Jeanne whirled towards her Master, expecting to see him recovering, mana replenished. Her breath hitched. Juro lay sprawled, blood blooming crimson around him, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
"Jeanne!" Georgios roared, his voice swallowed by the earth-shattering roar of a colossal dragon descending upon them.
Fafnir.
The legendary beast, whispered in myths and nightmares, materialized before them. Its obsidian scales gleamed, each wingspan wider than the castle itself. Two horns jutted from its skull, and an unsettling green glow emanated from its underbelly.
Soldiers were flung like ragdolls, snatched by wyverns or turning into crimson paste upon impact with the ground. Jeanne's gaze darted to the figure atop the dragon – the Dragon Witch.
A twisted mirror image of Jeanne, clad in dark armor and draped in a billowing black cape. Her eyes, a sickly yellow, gleamed with sadistic pleasure. This was Jeanne's antithesis, a corrupted reflection who valued her own power over her homeland.
Gritting her teeth, Jeanne summoned her Noble Phantasm. Even with her Master gone, a sliver of his mana fueled her desperation. The luminous orb of holy light materialized, a beacon against the encroaching darkness.
The dragon unleashed a barrage of attacks, each blow chipping away at the Phantasm's defenses. Cracks began to spiderweb across its surface.
"Pathetic!" the Dragon Witch cackled. "Not even enough, usurper!"
Below, the French soldiers witnessed a horrifying spectacle. The savior they revered, Jeanne, was forced to defend against a monstrous imposter. A surge of defiance coursed through them – they had to help their Saint!
"Hold!" Gilles de Rais boomed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Charging blindly will only lead to…"
His warning was cut short by the masked Servant who carved a bloody swathe through the soldiers with inhuman speed. Panic rippled through the ranks.
"What is it?!" a soldier shrieked.
"Who are you?!" another bellowed.
Jeanne cracked open an eye, her body drained from the immense magical output. The Phantasm, barely holding, threatened to collapse at any moment.
She was at her limit.
And then, her heart hammered against her ribs as she witnessed a horrifying scene. Heads fell like ripe fruit, cleaved by the monstrous Servant wielding a spear and sword in each hand, killing her previous comrades in her life like a farmer cutting down vegetation.
Despair clawed at Jeanne's throat. Just a few meters away, her Master lay lifeless.
The image of her mother, friend, comrades – all the people she swore to protect – morphed into a horrifying collage of failure.
"Dragon Witch!" she roared, her voice cracking with anguish. "Why?!"
Silence. Only a twisted smirk in response.
Stop.
Suddenly, The world lurched to a halt, as if time itself was not allowed to advance.
Invisible to everyone, Takahashi Juro's corpse twitched violently. A grotesque snap echoed as his jaw unhinged to an impossible angle.
From the depths of his body, a dark, viscous liquid erupted –
Miasma.
This corrupted mana, only existing in one place within the vast multiverse, held the power to drive men mad. Its very presence wove illusions of regret and sin, freezing the world in a tableau of despair.
A single skeletal finger, impossibly long and thin, emerged from Juro's mouth, pressing against his cracked lips. It was followed by a hand, clad in otherworldly armor that gleamed with an unnatural sheen.
The creature's movements were deliberate, devoid of human fluidity. Another hand materialized, meeting the first in a gesture of macabre unity.
Slowly, the head rose from the maw. A crescent moon insignia, a chilling fusion of metal and bone, adorned its forehead. No eyes marred its visage, only a smooth, metallic surface.
Then came the grin, a rictus stretched wide, not in amusement but as a permanent, horrifying expression.
Finally, the body unfolded in a slow, agonizing ballet, emerging entirely from Juro's corpse.
It levitated, a nightmarish figure in a cruciform pose. The air crackled with a malevolent energy, a stark contrast to the stillness that had gripped the world.
This creature defied existence.
An abomination, cursed by the very fabric of reality itself. Every planet, every living thing screamed in protest against its presence, cursing it.
Yet, for a horrifying fifteen minutes, the world would have to endure its existence before it self-destructed in rejection.
No human tongue could speak its true name, so a chilling designation was given...
Malefactor.
The word malevolent implied that something looked as if it wished to harm, to do evil.
This figure embodied that term.
https://i.imgur.com/UQC6Xq5.png
(Please open the image above to fully enhance the scene.)
