Devouring World Dragon

Chapter 169 Burning at the stake
On May 30, 1431, a sunny day, a pair of bare feet bound by chains walked out of the prison for the first time in six months.

"Wow..."

With the clanking of chains, a woman walked out of the prison.

Dizziness, intense dizziness.

The moment she stepped out of the prison, the blinding sunlight made Jeanne, who hadn't seen the sun in a long time, squint and feel dizzy. Only the fresh air, free of any putrid smell, made her feel slightly better.

Several clergymen stood before her, one of whom was holding some kind of document that Jeanne seemed to recognize.

But who is standing in front of her?

She didn't notice because she didn't care about these things; after all, she already knew the verdict, and this was just a routine matter.

“Jenny Daak, you are accused of heresy, suicide, nonconformity to the church… a total of eleven charges, and you will be sentenced to be burned at the stake.”

The aged voice spoke each word clearly.

Jeanne, whose consciousness was somewhat hazy, did not listen carefully to what the priest in front of her was saying. She just covered her head, trying to clear her mind, but her illness was not cured. In fact, the reason why the British were in such a hurry to try her was because they were afraid that she would die before being sentenced.

Her weakened state caused her to occasionally let out soft moans.

The priest looked at the woman before him, a former commander who had led the French army, now as fragile as a glass doll, about to die, helpless and pathetic, and couldn't help but mock her.

“Poor woman, it seems your King Charles never tried to save you. You trusted him so much, but what did he give you in return?”

At that moment, as if she had heard the priest's words, Jeanne's painful groans stopped.

She raised her head, panting, her eyes wide open, her azure eyes filled with anger.

“You have no right to attack Charlie. Charlie is a good Christian and a good king.”

Even at the very end of her life, that stubborn voice remained unchanged. Just as everyone described her, she was an unconventional, stubborn, and proud girl who believed in everything and no one could change her mind.

She believed in Charlie, a man who was not strong, even somewhat mediocre, but not a bad person, and she believed he would be a good king.

"is it?"

However, she was met with a sneer from the priest, a sneer tinged with contempt, as if concealing a deeper meaning. But before Jeanne could figure it out, without further ado, the priest waved his hand, and the two jailers behind Jeanne escorted her forward.

……

"Om..."

Along the way, many people on both sides of the road whispered among themselves. Some of them had even come from Paris and the surrounding areas of France just to catch a glimpse of the Orleans Maiden. However, to their disappointment, the Orleans Maiden was not as radiant as the legend had it. At this moment, she was in a sorry state and looked no different from any other girl.

"Is that the Saint of Orleans?"

Some people said with disappointment that her disheveled, even wretched, appearance made it impossible for them to perceive her as a religious saint, but rather as an ordinary woman.

Just as the young King of England said.

"I want to show those Frenchmen just how pathetic that saintly savior is."

Jeanne was pushed and shoved by the soldiers, step by step, onto the pile of firewood in the city square. There was a very high pile of firewood and a wooden post. Jeanne would be tied to the post and, according to the church's will, be burned at the stake to touch the witch's uncleanliness.

The girl, tied to the wooden post, could easily see the expressions on the faces of the people below, their whispers, their numbness...

In their eyes, what did the Saint of Orléans and the one who saved France matter? Perhaps they were just curious about a woman about to be burned at the stake, just like the many times they had seen such executions before. Whether she was a witch or a saint, it made no difference.

They didn't know what France was, nor did they know what England was. Although they were born on French soil, they never realized they were French. After all, what difference did it make which country they were from? It was always the same nobles coming and going. No matter which country the nobles came from, they just wanted them to pay taxes. What did it have to do with them?

Numbness, bewilderment—that's France.

Jeanne knew this was the state of affairs in France long ago, which is why she tried to call on the French people to rise up in resistance. In her view, it was because of disunity that France had fallen to its current state.

Even though she knew, seeing those blank and numb faces still made Jeanne feel a little sad.

How she longed to shout to them, "My compatriots! We are all of the same race who grew up here, why don't we rise up and resist!"

But she couldn't say it, because the burning at the stake was about to begin.

"ignition!"

With the command given, torches were lit on the oil-soaked firewood, and the dry pile of wood immediately burst into flames. The firewood crackled and popped as it burned, and the thick smoke from the raging fire brought tears and snot to Jeanne's eyes.

