secured with a specially made padlock, requiring three keys to open. This had no effect on the man; he simply touched the lock, and it opened automatically. He then pushed open the door and entered.
Hearing the door open, Joan of Arc assumed it was another priest trying to persuade her to confess. Without turning around, she 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 cell hold you?"
Joan was shocked. "You are not a priest? Who are you then?" When she turned and saw the man in black, a knowing look appeared on her
face. "So you are a demon (referring to those who use evil powers). Get out of here immediately!" Hearing Joan's rebuke, a soft, mocking laugh came from the cloak obscuring the man's face: "Heh heh heh, demon, beautiful lady. Now you are about to be burned at the stake as a 'demonic being.'"
"The Lord is watching over everything in heaven. Justice will ultimately prevail."
"Heh heh heh, justice, what a moving word," the man in black continued to mock Joan of Arc's claims. "If there truly is a God and justice in this world, why do so many horrific tragedies continue to occur? Take you, for example, Miss. Since you represent justice, represent truth, why are you imprisoned here? Is your justice wrong, or is God asleep?"
Joan of Arc was not swayed 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 reveal Himself 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 these ideological issues. I'm here for only one purpose, and that is to rescue you."
"I have no need for the assistance of demons," Joan of Arc categorically rejected the proposal. "If this ordeal is a test from the Lord, I will gladly accept it."
"What a headache, why are religious fanatics always like this? Oh well, it doesn't need your permission anyway." The man in black gestured to Joan of Arc, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. Despite her struggle, Joan succumbed to the magic and fainted. The man in black hoisted the unconscious Joan onto his shoulder and said to the corner, "The rest is up to you. Don't mess it up." He then turned and left the cell.
Suddenly, a silvery laugh echoed from the previously empty cell: "Haha, great! I've always wanted to play the role of a saint."
A stunning figure slowly emerged from the darkness, her long, black hair reaching her waist, her emerald-green eyes, and her delicate ivory skin all displaying her alluring charm. The girl waved her hands in the air, and a gleaming 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 transformed into human form, but upon closer inspection, one could see a melancholy sadness hidden 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, eventually taking on the likeness of Joan of Arc.
Seeing that her appearance had been transformed, the girl lay contentedly on the straw-covered bed. "Ah, so exciting! Burning at the stake! But what should I say during my punishment 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. 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 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? Don't even dream about it, my saintess." Ilbert deliberately emphasized the words "my saintess." "I went to all this trouble to get you out of here, just for one thing: I want to train you into a wanton harlot, to bear me a child."
"You're dreaming! The Lord will punish you!"
"Shut up! What Lord stuff? It's annoying." Ilbert suddenly grabbed Joan's tender nipple hard. 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.
"Not bad, isn't it, Your Grace?" Ilbert gently stroked 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-drenched breasts.
"Pervert!" Joan cursed in disgust.
"Pervert? Perhaps." Ilbert reached down to Joan's lower body, brazenly parting her pink labia with his fingers and beginning to play with her alluring vulva. "But Saintess, 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, 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.
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 the slightly disheveled pubic hair of Joan of Arc, which was damp with sweat. "Hmm, looks like it needs a trim. It'll be more worthy of the saintess."
Joan of Arc was shocked. "Lord, what nonsense are you spouting!"
"What 'Lord' nonsense, it's getting on my nerves." Ilbert reached for an iron ring, perfectly shaped to fit Joan's fully open mouth. Silk was padded inside, and a groove resembling her gums flared on the outside. The quick-witted 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 were growing cold.
Suddenly, Ilbert released his grip on Joan's nose, and fresh air rushed into her nostrils. Stimulated by this dramatic change, Joan involuntarily opened her mouth and coughed 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 metallic taste assaulting her senses. Saliva began to flow profusely from Joan's mouth, overflowing and dripping from her chin down 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 then, to make amends, I'll show the Holy Maiden something good." As he spoke, the sound of undressing rang out beside Joan of Arc, followed by a foul, fishy stench that filled her nostrils. Stimulated by this dramatic change, Joan of Arc involuntarily 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 secrete copious amounts in Joan of Arc's mouth, overflowing and flowing out of the gaps in the iron ring, down her chin and onto her chest, glistening in the wetness.
Seeing Joan's current embarrassed state, Ilbert burst into laughter. "What's wrong? Has our Saintess not yet out of age for wearing a bib?" Joan glared at him angrily, then closed her eyes.