Servant or not was irrelevant – it was an abomination, a weak 'servant' using Juro's lifeless husk as a grotesque vessel. And even in this weakened state, its power was enough to destroy a section of the moon utterly.
With a bone-chilling creak, the world lurched back into motion, as if it had been permitted to move once again.
Malefactor wasted no time.
Its skeletal hand, impossibly strong, snatched the Servant's helmet and slammed it into the ground with a force that liquefied the earth.
The resulting shockwave rippled outwards, cracking stone and uprooting trees like mere twigs.
The Servant, pinned, enraged, and disoriented, lunged for the Malefactor's arm.
The creature responded with a terrifying display of inhuman strength. It didn't just deflect – it slammed the Servant's face into the ground repeatedly, each impact leaving a crater and a sickening spray of blood.
Through the onslaught, the Servant managed to grab a nearby polearm. It managed to stab Malefactor, the weapon tearing through the Malefactor's armor to pierce its core.
For a moment, the creature staggered back, a flicker of vulnerability.
The servant, class named Berserker, capitalized a ferocious kick sending the Malefactor flying across the field.
Despite being driven to madness, Berserker was felt with an overwhelming urge to kill this... thing.
But a horrifying realization dawned.
Malefactor wasn't damaged.
It had allowed the blow, perhaps relishing the fight. With a predatory grin – a concept alien to its form – Malefactor snatched a nearby spear flung by the Berserker and shattered it in its bare fist.
The battle escalated into a monstrous ballet of violence.
A whirlwind of bone and metal blitzed towards Berserker and tossed him across the battlefield like a ragdoll, only to give chase with a speed that defied its immense size.
The smoke-filled field thrummed with each impact, the very air crackling with raw power. Every time Berserker attempted to strike, Malefactor treated it like a ragdoll, grabbing it and swatting it away with arrogant ease.
It was like child's play for this unholy entity.
Then, with a terrifying shift, Malefactor got serious, evident by the sudden stiffening of its shoulders.
It slammed a devastating knee strike into Berserker, sending it skyward. With a large leap, The creature pummeled the hapless Servant mid-air, a flurry of blows culminating in a bone-shattering kick to the chest.
Two minutes had ticked by.
Jeanne watched, horror and disbelief warring within her, as this monstrous being beat down the Servant.
"Swoosh!"
A sudden flurry of movement drew her attention.
Elizabeth Bathory, wings fluttering, landed beside her with a heavy thud. Amadeus Mozart, clutching her leg, due to his inability to fly, followed with a disgruntled grumble.
"Elizabeth! Amadeus!" Jeanne cried, relief flooding her voice. "You're safe! Did you defeat your opponents?"
Those opponents, Carmilla and Charles Sanson, were vanquished nearby. One, an older, crueler version of Elizabeth herself. The other, the executioner of Marie Antoinette.
"Yeah, bumped into Amadeus here, then saw Fafnir," Elizabeth explained, gesturing towards the dragon. "Naturally, we had to come help!"
"Amadeus!" Elizabeth called, signaling him to 'heal' Jeanne.
"Alright, alright," Amadeus grumbled, rubbing his injured leg. "Spare some mercy, Elizabeth."
He drew out his conductor's baton and wove it through the air with practiced ease. A melody flowed from the instrument, and Jeanne felt a surge of warmth as her injuries receded. Mozart was a magus of music, capable of both devastating attacks and restorative harmonies.
"The pain is... gone?"
"Ah, well..." Mozart trailed off.
"Just be careful now, I simply masked the pain, there is no healing involved."
"Speaking of... Where's Takahashi?" Elizabeth asked.
The question hung heavy in the air.
It was like a switch had just been flipped.
Jeanne turned towards her Master's corpse, a choked sob escaping her lips.
It lay a distance away, untouched by the chaos of the ongoing battle.
Amadeus clicked his tongue, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.
Elizabeth simply looked away.
Amadeus then placed a hand on Jeanne's shoulder.
"Don't let his death be the reason yours follows, Jeanne," he said softly. "Turn his sacrifice into a reason to fight even harder, just like Marie's spirit fueled mine and yours. Besides," he added, peering closer at the corpse, "something seems...off. It's as if his life force hasn't completely extinguished yet, which explains why you are still in this world."
Jeanne's gaze flickered to the Dragon Witch, now desperately trying to control her faltering dragon army while facing down one of her strongest Servants.
