When the Saint comes, she does not collect food.

Beneath the Winding Bean Bridge, which stretched over twenty meters, the river flowed silently under the moonlight.

A blockhouse stood at the bridgehead, with three-meter-high checkpoints at both ends, each fronted by a shallow trench.

Amidst the barriers of chevaux de frise, sharpened stakes, and trenches, hundreds of refugees, blocked before the checkpoints, slept on the ground, shivering in the autumn wind.

Two flags bearing the symbol of the Church fluttered atop the walls, while seven or eight night watchmen leaned against the battlements, engaging in desultory conversation.

Suddenly, one of the dozing soldiers twitched his ear, straightened up, and strained to catch the sound in the wind.

"Hey, wake up, wake up, I hear horses."

Torches flared on the walls, and the refugees below groggily craned their necks, wondering what the soldier-officials were up to now.

But some seasoned refugees immediately pressed their ears to the ground, and those near the main road quickly rose and moved away.

The rhythmic beat of hooves made the needle-like leaves of the roadside fir trees tremble slightly.

From the crest of the small hill at the road's end, a tall knight in a beaked helmet led eight cavalrymen clad only in breastplates, charging towards the blockhouse.

As expected, any refugee who blocked or approached the road was lashed with whips.

The ensuing screams and wails roused the rest of the refugees from their slumber.

They rose like zombies, standing blankly in the moonlight, watching the approaching cavalry.

The knight reached the trench and, without a word, motioned a servant forward: "We are from the entourage of Barnett, Knight of Hedgerow Shire, on urgent military business from Abbot Argon of Hide Monastery. Open the gates at once."

The autumn wind made the torches flicker, and a middle-aged monk in black robes wheezed as he climbed the stairs to the top of the wall.

More militiamen, mostly night watchmen, had also mounted the walls.

"It's late, we're blockading the short-hairs, you can tomorrow…" The militia captain was cut short by a short arrow that thudded into the wall, making him duck his head.

"Urgent military business, urgent military business, do you know what urgent means?" the servant cavalryman roared at them. "If you delay us, will you take the blame and punishment for us?"

The militia captains exchanged glances.

The tall knight, tugging at the reins, spoke in a somewhat childish, androgynous voice, sounding quite young.

"Gentlemen, I know you are all devout believers and loyal soldiers, but this truly is important military business. Do you have a monk or someone literate? I have Abbot Argon's letter of passage.

As for the short-hairs, don't worry, Lord Beralde and Lord Cleonte have them cornered in Soundtree Village. You'll see them tomorrow morning."

"The short-hairs are caught?"

"Great, finally caught."

Not just the soldiers on the wall, but even the refugees below cheered up. Another three or five days of this blockade, and they would starve to death.

Soon, a night watchman was lowered in a basket, scurrying over and bowing obsequiously before the knight's horse.

He didn't even dare to look up. Knights who were so tall at such a young age usually came from noble families, unlike the first generation of dirt-poor knights.

The young knight said nothing, simply unfastening a roll of letters from his waist and tossing it to the night watchman.

The night watchman caught the missive and quickly ran back to hand it to the monk on the wall.

"Reverend Monk, how is it?"

Several militia captains crowded around the only monk.

"…hmm…swiftly, immediately, orderly, decisively, and with all-out support…inescapable responsibility, a sense of urgency that brooks no delay, a sense of crisis where failure means regression…"

By the light of the torch, the monk read haltingly.

After a long while, he slapped the letter with the back of his hand: "It is indeed Abbot Argon's handwriting. Look, the seal is clear."

"Reverend Monk, why is the signature a wavy line?"

"What do you know? That's Alvin's signature, it's always like that. Well, maybe it's a little casual, but Abbot Argon is old, have some consideration."

A militia captain nodded and bellowed down: "Remove the barriers, let the Knight-Lord in!"

Several runners were dispatched to laboriously lift the barriers on either side, opening the way for the cavalry, then struggling to replace them after the riders had passed.

After all, there were still refugees outside. Letting them in would disturb the Knight-Lord, and that would never do.

The nine knights rode in a long line, slowly passing through the gate and coming to the door.

Just as the gate was about to open, the monk suddenly leaned over the wall: "Wait…"

The impatient servant who had been shouting earlier looked up, annoyed: "What is it now?"

"Is this truly written by Abbot Argon?"

"Of course, is there a problem?" The servant's voice cracked slightly.

"Oh my, Abbot Argon's mastery of grammar has improved so much at his age! I can't find a single error in the whole text. I never expected Abbot Argon to have such energy and perseverance at his age. I'm truly ashamed."

Seeing the servant's blank expression, the monk shook his head inwardly. These brutes, what do they know of grammar? It's like winking at a blind man.