"What, does the Saintess have some grievance against me? Fine, 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 stench from something unknown that reached 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 an ugly and enormous penis appeared before her: the bluish veins on the slightly upturned shaft were clearly visible, and the tip of the purplish glans seemed to be oozing some liquid; the foul smell from earlier was emanating from the penis itself.
Joan of Arc, who had never seen a male genitalia before, was stunned. She couldn't believe such an ugly thing existed in the world. When she realized what she was seeing, a blush of embarrassment washed over her face.
Seeing Joan's embarrassment, Ilbert laughed heartily. "How about it, Saintess? I haven't bathed for a week just for you!" he said, pressing his penis against Joan's face.
The hot penis slid across Joan's pretty face, the delicate touch better than the finest silk. The ugly penis traversed Joan's smooth, alabaster face, sometimes making intimate contact with her cheeks, sometimes the huge glans brushing against her high nose, finally gently touching her closed eyelids. Soon, several streaks of Ilbert's semen marred Joan's face.
However, compared to the immense pleasure he derived from rubbing Joan's face, Ilbert was more interested in the pain and shame the defenseless girl suffered 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 Ilbert held her head firmly in place, with the intensification of the violation, Joan's face, flushed with shame, twitched, her delicate nostrils twitching, and finally, two silent tears rolled down her cheeks, splashing onto Joan's sexy breasts.
"Don't cry, my saintly lady," Ilbert wiped away the remaining tears from 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, all the way to her throat. Joan's tender tongue was brutally forced open by the enormous penis, the shaft brazenly piercing her mouth and slamming into her soft throat. Her
unprepared airway was instantly filled by this intruder, the foul-smelling, viscous fluids mixed with saliva flowing back into her esophagus and mercilessly into her stomach. Her unsuspecting stomach immediately began to convulse violently, a surge of acid rising to Joan's throat.
Ilbert's penis, after touching Joan's throat, did not retreat but instead pushed further in, the thick shaft relentlessly tearing through the resistance of her throat, completely sealing off the passage of air into her mouth. A painful feeling of suffocation instantly spread throughout Joan's body. In an attempt to breathe, Joan's throat muscles began to involuntarily swallow, while her tongue, tightly pressed down by the penis, struggled to push the intruder out of her mouth. But this action served no purpose other than to give Ilbert additional pleasure.
Joan of Arc's bound feet began to struggle desperately, her clenched fists digging her fingernails into her palms. The sensations of suffocation and nausea constantly shifted in control of her body, each bringing endless agony. Joan felt as if her internal organs were about to leap out of her body. She wanted to scream, to bite off this hideous thing, but all she could do was desperately inhale a few breaths through her nose.
When Ilbert's thick, long penis finally reached its limit, his unkempt pubic hair completely obscuring the lower half of Joan's face, she truly suffocated.
Ilbert had been observing Joan's condition. The near-frantic spasms and struggles in her throat before she completely suffocated had almost brought him to the point of ejaculating into her mouth, but then he noticed her pupils dilating and her lips turning purple. He then slightly pulled his penis out of Joan's mouth, simultaneously pounding her below the heart. A surge of pent-up acid erupted from Joan's stomach, rushing into her mouth and slowly trickling down her chin.
"Ugh, ugh, ugh—cough cough cough—" As fresh air filled Joan's chest, she coughed violently, ignoring the penis still lodged in her mouth. The coughs brought up the acid from her stomach, 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? Looks like you need a good talking to." With Ilbert's cruel words, the thick penis, carrying saliva and stomach acid, once again shoved into Joan's throat, forcefully pushing the stomach acid back into her stomach.
Still recovering from the previous ordeal, Joan of Arc was once again plunged into a hell of agonizing torment 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" withdrew his penis slightly, giving Joan a precious glimmer of hope. However, Ilbert's penis quickly returned to 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 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 juice mixture from Joan's mouth; the spasms in her mouth and throat during suffocation were even more excruciating. Ilbert had decided that he would fuck Joan's soft mouth until he ejaculated, no matter what.
The sight of the beautiful woman struggling in pain and suffocation beneath him evoked a thrill of controlling life and death, while the tense spasms of the girl's throat tightly gripped the intruder's penis, the exquisite and tight sensation sending Ilbert soaring to heaven.