"...Then let us fight! I may not be in the best position, but it is just enough!"
"What are you talking about?" Elizabeth asked.
"We can take care of it! You're in no condition!"
Jeanne's face quickly turned from one of determination to one of sadness.
Mozart, however, raised his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't think that's necessary, actually," he said, his eyes fixed on the brutal ballet between Malefactor and Berserker.
"Someone seems to be handling it quite… efficiently."
Jeanne flinched. "But he killed Taka-"
Elizabeth placed a hand on Jeanne's arm. "Hold on, Jeanne," she said gently. "Don't let grief cloud your judgment."
"?"
"I'll tell you what I told… the other me."
A shadow crossed Elizabeth's face as she recalled Carmilla's dying question.
"We are the same person, are we not?"
The memory resonated deeply.
Elizabeth, a woman stained by a bloody past, had clawed her way to the Throne of Heroes despite her sins. Yet, Carmilla's final words had forced her to confront the monster she could become.
There was no erasing the horrors she'd committed.
Atonement, Elizabeth believed, was a fool's dream. The stain of sin would forever cling to her soul. But that didn't mean she had to continue down that path. Perhaps it was simply just denial or a self-told lie... but...
The realization had struck her like a bolt of lightning – she did not want to become Carmilla. She could stop now.
Elizabeth met Jeanne's gaze, her voice firm. "Jeanne," she said,
"What did you come here to do? I refused to become my future self. What is it you refuse to become? What is that you wish to tell the dragon witch?"
Jeanne d'Arc's face contorted in a mask of deep thinking as she looked down.
Elizabeth's words, laced with a quiet strength, resonated deep within her.
"I'll leave it in your hands," Elizabeth declared, her voice ringing with a newfound resolve.
Jeanne watched as Elizabeth wasn't alone.
Kiyohime, who had been able to make her way back, stood beside her, a furious glare aimed at the Berserker locked in combat with Malefactor.
Her beloved Anchi- Master, had been killed by this creature.
Saint Georgios stood tall, his presence a beacon of unwavering resolution. Mozart also held a steeled edge.
"We probably don't even need to engage in battle with this servant," Kiyohime growled, her voice laced with barely contained fury, "but we'll still rip him apart!
Juro Takahashi found himself adrift in an inky void, his body bare and oddly weightless. A voice, raspy like nails on a chalkboard yet booming with an unsettling power, echoed around him. It spoke in a tongue both ancient and alien, yet somehow Juro understood.
In a few moments, he found himself sitting in a chair inside a single room, lit by naught but shadows.
"Speak thine desire, mortal. What doth thou crave?"
"My desire? What?" Juro stammered, confused.
"What is thine ultimate goal in all this? Riches beyond count? Fame that echoes through the ages? Power to bend the very world to thy will?"
" ..I want to become a 'hero',"
"..."
"A 'hero', sayest thou? And what, pray tell, dost thou mean by such a word?"
Juro paused, looking down at his invisible hands.
"I… I want to help others. I want to save people. I want to be there when someone calls out for help. This whole Grand Order thing… it's a chance to do that, right?"
"..."
Silence stretched. Juro felt strangely compelled to speak, to bare his soul in this uncanny confessional.
"...Do you understand," the voice finally spoke, "that this is no mere child's plaything? This is a dire struggle, a war against someone who wishes to destroy the human race? Art thou aware that thine yearning for this… this 'heroism', could very well bring about the annihilation of not only thyself, but of thy comrades as well? They too are vital threads in this tapestry, and their fates hang precariously in the balance."
Juro felt the weight of the words settle on him, the gravity of the situation dawning on him.
"And need I remind thee," the voice continued, a sardonic edge creeping in, "of the earlier trials thou hast faced? Proof enough that this 'grand adventure' is far from a bed of roses."
Juro bit his lip, the metallic tang a faint echo of the voice's mockery. "It's… it's not a fantasy," he protested, his voice barely a whisper.
"Nay, 'tis not a fantasy!" the voice roared, a harsh echo in the darkness.
"...Ah," the voice boomed, a hint of something akin to amusement flickering through its tone, "thou clingest to the counsel of thine elder, dost thou not? To cast aside all emotion, to forgo the bonds of fellowship, all to shield thyself and others from the sting of pain. Pray tell, young mortal, dost thou truly grasp the depths of thine grandfather's words?"
