dkrc Chapter 2009: Joan of Arc, a Saint who has passed away in history, reappears in reality.
Chapter 2009: Joan of Arc, a Saint who has passed away in history, reappears in reality.
Chapter 2009: Joan of Arc, a Saint who has passed away in history, reappears in reality.
Joan of Arc felt the gazes of the crowd.
No matter what they were doing, there were always gazes, whether open or hidden, direct or evasive, that would eventually converge on her.
That look in his eyes was incredibly complicated.
There was the purest, almost overflowing gratitude, as if she were the only light in the darkness; there was the ecstasy and dependence of surviving a catastrophe, as if her presence guaranteed safety; there was almost blind worship, as if she were truly a messenger from mythology.
There is also a deeper kind of attachment, almost to the point of etching her image into one's soul.
They seemed to place all their hopes, all their future, and all their meaning of life heavily on her seemingly thin yet upright shoulders.
"Holy Maiden, it was the Holy Maiden who saved us!"
"Thank you, Lady Joan of Arc; without you, we would all be finished."
"May the Lord always protect you; you are our guardian angel!"
"."
The scattered shouts rang out again, quickly coalescing into a noisy yet passionate wave of sound.
People stopped what they were doing and, whether injured or not, struggled to look at her, their eyes filled with tears, their faces etched with the excitement of surviving a disaster and their unwavering faith.
Several children, held in their parents' arms, imitated the adults and called out "Holy Maiden" in their childish voices.
Joan of Arc's gaze slowly swept over the dirty yet hopeful faces, over the burning passion in their eyes that almost scorched her.
She heard the shouts, the thanks, and the praise that made her a goddess.
Once upon a time, in another era, she too was gazed upon by such eyes and surrounded by such cheers.
At that time, she was devout and firmly believed that it was the will of the Lord and that she was fulfilling a mission.
But now.
She felt little joy in victory, but rather a heavy weight, as if a huge boulder was pressing down on her; that boulder was called "dependence," "powerlessness," and "placing all hope in one person."
She gently shook her head, her azure eyes appearing exceptionally clear and serious in the setting sun.
She raised her hand, not to accept the cheers, but to signal for silence.
The noise gradually subsided, and all eyes were focused on her, filled with anticipation and a hint of confusion.
"No, it was not I who saved you, it was you yourselves who saved you."
Joan of Arc's gaze swept over the warriors covered in blood but gripping their weapons tightly, over the civilians who rushed out to rescue the wounded despite the danger, and over the ordinary people who, on the verge of collapse, still did not give up and fought with rudimentary weapons or even stones.
"Look around you, look at your fallen comrades, look at your companions who are bandaging you, look at the weapons that are still hot in your hands, look at the fortifications that you have just reinforced!"
"What repelled those monsters was your own courage, and your unwavering support for each other!"
"It is your will to fight and protect those behind you even in despair!"
"What protects this city is not my strength alone, but the strength of every one of you who fought here, bled here, and did not back down!"
"Don't place all your hopes on me or any other person!"
"Hope is in your own hands! The future also needs to be fought for and built by yourselves!"
Her words echoed across the empty battlefield, carrying a resounding power and an almost earnest expectation.
She would rather see the flame of autonomy ignite in people's eyes than merely reflect her glory.
But instead of enthusiastic agreement, she was met with a deeper silence.
People looked at her, and the gratitude and admiration in their eyes had not faded, but something else had been added.
Confusion, bitterness, and a deep sense of helplessness.
After a long while, a middle-aged man with an injured arm hastily bandaged with rags spoke in a hoarse voice.
“Your Holiness, we understand what you are saying.”
He looked at his battered arms, then at the ruined town around him and the exhausted faces of his companions.
Who doesn't want to rely on themselves? Who doesn't want to stand tall and protect their homeland on their own?
"At first, when those monsters first came, that's what we thought too; we believed in our country, we believed in the Gallic warriors, and we believed we could hold out."
"We waited and waited, hoped and hoped."
"There are fewer and fewer voices in the news, rescue reports are sporadic, and promised support is slow to arrive."