Finally, lust overwhelmed reason, and Ilbert began to thrust rapidly into Joan's mouth without regard for her feelings, which were already in a semi-conscious state.
"Ugh—" A weak groan escaped Joan's nose, her clenched fists loosened, and her dilated pupils and increasingly purple lips showed that Joan's life force was slowly slipping away.
Stimulated by the final spasms of the girl's mouth, tongue, and throat, Ilbert roared and, like a torrent, ejaculated a large amount of semen into Joan's mouth. Under this intense stimulation, Joan of Arc's almost unconscious body twitched violently a few times as if electrocuted. Then, the man's semen flowed from her mouth and even her nose. At this point, Joan of Arc had lost the ability to resist and could only let the filthy semen drip down her cheeks onto her firm breasts and into her pure body.
At this moment, Ilbert also realized that Joan of Arc's condition was not right and she looked like she was on the verge of death.
"Phew, 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. Her lost life force 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? Just destroy her will and then control her, wouldn't that be better?"
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 herself. By the way, you didn't cause any problems 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." Saying this, she reached out and pinched Joan of Arc's breast. "Girl, you should thank me."
Then, as if discovering a new continent, she exclaimed, "Huh? Why are this girl's nipples perked up? Ha!" Her clitoris was also protruding. "Congratulations, Ilbert, you've found some good material. May I join in?"
Before Ilbert could answer, the woman gently tapped Joan's forehead, and the severely exhausted Joan slowly woke up. Ilbert knew it was useless to stop her now, so he could only step aside and remind her, "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 beautiful woman standing before her. Her beauty was mesmerizing, and the ageless allure captivated Joan, who was also a woman. However, she quickly came to her senses: those who appeared here were likely demons!
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: how could she have returned unharmed from the burning at the stake if she wasn't a heretic?
Seeing Joan's lack of reaction, Shia said with a half-smile, "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's forehead, and immediately a sharp, intense pain filled Joan'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 it, Saintess? The taste of being burned at the stake wasn't pleasant, was it?"
Joan of Arc's strength, already nearly exhausted by Ilbert's torment, was further weakened. Now, she could only utter a slowly muffled, indistinct sound due to the gag in her mouth: "Evil—path—"
Upon hearing this, Shia laughed instead of getting angry. "If I'm evil for using magic, then what are you now?" As she spoke, 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 became tingly.
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 correspondingly increasing the comfortable tingling sensation. "How interesting, Saintess's nipples are erect." While flirting with Joan, Shia relentlessly humiliated her. "How can 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, a change she couldn't control: she was actually feeling pleasure in this situation! This was against the Lord's commandments! But she had lost control of 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 sensation making her feel instantly intoxicated.
In an instant, Joan of Arc's gaze became hazy. The experienced Shia immediately sensed the change in Joan's body, and 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 truly 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 of a foreign object 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's clitoris, the sensation gradually escalated into an overwhelming desire. Joan even arched her back, hoping Shia could bring her greater pleasure.
Finally, Joan felt a liquid slowly flowing from her vagina to the opening. Just as Joan was enjoying Shia's caresses, Ilbert's voice boomed in her ear: "Oh, our saintess's reaction is quite intense! Do you usually act like this when you secretly masturbate?" Ilbert
's words were like a bucket of cold water poured over Joan, who instantly stiffened and struggled to deny it: "N-no—no." As a devout believer in God since childhood, the commandment "Thou shalt not commit adultery" was 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 of Arc's frantic struggle between her spiritual steadfastness and physical infatuation, Shia felt a sudden urge to "tease her." She first removed the gag from Joan's mouth, then gently took the delicate, small tongue, stained with the stench of male semen, into her mouth. Under her skillful sucking, Joan unconsciously began to extend her tongue into Shia's mouth.
At this moment, Shia deliberately gave Joan's tongue a light bite, 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 flow out, running down her thighs from her vaginal opening.
Joan of Arc couldn't describe the overwhelming sensation that had just made her weak all over, based on any senses she knew. For a young girl raised in an environment of abstinence, the shock this exquisite 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 lovingly pulled Joan'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 Joan's lips deeply once more.
Under Shia's guidance, their tongues intertwined and swirled in each other's mouths, licking every corner of each other's mouths. Their saliva mingled as their tongues intertwined, the mixture exceeding their capacity. Much of it dripped from their chins, quickly accumulating on their pressed breasts, making them resemble a small pond from afar!
