Ethan Carter looked at the clothes so different from modern styles, numbly nodding his head, as a ridiculous thought chaotically formed in his mind: “Logan Bennett, witches, church, burned at the stake—could it be that I’ve really transmigrated, and ended up in the dark era of medieval Europe’s witch hunts?”

Things always develop in the worst possible direction; Murphy’s Law cruelly reminded Ethan Carter. The boy’s hair color, the dirty, worn linen clothes he wore, all confirmed this. As for the language the boy spoke, Ethan Carter could instinctively understand and seemingly use it, but as someone far from being a linguist, he couldn’t tell what language it was.

Seeing Ethan Carter absent-minded, the little boy with streaks of black soot on his face wasn’t surprised: “Mom never believes me, she even cries secretly at night, her eyes all swollen from crying, always muttering about poor little Evans, as if big brother Logan Bennett was already buried in the graveyard.”

“Dad couldn’t stand the noise, so early this morning he had that rascal from the Simon family deliver a message to Sir Wayne’s manor, asking big brother to find a way to come back. He’s already a squire apprentice now, and the charity doctor wouldn’t dare insist on those ridiculous, laughable prices in front of him.”

Speaking of his brother who had become a squire apprentice, the little boy lifted his chin slightly, a genuine pride in his expression.

“But now it’s fine, they lost, I was right—how could anything happen to you, big brother Logan Bennett!”

As he spoke, he pulled Ethan Carter’s arm: “Come on, big brother Logan Bennett, let’s hurry to the church square to see the witch burning! It’s that wicked witch who got you dragged off by the church guards for questioning all night!”

In the midst of great change, Ethan Carter, who just wanted to quietly reflect on his life, originally didn’t want to join the commotion with this little boy. Besides, to burn a living person alive was something that Ethan Carter, who considered himself at least somewhat decent, simply couldn’t accept. Since he was powerless to stop it, it would be better not to witness it at all. But the boy’s last sentence startled Ethan Carter: “This witch is connected to me?”

So Ethan Carter changed his mind, suppressed his surprise, and let the little boy pull him along, stumbling toward the Adelan Church.

Along the way, Ethan Carter took the opportunity to observe the people heading to Adelan Church.

The weather was rather warm. The men mostly wore short, narrow-sleeved linen shirts, matching long pants, and backless shoes. The women wore dull, monotonous long skirts, often with a large pocket sewn onto them. What they all had in common was simplicity and shabbiness.

Among the mostly brown-haired, brown-eyed crowd were mixed in some with blond, red, or black hair, green, red, or blue eyes, and their features were deep-set and strikingly three-dimensional.

“Is this really the Middle Ages?” Ethan Carter looked at himself—same linen short shirt, same long pants, same backless shoes.

Not long after leaving the cluster of shabby, low-roofed slum houses, they saw a not-large but solemn and imposing church, its domed roof soaring high, a huge white cross nailed atop it, and very narrow windows below.

The square was already crowded with people. The little boy pulled Ethan Carter, weaving and squeezing forward, drawing many angry glares. But since this was the church square, no one dared beat up these two troublemakers.

After a short while, Ethan Carter suddenly found himself at the very front.

In the center of the square stood a wooden cross, to which was tied a pale-faced, rather beautiful woman in her twenties, dressed in black robes.

The surrounding crowd hurled stones, sticks, and even spit at the woman in black, their curses blending into a chaotic uproar:

“Stone this damned witch to death!”

“You witch, hiding in our Adelan district, you must have wanted to harm us!”

“My poor little Tracy died of illness a few months ago—it must have been you, you evil witch! Boohoo, my poor little Tracy…”

…

Occasionally struck, the woman in black kept her thin, pale lips tightly shut, not uttering a single cry of pain, but instead stared statue-like at the people standing on the church steps.

At the front stood a middle-aged man in a wide white robe trimmed with gold, wearing a white soft cap, holding a round badge painted with a white cross. He watched quietly, saying nothing, solemn and dignified. Behind him stood several men and women in white robes, clean and neat, with rosy faces—a stark contrast to the poverty and filth of the crowd.

Behind these white-robed people stood a row of guards in silvery-gray chainmail, looking imposing and formidable.

The middle-aged man took out something like a pocket watch and glanced at it. Seeing the time was about right, he stepped forward, raising the round badge high in one hand.

Instantly, the angry, hateful, noisy crowd fell silent, all at once and in perfect unison.

The only sound left in the square was the wind rustling through clothes.

Ethan Carter was deeply shocked. Even in modern times, to achieve such obedience and conditioned response would require at least several months of training. Yet these ordinary people, who all looked like paupers, could do it? What kind of power made this possible?