"People around me died one after another, food dwindled, and when we ran out of ammunition, we used knives; when the knives broke, we used stones and our fists."
His voice lowered, carrying a suppressed pain.
"It's not that we didn't try, it's not that we didn't think about relying on ourselves."
Another young woman with fresh scars on her face chimed in, her voice trembling and her eyes red-rimmed. "But the difference is too great."
"Those monsters are becoming more and more numerous, and stronger and stronger."
"Our numbers are dwindling with each battle, and our hopes are fading."
"Until the very end, we were almost ready to give up, thinking this was the end."
She raised her head, tears finally streaming down her face, but her gaze remained fixed on Joan of Arc, a mixture of gratitude, shame, and a sense of relief after having reached a dead end.
"It's you."
“You brought light, you brought power, you brought ‘possibilities’ that we almost dared not even think about anymore.”
"We know we can't rely on you for everything."
The middle-aged man who spoke first wiped his face.
"But when darkness has lasted too long, and suddenly a glimmer of light appears, people always can't help but desperately grasp at it."
"Because if we rely on ourselves, we're really starting to lose sight of the road ahead."
The crowd was silent, with only the mournful sound of the wind blowing through the ruins.
Many people lowered their heads, clenched their fists, and trembled slightly; they were not refuting Joan of Arc, but stating a cruel reality.
The initial vigor and belief in self-reliance had long been worn away in the long and desperate war of attrition.
Joan of Arc's arrival was less a rescue and more a last lifeline for these drowning people, allowing them to remember the feeling of breathing. However, their bodies, which had been immersed in icy water for a long time, were already stiff and numb, and they were not yet able to swim on their own.
Joan of Arc was stunned.
She looked at those faces etched with weariness, trauma, and helplessness, and listened to those whispers that were not explanations but rather expressions of despair.
She recalled the sights she saw when she first arrived in this era, and the almost extinguished light in the eyes of people in countless places like Arles.
She suddenly realized that what she had said before might have been a bit too idealistic.
She saw their dependence on her, was worried about it, and was eager to awaken their own strength.
But she may have overlooked the fact that this dependence did not stem from laziness or cowardice, but rather from a long period of despair and repeated defeats by reality, which forced the formation of this emotion.
Hope itself, under constant pressure, becomes fragile and seeks external solutions.
She thought she was giving them power, but they might just be seeing in her a long-lost entity of "hope" that they could temporarily rely on.
This dependence is certainly wrong, but it is also the last straw they grasped to maintain their spirit in their desperate situation.
The boulder in my heart seemed to have become even heavier.
But it's not just heavy; it also carries a deeper understanding and, consequently, a more complex responsibility.
She paused for a moment, then spoke again, her voice no longer carrying the admonitory fervor of before, but rather a comforting strength:
"I understand."
"The darkness is long, the road is difficult, and it's understandable to feel afraid and desperate when you're alone."
Her gaze softened, sweeping over the crowd as if soothing every restless soul.
"But please remember today."
"Remember your resistance in the face of adversity, remember the hands you bandaged for each other, remember the chests you raised again."
"I can't stay in one place forever."
"Disasters are everywhere, and there are many places like Arles, waiting for a glimmer of light in the darkness."
She spoke slowly, her tone calm yet powerful.
"I will do everything in my power to dispel the darkness and bring hope."
"But true light can illuminate the path ahead forever, so you will no longer fear the darkness."
She raised her hand, gently touching her heart with her fingers, then slowly moved them to point at everyone present.
"We need to reignite it here, and then pass it on, to defend and build it with your own hands."
“I will be your sword, your shield, and the stars you can look up at when you can’t see the road ahead.”
"But I hope even more that one day, each of you can become a light for yourselves and for others."
"Arles was saved today, not because of a distant star, but because the fire in the hearts of the people of this land has not been completely extinguished, and has been rekindled."
"Let's start by clearing this battlefield, taking care of every wounded soldier, and fortifying your homes."
"Then, together, we will spread the light to even more distant places."
After saying this, Joan of Arc walked straight toward a barricade that had mostly collapsed.