Meanwhile, Shia continued to caress Joan's genitals, reluctant to leave. Her long, slender fingers gently parted the labia, slowly penetrating the forbidden zone where no foreign object had ever entered. 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 away. 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 it. Lord, please forgive this sinful lamb," Joan silently confessed.
Then, she discovered that Shia was shamelessly intertwining her tongue with her own. "I've become like this entirely because of you evil spirits!" Anger burned within Jeanne, and taking advantage of Shia's momentary lapse in attention, she bit down hard on her tongue.
"Ah—you, you little slut!" Shia covered her mouth and jumped aside. Because Jeanne had lost too much strength, the bite had only slightly broken the skin of 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? What? 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 why you were 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 metal 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 metal tube only penetrated slightly, not deep enough to be fatal. Seeing a flicker of doubt in Joan's eyes, Shia grinned sinisterly and said, "Don't worry, Saintess, I won't kill you. This tube is just to draw some blood from you. You probably don't know, but when a person loses more than one-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 basin beside her. The trickling flow continuously 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 eventually she couldn't even move her fingers and toes.
At the same time, her thoughts began to become increasingly chaotic. A series of childhood memories began to surface in her mind, and many long-forgotten details suddenly came back to her clearly. "Is this what it feels like to be near death? Lord, please accept my sinful soul," Joan of Arc began to pray for herself with her last remaining strength.
But Shia would not let Joan of Arc be released so easily. Seeing that Joan of Arc's life force was on the verge of collapse, she removed the blood vessel from Joan of Arc's neck and used magic to stop the wound. Facing Joan of Arc, who had completely lost her ability to resist, Shia confidently released her restraints and used magic to forcibly pry open Joan of Arc's eyelids, so that Joan of Arc could clearly see the atrocity that was about to befall her.
Next, Shia used a magical potion to dilute a basin full of Jeanne's blood, then placed the basin in front of Jeanne, saying, "Saintess, this potion not only makes the blood watery, but it also gives it a strong stimulating effect. Please enjoy it."
She then turned Jeanne over, so her back was facing up. Before Jeanne 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 Jeanne's anus.
Although Jeanne didn't have the strength to move a single finger, the slight trembling of her skin showed how far Shia's actions exceeded a young girl's imagination: how could someone put their hand in such a filthy place?
"Not bad, it's soft and squishy inside, quite cute. By the way, Saintess, relax a little." Saying this, Shia continued to insert another knuckle, the inserted finger lightly touching the delicate walls of the rectum.
How could I relax? Joan screamed inwardly. Her body, utterly exhausted, was powerless to resist the invasion. Despite her disgust and resistance, her nerves, heightened by blood loss, faithfully transmitted every sensation to her 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 "Ugh—Ugh—No—No—" sounds, Shia finally pushed the entire inlet tube of the funnel into Joan's rectum. Then, Shia began to re-infuse 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.
Watching all this unfold, Ilbert muttered to himself, "Never offend a woman. It's too dangerous."
As Shia continued to force the "enema fluid" into Jeanne's body using magic, Jeanne began to feel increasing pressure in her abdomen. Waves of intense cramping pain surged from her lower body. Just thinking about what the liquid being poured into her was was enough to drive her to the brink of collapse!
Slowly, Jeanne's lower abdomen began to swell. "Shia, don't go too far," Ilbert said, seeing that Jeanne's eyes were rolling back and her breathing was becoming increasingly rapid and labored. Fearing things might get out of control, he intervened. Upon hearing this, Shia, like a spider coiling, reluctantly stopped what she was doing and pulled the funnel out of Joan's body.
Due to the immense 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 on the floor in a cross-legged sitting position, tied her hands behind her back, and then tied 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. In this way, Joan was forced to sit cross-legged on the ground as if bowing. Ilbert didn't understand what Shia was doing. Joan didn't even have the strength to sit, and was only barely able to stay upright because of Shia's support. Tying her up was pointless.
What Shia did next puzzled Ilbert even more. Shia, sparing no effort, cast a "Complete Restoration" spell on Joan of Arc. Replenished, Joan, though somewhat weakened by blood loss, still managed to mumble curses at the two through her mouth: "Shameless—Demonic cult—"
Shia impatiently gestured, and the plug that had been inserted into Joan's anus suddenly sprang out, causing a strong urge to defecate that almost instantly occurred to her.