"Cough cough... cough cough..." She coughed violently, her eyes stinging from the smoke and watering uncontrollably, forcing Jeanne to close her eyes.

All I could hear was the cacophony of human voices; there was no voice of God…

"Hmm? Girl of Orleans, listen, this is the world, this is humanity, this is the French people you are trying to save..."

With her eyes closed, Jeanne couldn't see anything; all she could hear was a low chuckle.

Jeanne ignored her, she just gritted her teeth, refusing to speak or utter a weak, painful sound. That creature loved to hear people weeping and wailing, but Jeanne would never yield to it.

"You tried to save France, but who will save you? No one! You're just a tool. Whoever it is, God or Charles, everyone just treats you as a tool, to be used and then discarded..."

Tears still streamed down her face despite her closed eyes. Through her blurred vision, the girl seemed to see a dark figure slowly walking towards her.

His skin was so pale it didn't look like a man's; his naked body was muscular and well-defined; his demeanor was cold and composed; and... his pupils were devoid of light, not even reflection, as if they had swallowed all light, like a black hole that devoured everything.

Greed, darkness, a darkness that even light is swallowed up.

Her appearance was so beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful.

"See? Nobody's going to save you."

Through the dizzying vision, all that could be seen was those dark purple lips opening and closing, uttering a voice full of bewitching charm.

Wild hair filled her vision, millions upon millions of strands, twisting like venomous snakes. In a daze, it seemed as if those strands of hair had grown eyes, and those millions of vertical snake pupils were staring at her.

With that sound, it reached out its hand towards me...

Those hands, sculpted like marble, were firm and had a delicate texture.

Looking at that body evokes a nameless fear and trembling, as if one's heart is being gripped tightly by a large hand, making it hard to breathe. Yet, at the same time, one feels a genuine sense of closeness and a longing to be touched by that hand.

It is too powerful, and too beautiful.

Because of fear, we try to get close to it, because only by striving to get closer can we feel that we are meaningful, and only then will we not be easily erased by it.

"Jeanne, are you angry?"

That deep, magnetic voice rang in Jeanne's ears.

anger?
Is there really not even a tiny bit?
Of course not. He had sacrificed so much for France, single-handedly saving it from the brink of destruction, but who in France would save him? Which of the French nobles or generals had ever tried to save him?
Perhaps it's barely perceptible, but isn't that sense of grievance and anger real?
"Jeanne, are you angry with these Frenchmen?"

At that moment, that deep, magnetic voice rang out again.

Before Jeanne, the scene she hadn't seen with her eyes closed reappeared: the citizens of Rouen, the citizens of Paris, people who had come from all over, were watching themselves being burned by flames, occasionally gasping in shock, sometimes even screaming, but no one showed any sign of pity.

They were only there to watch the "saint" being burned at the stake.

Even the usually resolute Jeanne felt a sense of bewilderment.

"Is this the French people I'm trying to save...?"

"Is this the French people you're trying to save...?"

The devil's low laughter gradually became more unrestrained, and Jeanne, whose throat was choked by the smoke and whose skin was burned by the fire, was accompanied by the devil's unrestrained laughter.

“Poor Jeanne, the French people don’t care about you, the King of France doesn’t care about you, so what is the point of what you’ve done?”

"You're not allowed to...insult Charlie..."

However, amidst the demon's unrestrained laughter, a weak yet stubborn voice struggled to speak.

Her cheeks were scorched by the flames, her hair was a sea of ​​fire, and there were burn marks everywhere, but the girl still stubbornly raised her head and looked at the beautiful, breathtaking life in front of her.

"Charlie...is a good man..."

Somewhat delirious, she simply said instinctively that Charles was a good king, a belief Jeanne firmly held.

Her long, flowing hair resembled countless venomous snakes, and her millions of vertical, snake-like eyes stared at her, merciless and indifferent. Looking at this woman before him, who remained stubbornly opinionated even in her final moments, his dark purple lips curled into a mocking and pitying smile.

Jeanne had seen that smile before, also because of King Charles, the same mocking and pitying smile. The priest had smiled like that before, as if looking at a fool.

“Poor woman, even now you still don’t understand why you’ve ended up in this situation.”

(End of this chapter)