"Let them pass," the little monk said to the militia captain guarding the city.

"Reverend Monk, shouldn't we check again? Didn't they say the short-hairs might disguise themselves as White Maple mercenaries?"

The monk walked over to the militia captain and grabbed his ear: "Look closely, are they disguised as White Maple mercenaries?

Cleonte and Beralde did go to Soundtree Village to corner the short-hairs. They both sent people to inform us earlier.

Besides, the short-hairs are all farmers, who could be so tall? And how do you explain this document?

The knight's accent is a noble's accent. The trilled Rs and elisions are beyond the farmers."

"Open the gate, let them pass."

The winch connected to the chains, and the rattling friction was deafening in the quiet night air.

The heavy oak gates slowly rose, and the monk led the militia captains to the entrance to welcome the honored guests.

"Welcome to…"

Before the monk could finish, the knights in the front row lined up, holding buckets and staring at them coldly.

"Splash—"

The knights poured the icy stream water all over them.

The monk jumped back in time, only getting a little on his shoes, but the rest of the militia captains were soaked.

Even though he wanted to please these knights, the monk couldn't help but be furious.

"You…"

White light, as bright as daylight, filled the monk's eyes.

Countless electric snakes crawled along the stream water into the screaming mouths of the militia captains at the door, and the smell of burning flesh mingled with the stench of char.

Inside the gate, the militiamen trembled, their limbs contorting unnaturally, as if dancing.

When the electric light dissipated, the corpses thumped to the ground, still twitching occasionally.

Behind the lead knight, a girl held up a war flag, and electricity still flashed in her golden hair.

The lead knight removed his mask, and his red eyes stared intently at the monk.

Behind the knight, thirty or forty soldiers in black with short swords suddenly emerged from the refugees, and arrows arced through the air, felling the runners one by one.

Fifty Order soldiers immediately scaled the trenches, overturned the barriers, and charged towards the gate.

"He's going to order the gate lowered!" Carrie shouted behind her. "The winch is above the left side of the gate."

A sound like a ballista firing, a specially made short spear with a piercing screech, came hurtling over the wooden wall and disappeared.

"Haughn, you goat-shagger, you missed!" Carrie shouted, frantically smashing the head of a night watchman charging up with a war hammer.

Two seconds later, another whooshing sound came, and with Jeshka's assistance, the short spear finally penetrated the wooden wall.

After an audible scream, bright red blood flowed down the spear shaft from inside the wall to the outside.

"It's a witch, it's a witch, run!"

"Hmph, think you can escape?"

Jeanne spurred her horse, and the war flag transformed into a long knife, slicing off the head of a night watchman.

Her horsemanship seemed self-taught. She had only been riding for ten days or so since they set off, but she could already charge back and forth before the gate.

As for Carrie, she also had remarkable horsemanship, wielding a poleaxe meant for infantry as a one-handed weapon.

In less than a minute, the two saints had slaughtered all but a tenth of the dozens of night watchmen at the gate.

At this time, led by Haughn, the four divisions of black-clad soldiers finally arrived.

The black-clad soldiers poured into the gate like a black mist, no longer bothering to form ranks, but rushing straight in with their spears leveled.

Seeing the short-hair reinforcements arrive, the remaining night watchmen's morale collapsed. They fled madly, with people running everywhere, some even jumping into the river in their panic.

As the moon touched the mountain peaks, the citizens of the Papal States wearily followed the wagons, passing one by one over the wooden bridge.

The moonlight in the river was stained with red.

The wounded screamed as the black-clad soldiers stabbed them in the throat to finish them off, and their bodies were pushed to the side of the road.

The monk, bound hand and foot, knelt to one side, his face full of indignation as he waited for Haughn to arrive.

"What? You're not convinced?"

"You rebel bandits, once the Church's Holy Knights arrive, you will be reduced to ashes!"

"Humorous." Haughn laughed and was about to continue forward.

"Wait, who wrote that document? Who betrayed Our Lord? At least let me die knowing."

"I wrote it."

"You wrote it? Impossible. That level of grammar, how do you know the Church's document format… Is that a cleric?! You, you, face me, traitor!"

"I didn't, I'm not, you've mistaken me." Bonder, hiding on the edge and trying to escape, immediately tried to hide behind Hakuto.

"What about the seal?" Turning his head, the monk asked Haughn, still unwilling to give up.

Haughn took out a white radish and waved it in front of him.

Taking a bite of the crisp radish, Haughn waved his hand, and several soldiers pushed the monk, bound hand and foot, into the river.

Walking slowly forward, standing on the bridgehead, Haughn looked towards the east, and a glimmer of dawn was faintly visible on the horizon.