However, with extraordinary willpower, Joan managed to forcefully seal the enema fluid back into her rectum before it could escape. Only then did Joan feel waves of increasingly intense pain assaulting her brain, the unidentified drug mixed in the enema fluid repeatedly stimulating her intestinal tract. The feeling was like someone repeatedly and violently punching her in the abdomen—utterly agonizing, a fate worse than death.
Copious amounts of cold sweat covered Joan's muscular body, glistening under the indoor lights, as if coated with oil. Now, Joan of Arc had to concentrate all her energy on fighting the rising urge to defecate, and had no time to condemn the two wizards.
Seeing that Joan of Arc was temporarily calmed, Shia walked to Ilbert's side. "I need your cooperation to test a new spell."
"I'm happy to."
So, Shia pulled Ilbert to Joan of Arc's side, and a series of incantations that even Ilbert didn't understand came from Shia's mouth. It lasted quite a while before ending, but nothing unusual happened.
"What are you doing?" Ilbert asked Shia suspiciously.
Shia shrugged. "I don't know either. I saw this spell in an old book, and it's perfect for this situation. Ah, it seems the spell itself—wait, 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.
"The spell's effect is to enlarge breasts! I think you'll like it. Wait, how could this be?" With Shia's exclamation, 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 large amounts of milk gushed out of the milk ducts like fountains!
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 strength to use a level seven spell? Let's talk about it 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 evildoers, what have you done to me?" Joan's tearful voice jolted the two from their sweet reverie.
"You little slut, you're asking for it!"
Shia turned around, about to teach Joan a lesson, but was stopped by Ilbert. "I've figured out how to use your failed magic." He walked towards Joan.
"You, you want to—uh—" Joan's mouth was suddenly gagged with a piece of gauze.
Ilbert walked up to Joan, patted her large breasts, "Saintess, may I borrow your breasts?" Before Joan could react, Ilbert forced his thick penis into her nipple!
Joan felt as if a red-hot nail had been driven into her extremely sensitive nipple; the immense pain almost drove her mad! In contrast, Ilbert was thrusting frantically into Joan's breasts. The remaining milk in her nipples served as excellent lubricant, and the tightness and exquisite sensation within her mammary glands far surpassed that of her vagina, giving Ilbert a feeling of utter bliss. Joan could never have imagined that her breasts would become a tool for her enemy's sexual gratification. Waves of excruciating pain surged 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 this heretic, the dignity of being an apostle of God was no longer enough to bear the immense pressure on a nineteen-year-old girl. Joan seemed to hear a bowstring, taut within her body, snap.
Just as Ilbert roared as he ejaculated into Joan's breasts, Joan's anal sphincter collapsed with a desperate groan. Her rectum, already unable to bear it any longer, 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 poured out from her completely relaxed sphincter, instantly filling the room with a pungent stench.
Shia, while using magic to expel the air from the room, pointed at Joan and cursed, "What kind of saint is this? You're worse than a dog for defecating everywhere!" She then stomped on Joan's enormous breasts a few times. Joan was no longer aware of this. 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-esteem, almost caused Joan to collapse on the spot.
Her expression was now stiff, tears streaming down her cheeks. The gauze in her mouth had been removed, but Joan of Arc was clearly unable to speak, simply lying paralyzed in a pool of excrement, staring blankly at the scene before her. Despite Joan's pitiful state, Ilbert, showing no mercy, moved to her 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 asked.
"I don't know, but it's fine this way. Anyway, we have the stuff. Ilbert, you rest here for a bit. I'll handle the preparations."
"This—"
"Well, the ritual is ultimately up to you. I can't help anyway, so at least let me help you with the arrangements." With that, Shia summoned several 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 and meditate. Somehow, 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 had happened, Ilbert would probably have inherited the blacksmith's business, Shia would have become his wife, and Yanashida might have become the mistress of a farm, and the three of them would have lived ordinary lives. But what happened on Shia's sixteenth birthday changed their fates.
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 gazes, and in that church, in the realm of God, Shia was gang-raped by God's servants.