"...I don't follow that stupid ideology!"
"..."
"...Thou label it as foolish, when you were just following it moments ago. Is your mind weak enough to absorb anything it comes into contact with?"
"...Maybe he was wrong,"
"Ah, you believe this now because you have seen your servants, having strong emotions aiding them in their battles against their opponents. How they beat each other with anger, pain, grief, sadness. You are starting to believe that perhaps the emotions are not the problem…"
"Thou art wrong. Emotions are truly a hindrance, holding them back. If thou wisheth to be a 'hero', a champion of humanity, you must stow away the emotions. However, it doth not need to be all of thine emotions, which would label thee as some kind of automaton. Rather, I offer thee a contract."
A large, ornately carved box materialized before Juro.
"This vessel shall be a repository for all those troublesome emotions thou so desperately wishest to bury, allowing thee to further press onward in thine endeavors, without stopping to feel them. I have observed how thou pushest them away, forcing them into a box within thine own mind, but a human mind can only become so overwhelmed before it shuts down. This box, however, will never become overwhelmed."
Juro lunged for the ornate box, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood before it whisked away, just out of reach.
"However," the voice boomed, a hint of amusement flickering within its ancient tones, "this is a pact, a binding agreement. In exchange for this, I desire… existence...
When thine life hangs by a thread, I shall intervene. Likewise, in the presence of a 'Demon God Pillar', I shall be summoned to thy aid."
Juro frowned. "Demon God?" The term sent a shiver down his spine.
"Matters of that nature can wait for another time," the voice replied, a touch of impatience creeping in. "For now, the question remains: dost thou accept this contract?"
A single hand materialized from the darkness, its skin a grotesque tapestry of raw muscle and exposed bone. The sight sent a jolt of revulsion through Juro.
He hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. Was this the right path? The cost felt steep, the price unknown.
But the image of his dream, the mantle of "Hero of Humanity," flickered in his mind. To truly help others, perhaps this unorthodox pact was necessary.
After all, wasn't any sacrifice justified for the greater good?
Juro steeled himself, muttering, "No matter what the cost… no matter the consequence…" He extended a finger, the image of his grandfather's stoic face flashing before him.
With a trembling breath, he touched the cold, fleshy appendage.
This wasn't the traditional hero's journey; he wasn't a knight in shining armor, nor a paragon of virtue. He was a tool, a cog in the grand machine, destined to wear out and break. Yet, within the confines of this agreement, he would become a hero, one way or another.
He was simply the screwdriver that fit the screw.
What he was not aware of, however, was the hell he had gotten himself into.
Juro bolted upright, gasping for breath as his eyes snapped open. The familiar sting of adrenaline coursed through him, a jolt that yanked him back from the inky oblivion of death. His vision darted around, searching for any lingering threats, the throbbing veins in his eyes gradually subsiding.
Night had fallen.
The stars, if not for the gaping maw in the sky, would have cast an ethereal glow upon the ravaged landscape.
Groaning, Juro pushed himself to his feet, a wave of nausea washing over him as he surveyed his surroundings.
A monstrous creature, a horrifying amalgamation of octopus and mushroom, loomed over the wasteland filled with corpses, its grotesque tentacles crushing hapless soldiers beneath its bulk.
"Juro!" A voice, laced with a blend of relief and exasperation, pierced the chaos.
It was Romani.
"You're alive! Again?! How many times are you gonna pull this?! This is the third time you've… 'died!' "
Juro winced, the memory of the contract flickering at the edges of his mind. Before he could respond, Da Vinci's voice cut in, laced with a hint of surprise.
"Actually, Romani," she interjected, "this time he actually did die. We saw it on the monitors – his vitals flatlined."
Juro felt a pang of guilt, shame gnawing at him for causing such concern. "Doc," he began sheepishly, "you're not… mad at me, right?"
Romani sighed, the weariness evident in his voice. "Well, Juro, you gave us one hell of a scare. But this time, it really wasn't your fault, so I guess I can't hold you accountable. Just… try not to make a habit of it, alright?"
Juro offered a weak smile.
"At this point, I can't even promise that…"
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Moving on," Romani continued, his voice turning serious, "Fujimaru and the other Servants are currently holed up in a cave."