There, several panting ordinary people were trying to lift a heavy reinforced concrete beam to clear a path and retrieve the weapons that had been pinned down.
Their faces were covered in soot, their arms trembled from exhaustion, and progress was slow.
Joan of Arc remained silent, walked to the other end of the beam, and like an ordinary soldier, bent down, gripped the cold, rough concrete edge with both hands, and exerted force with her waist and back.
Then, the heavy beam was slowly lifted and moved away.
Dust settled down, clinging to her golden hair and cheeks, but she seemed oblivious, focused only on watching the supplies that had been crushed being successfully retrieved. Then she nodded to the few people who were somewhat stunned, her azure eyes as calm as a lake.
“We need to support this area. There might be survivors under the rubble over there. We need to move quickly, but be careful of secondary collapses.”
She spoke briefly, then walked over to a group of civilians who were carrying rubble and clearing passages for the wounded by hand, silently joining them, her slender yet strong arms lifting up pieces of broken bricks and tiles.
People were initially shocked, even somewhat frightened, and instinctively wanted to stop or kneel down.
But Joan of Arc simply swept her gaze across them with a calm and resolute look.
Gradually, the surroundings quieted down.
The only sounds were shovels churning the soil, stones rolling, low chants, and the occasional groan.
But everyone's gaze was subtly following the figure in silver armor who was busy in the ruins.
The setting sun cast a long shadow of hers, which intertwined with the shadows of the ordinary soldiers and civilians around her, becoming indistinguishable from each other.
Dust stained her armor, sweat soaked her temples, and she would occasionally frown slightly when lifting heavy objects, and would also breathe a sigh of relief and show a genuine smile when she saw the wounded being rescued.
An elderly man with gray hair, a face covered in wrinkles and old scars, leaned against a half-broken wall, staring blankly as Joan of Arc, bent over, and a young boy carefully moved an old woman whose leg was trapped under the rubble.
The old man's gaze was somewhat unfocused; his chapped lips moved, and he murmured in a voice only he could hear:
"History records say that the girl from Orleans also dug trenches and carried supplies alongside the soldiers, ate the same black bread, and slept in makeshift tents."
"She never considered herself anything special."
A young woman with a bandage wrapped around her arm heard this and followed the old soldier's gaze, also seeing the scene.
She was silent for a moment, then whispered:
"The book also says that she was burned to death in Rouen, which happened hundreds of years ago."
"Yes, that was hundreds of years ago."
The veteran murmured the same words, his gaze unable to leave the busy figure.
"She is not herself; reason tells me it can't be."
"The timing is wrong, and a miracle is unlikely to occur, but..."
His voice choked, and tears welled up in his cloudy eyes.
Not only him, but many people working silently around him, especially those who had some knowledge of history, all showed similar struggles on their faces.
They know history.
I know that the saint named Joan of Arc ultimately met her end by being betrayed and abandoned in flames.
He was a hero enshrined on the altar of history and in textbooks, a symbol.
The woman before me, though calling herself Joan of Arc, possesses incredible power, wears similar armor, waves a banner, and saves one Gaulish city after another.
But they knew she couldn't be Joan of Arc, because Joan of Arc was dead.
But the pure faith in her eyes, the deep love for the land beneath her feet, and the attitude of sharing weal and woe with ordinary soldiers and civilians, so strikingly overlap with the descriptions in history books, and the charm revealed in those oral stories, oil paintings, and sculptures.
Reason is screaming: This is just a coincidence, an imitation, a powerful superhuman borrowing the saint's name and inheriting the spirit of Joan of Arc.
But emotions whispered: Look, those eyes, those actions, that willingness to get their hands dirty to help us—who else could it be but her?
"But if she isn't, then who is?"
The young woman's voice was very soft, as if she were asking the veteran, or perhaps asking herself.
"Who will be the one to lead the charge, carrying the flag, like in legend, when we are at our most desperate?"
"Who else would be willing to work with us to move these stones, without minding the dirt or the hard work?"
"Those big shots? Or those generals who are hiding in the safe zone and issuing orders?"