Upon hearing this, Ilbert was furious; he 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 a clergyman 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. Anashida, 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. At 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 Anashida of witchcraft and ordered the three to be killed on the spot. Under a hail of arrows from the pursuers, Ilbert, carrying Shia and his sister, jumped off the cliff. Perhaps their fate was sealed; the river below saved their lives, but not everyone's. Anashida had already been struck by several arrows and perished 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 their continuous study of magic, Ilbert discovered that resurrecting Anashita was impossible, but her soul could be reincarnated through some means. That was to take advantage of the occasional pilgrimage of Hades, when his control over souls was relatively weak, by having someone directly related to the deceased have intercourse with a woman possessing a pure body but a corrupted heart, resulting in pregnancy. 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 while she remained a virgin. They could have been given more time, but no one could have predicted that the pilgrimage of Hades (which was irregular and could be days or centuries apart) would arrive at that very moment. Despite the less-than-ideal preparations, he 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 wake up now. Let the saintly figure, revered by all, 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 was the most tragic disaster for any woman, let alone Joan of Arc, who had sworn to dedicate her life to God.
"No? Perhaps not?" Shia released a seductive aura at Joan of Arc, a tantalizing pleasure emanating from her tormented breasts. Joan of Arc felt her already throbbing nipples harden and stand erect under the stimulation of a slight pleasure.
"W-how could this be? What happened?" Joan of Arc was astonished by the strange change in her body. She could hardly believe that she would experience pleasure under the evil magic of the enemy.
It wasn't just her nipples that were stimulated; Joan felt the man behind her gently licking her shoulder blades. Joan's body, already heightened by the recent brutal torment, suddenly became less tolerant of pleasure. With simple, direct movements, waves of deep, lingering stimulation erupted deep within her, gradually overwhelming her consciousness. Joan's
breathing suddenly quickened, her body tensed, and the suppressed desire within her surged forth like a burst dam, destroying all resistance. Despite her reluctance, a powerful orgasm swept over her; her sensual body arched, her pale buttocks swayed uncontrollably, and her long, tightly bound legs trembled violently. From her tightly clenched lips, a clear sound of pleasurable joy emanated.
With each rhythmic spasm of Joan's body, a stream of love fluid shamelessly flowed down her thighs to the ground.
Just as Joan of Arc was still reeling from her climax, the man's nimble tongue plunged deep into her vagina, stopping just before reaching her hymen. This unexpected intrusion nearly sent Joan of Arc into another climax.
As the tongue continued to move in and out, the full labia on either side of her vagina were also stimulated, pushing Joan of Arc's body and mind to the brink of collapse once again. "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 again and again, 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. Are you going 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. Just as Joan of Arc regained a fraction of her sanity, Ilbert, standing behind her, suddenly thrust his enormous penis into her delicate vagina, reaching her very core.
"Ah, ah, no—" Joan cried out in agony as the thick penis mercilessly smashed through all obstacles, ripping apart the hymen she had guarded for nineteen years! The excruciating pain, like a giant rod pounding into her lower body, nearly made Joan faint. At the same time, the shame of being violated filled her heart. "My body has been defiled; I am no longer worthy to be my master's servant." This terrible thought lingered in Joan's mind, refusing to leave.
Ilbert ignored the agonizing pain of the woman beneath him, focusing only on repeatedly thrusting his thick penis into Joan's vagina. Each time the massive glans entered Joan's body, it slammed deep into her uterus. With each thrust, Joan felt as if all the air inside her body was being expelled. Each time it was pulled out, the excruciating pain of the penis forcefully pulling out the delicate flesh of her vagina made Joan of Arc wonder if her internal organs were being ripped out along with it!
Under this immense pain, Joan of Arc felt as if someone was smashing her lower body with a hammer! What terrified Joan of Arc even more was that, under such brutality, the pent-up sexual desire within her body did not decrease but rather increased; the pleasure felt amidst the pain almost drove her to madness. The
final blow to Joan of Arc came when Shia suddenly inserted his finger into her anus. Her vagina and rectum were simultaneously subjected to intense stimulation; the unimaginable fullness robbed Joan of all thought. Stars flashed before her eyes, and she could barely breathe. The
resulting slight feeling of suffocation further intensified Joan of her sensations from the ever-increasing sexual stimulation. Finally, the small spark in her lower body, under the combined effect of the series of stimulations, ignited a raging fire that engulfed Joan of her entire being!