Juro's gaze drifted towards the monstrous entity rampaging above. "Hiding from… that thing, I'm guessing?"
"Bingo."
"Alright, I'll head over and—"
"Hold on, Juro,"
Juro raised an eyebrow in question.
"Right now, everyone thinks you're dead," Romani explained. "It's the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the castle and finish off the Dragon Witch."
"...Me? Against a Servant who probably has, like, thousands of dragons that she can use?"
"Well, those wyverns were all simultaneously taken out by some strange entity," Romani countered. "An entity that managed to dismantle the entire enemy army while simultaneously battling a Berserker Servant in less than fifteen minutes."
Recognition dawned on Juro. "So it was Malefactor…" he muttered.
"Wait, you mentioned 'finish off'?" he questioned, a sliver of suspicion creeping into his voice.
"Yes," Romani confirmed. "Jeanne managed to land a critical blow on the Dragon Witch, leaving her critically injured. The mastermind behind this whole mess, a man named Gilles de Rais, managed to bring her back to the castle to recover. But as you can see," Romani gestured towards the monstrous creature above, "that giant worm thing is actually him, trying to eliminate your team. He thinks you're dead, so you can sneak into the castle and take out the Dragon Witch while she's still weak."
Juro hesitated, torn between his desire to help his comrades and the opportunity this presented.
"I can't just leave them though..."
"Trust me," Romani reassured him, "I've already informed Fujimaru about the plan. They'll hold out just fine. Right now, Juro, it's up to you."
The weight of those words, "It's up to you," settled heavily on Juro's shoulders.
This was the chance.
"Alright."
Takahashi Juro lifted himself off the ground as he made his way to the evil witch's lair.
Strangely, the entire castle, along with the village around it was completely empty, devoid of any sort of life.
Juro moved carefully through the castle's dim hallways, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. The walls displayed stern-faced portraits of French kings and suits of armor lined the corridors like unmoving guards.
Flickering lamps cast long, grasping shadows.
At the next corner, Juro froze.
Two soldier-like figures stood before a huge set of double doors, barely twitching. As he neared them, dread crept up his spine. These were no ordinary guards - their decayed faces were twisted with grotesque wounds and gashes that no living person could survive.
Zombies.
The realization hit him hard. He had faced skeletal remains before, and now these zombies of putrid flesh barred his way. Sadness pierced him as he realized they had once been men, torn from their lives and reanimated as shambling horrors.
Still, he knew what he must do.
With a silent apology, he prepared himself as he walked within the vision of them.
The first guard lurched forward with a guttural groan, awkwardly drawing its sword. Juro narrowly dodged the clumsy slash, retaliating with his own strike, slamming his fist into its abdomen "Sorry," he murmured, focusing his delayed mana into his fist, shredding the zombie's flesh and bones in a gory spray.
As the first undead's remains painted the walls red, the second staggered towards Juro.
He sidestepped its feeble attack, his hand lancing devastatingly into its torso. A moment later, its stomach burst outward in a shower of shredded organs and tissue.
Silence fell once more, broken only by the soft pattering of gore hitting the floor. Juro stared numbly at his shaking hands, unable to shake his regret. He knew intellectually these were merely animated corpses, but it did little to ease the ache of having to completely destroy what was once human.
Until now, Juro had never truly killed anything resembling a human form. But as he pushed open the towering double doors, a foul, rotting stench assaulted his senses. He quickly snatched up a nearby lantern, its flickering light revealing a scene of unimaginable horror.
Hundreds - perhaps thousands - of small corpses filled the cavernous chamber.
Child-sized bodies swung lifelessly from ropes, hanged in macabre displays. Tiny figures lay eviscerated, organs spilling obscenely onto the stone floor. Severed limbs and dismembered pieces were strewn about like grotesque confetti.
The lantern slipped from Juro's trembling grasp, clattering hollowly as the room plunged back into shadow. He froze, paralyzed by the slaughter surrounding him.
His mouth opened but no sound could escape the suffocating miasma of death. Bile burned the back of his throat as he fought against the urge to retch.
Juro's initial shock and revulsion at the appalling scene quickly transformed into a blazing fury. Instead of collapsing under the weight of such profound sadness, he ground his teeth together with an animalistic snarl.
"I'll kill her," he growled, fists clenched so tightly that his nails cut into his palms.
"I'll fucking kill her!"