"Witch, hurry up and sign this confession!"
Ever since Jeanne's capture, the English had bought her from the Burgundians and charged her with twelve crimes.
The Church should have held a proper trial—but after a few hollow formalities, they condemned her outright. Because she was accused of blasphemy, she wasn't kept in a nun's cell, but locked up like a common criminal.
To protect herself from violation, she wore men's clothing—harder to remove than a woman's dress in this era.
Now, a sheet of paper lay before her.
Her wrists were shackled. Countless eyes watched.
"What are you standing there for? Sign it already!"
The soldiers behind her barked impatiently.
Jeanne slowly picked up the pen and wrote her name exactly as ordered.
She understood perfectly what this paper meant—and where she now stood.
France had abandoned her like a pawn. England treated her as a bargaining chip. And now, they wanted to heap every sin, every loss of war, onto her alone.
Everyone had betrayed her. The promises, the faith of the past—they felt so fragile, so meaningless now.
Yet Jeanne felt no anger.
If her death could truly bring peace between the two nations…
Laurent will be furious, won't he?
The name he'd once taught her to write—her first time using it in full would now be on this page, buried among lies and accusations.
This was her renunciation. Her own signature sealing her death.
"Take off that necklace too!"
The soldiers didn't allow her to keep personal belongings. But this time, Jeanne's voice trembled with a rare plea.
"If possible… may I please keep this cross?"
"Hah, a witch begging to keep a cross?"
Jeanne's voice was calm but tinged with something deeper.
"Perhaps… but I believe He will always watch over me."
"Fine. It's just a cross anyway."
"Thank you."
When the cell door shut, darkness returned.
Through the small window above, Jeanne gazed at the clear sky outside.
I hope Laurent never finds out. He couldn't bear it.
A Holy Maiden… huh?
Because she had signed the repudiation, she should have been allowed to wear women's clothes before her execution. But thanks to certain noblemen's schemes, those in power still forced her to remain dressed as a man.
...
May 30th. A day carved into history. The streets overflowed with onlookers.
Everyone had gathered along the same road.
Jeanne now wore coarse, shapeless cloth that hid her figure. Barefoot, shackled at wrists and ankles, she was escorted through the streets by soldiers.
At the end of the road stood the stake.
"Today, we have captured the witch at last! She alone is the source of this war! The people have been deceived by her sorcery—but fear not, for the Lord will guide us back!"
The bishop on the platform shouted her charges for all to hear.
Yet the crowd remained eerily silent. Public executions had become routine—but seeing the pale, frail figure of this nineteen-year-old girl, they couldn't help but feel pity.
Jeanne lifted her head, meeting their gazes—eyes filled with sympathy and guilt.
She smiled softly. Her fate had been sealed long ago.
No matter how many paths had once existed, they all led here—to this one, inevitable end.
Even as they prepared to burn their "Holy Maiden" before countless French citizens, not one dared speak in her defense.
The soldiers were English. Even the bishop belonged to England.
Step by step, Jeanne approached the stake, where they began tying her in place.
Her hands rested over the cross at her neck. She hadn't been allowed to keep it at first, but after much pleading, the bishop had finally relented.
Am I really going to die?
A strange calm filled her chest, a quiet, inexplicable peace.
So this is it? After giving everything, this is how it ends?
"Witch, any last words?"
"The Lord dwells within my heart."
"Really now? Those are your final words?"
The executioner sneered and moved to light the flames—
Then the world exploded.
BOOM!
A deafening blast tore through the square as something slammed into the earth nearby.
The shockwave ripped outward, scattering smoke, sending English soldiers flying, halting the execution in an instant.
All eyes turned toward the massive cloud of dust.
Through it, a pair of scarlet eyes gleamed. A heartbeat later, a wooden spike burst forth, skewering an entire line of soldiers.
"Enemy attack! We're under attack!"
The soldiers scrambled to form ranks—but Laurent didn't even glance at them. In one bound, he landed atop the execution platform.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Standing on the stake was a dark-haired young man—filthy, bloodied, covered in wounds.
Those injuries came from the angels. His regeneration was shot, his strength nearly gone. He hadn't even bothered to heal before rushing here.
"Who is that?! Capture him immediately!"
"Don't let him interfere with the execution!"
Jeanne stared, stunned, as if she were dreaming.
His battered figure made her chest ache.
And yet… Laurent smiled.
"It's been a while—but there's no time to catch up. Your dream of saving this country is over. Let's go, Jeanne."
He reached to break her chains, but Jeanne didn't move. Instead, she lifted a trembling hand and brushed his cheek.
"These wounds… I'm sorry, Laurent…"
"What's there to apologize for? I'm here now, right by your side. Let's go—there's no reason to endure this anymore."
"I'm sorry…"
She shook her head, her refusal clear. Laurent's smile froze.
"Come with me. We'll disappear somewhere no one can find us. We'll live together. Forget them all. We don't need to save these ungrateful people, Jeanne."
Jeanne took his hand and pressed it gently to her cheek.
"Laurent… let me bear this alone. You have to let me go."
Her smile was heartbreakingly gentle.
"If I leave with you, the war will start again—and their hatred will fall on you. The curses, the accusations… they'll never end. You'll be branded a monster, condemned by Heaven, hated by the entire world…"
"I don't care!"
Laurent's voice broke with desperation.
"I don't care about any of that! We can escape—just the two of us. I'll do whatever it takes. As long as you stay with me, nothing else matters. They all betrayed you, Jeanne. Even now, will you still die for them? They're not worth it—they're not worth you!"
But you are, aren't you?
Jeanne's smile faltered, filled with sorrow.
When she was thirteen, she had seen a vision—Laurent beside her through every battle, dying in a sea of blood.
Now, seeing his broken body before her, her heart shattered completely.
God had long since abandoned her, yet He left her one final command:
If she died here, Laurent would be spared, his sins forgiven.
If not, God Himself would descend—sealing Laurent forever in an endless abyss, his mind trapped and tormented until he went mad.
Faced with Laurent's desperate eyes, Jeanne could only whisper the words that broke them both:
"Laurent… I'm sorry…"