A surge of intense pleasure coursed through Joan of Arc, causing her to cry out shamelessly. The tender flesh inside her vagina convulsed rapidly, gushing forth copious amounts of vaginal fluid. Under this all-encompassing stimulation, Joan finally lost consciousness. Her last thought before this was, "Merciful Lord, please—"
Seeing that Joan had lost consciousness in the throes of orgasm, Shia hurriedly activated the magic circle on the ground. With the fluctuations of magical power, the pale-skinned figure of a young girl appeared within it. Although her face was obscured, Ilbert, who was desperately trying not to ejaculate inside Joan, recognized her immediately: "Sister!"
The rest was simple. Ilbert only needed to ejaculate when Anastasia's soul merged with Joan's body to ensure Joan conceived a child born of Anastasia's soul. At this crucial moment, a holy light suddenly emanated from Joan's body, preventing the lingering souls nearby from daring to cross the line.
"A manifestation of holy light?" Shia, who had worked in the church for a time, immediately recognized the origin of the holy light. She never expected that Joan of Arc, who had lost consciousness, could enter a state of oneness with the divine!
The current situation was extremely dangerous: Ilbert was on the verge of ejaculation. Once he lost control and ejaculated, the magic circle, which had lost its power source, would immediately disintegrate, and Anashida's soul would also vanish into nothingness.
Anyone else might have panicked at this moment, but Shia was quite knowledgeable about the affairs of the church. "I never thought that you really were the 'chosen one of God.' However, having met someone as knowledgeable as me in the inner workings of the church, I can only say that your Lord played a joke on you, Saintess."
Shia came to Joan of Arc, aimed at the nipple that Ilbert had ruthlessly ravaged, clenched her right fist, 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, and helplessness. The Holy Mark could no longer reside on Joan of Arc; the moment the Holy Light vanished, her pale soul merged into her body. Simultaneously, Ilbert's large penis ejaculated a large amount of hot semen deep into Joan of Arc's womb.
"How is it?" Ilbert asked Shia anxiously, ignoring the lingering pleasure on his penis, immediately after ejaculating.
Shia solemnly monitored Joan of Arc's condition with magic. "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, 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 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 receive—"
"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 thrust 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 the violence that was happening to her!
Ilbert seemed unsatisfied with merely inserting it into the eye socket, and thrust it in again with force. His thick penis crushed Joan's remaining left eye, completely slamming into her skull, the glans hitting her brain.
"Hahahaha, the saint's eye sockets are indeed extraordinary, they're squeezing me so tight! Alright, let me just pound your brain through like this! Roar—" With a beastly 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 remaining right eye also lost its 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 stigmata manifestations."
**********
...
A group of French soldiers were celebrating their great victory over the English in a small tavern. 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're probably back home by now!" The crowd burst into laughter.
Then someone said, "If only Joan of Arc were still alive."
This somber 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: "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 man, except for the old soldier who reluctantly answered, "What do you want?"
"Excuse me, I'm the owner of a brothel. I heard there are war heroes here, so I brought some prostitutes to entertain everyone for free." With that, he pushed the woman behind him in front of the soldiers.
Hearing that there were women to play with for free, the soldiers immediately swarmed around, hurriedly tearing off the woman's cloak.
"Wow, what huge breasts!"
"Huh? Why is this woman missing an eye?"
"But she's pretty."
Amidst the murmurs, only the old soldier stood frozen to the side. "She looks so much like her! Cough, what am I thinking? That's impossible. But, she really does look so much like her."
"Hey, boss, I came first if you weren't coming."
His subordinate's voice snapped the old soldier out of his reverie. "You little bastard, I'd like to see you dare? Everyone line up, one at a time." 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 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. A few historical facts
in the postscript
:
1. Joan of Arc's original name was Joan of Arc. She was burned at the stake in Rouen in 1430. Twenty-five years later, she was canonized. Five hundred years later, in 1920, the Vatican rehabilitated her and canonized her as a saint.
2. The overwhelming victory of the French army in the later stages of the Hundred Years' War was due not only to the valiant fighting of their own people, but also to the use of artillery. From then on, the English army's fortified castles gradually became ineffective.
3. Firearms had already begun to be equipped by the French army at that time.

URL 1:https://www.sexlove5.com/htmlBlog/36225.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=36225&aspx=1

Previous Page : She gave her body to her husband.

Next Page : The Fake Sherlock Holmes Case Files: The Missing Guest List 1-10

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

Fan-made game: Joan of Arc

comment Open a new window to view comments