Bright sunlight streamed through the Orleans castle window, shining on the still figure of a young woman - no, more like a girl really. She raised her armored hand to block the glaring rays from her eyes.
This was the Dragon Witch.
Or at least, that's what she called herself - Jeanne d'Arc.
The real one.
The true Jeanne.
Right?
...
But now, alone in the silence, she couldn't help but have doubts start swirling in her mind.
Just hours ago, she had been defeated by another Jeanne, who stabbed her right through the chest.
Another thought shot its way to her chest.
"How could you kill your own mother?!" That cry, which didn't mean much at the time, was now echoing loudly in her thoughts.
Was she actually the real Jeanne d'Arc as she claimed?
She had killed a woman earlier who had been her 'mother' without any hesitation or regret.
Back then, that woman was simply another rose in the bush that prickled her. The bush that she sought revenge against.
Yet that other Jeanne seemed completely devastated when her 'mother' was killed, like a piece of her soul had been ripped out.
If Jeanne herself was the true incarnation, wouldn't she have felt some sort of bond or familiarity?
A breeze blew the tapestries hanging in the hallway leading to the throne room, mixing with the creaking of vines bursting through the walls. This once grand place was now overtaken by decay.
One question burned in her mind - was her intense hatred of her homeland built on lies?
Surely the real Jeanne d'Arc could never turn so violently against the nation she once fought for, no matter what happened.
Her righteous crusade against France had screeched to a confusing halt. The rampaging Dragon Witch now found herself at a dead stop, clutching the gaping wound in her chest.
A wound inflicted by the flag of the country she had desperately tried to destroy.
"Just rest up, alright? I'll destroy this whole country for you, Jeanne. It'll all be done by the time you wake up."
Those were Gilles' words as he carried her to this lonely throne room.
Jeanne had said she was okay, but Gilles insisted she rest up in this room to heal.
Maybe some alone time would help her sort through the doubts swirling in her head...
"Swoosh."
The tapestries continued to move in the wind.
She closed her eyes.
Was she... tired?
As a large tapestry swayed in the draft, Jeanne opened her eyes, noticing a lone figure standing in the middle of the massive chamber.
The room was so huge that he looked tiny in comparison.
Squinting for a better look, she studied this unexpected visitor.
A young man, maybe in his late teens or early twenties. He had short, slicked-back hair in an undercut style. His face was not ugly, but nothing special either.
He wore a strange white shirt with black designs, with a black sleeve on one arm while the other arm was bare, save for some bandages wrapped around the forearm.
Wait, was this not the same person whose torn-up corpse she saw on the battlefield earlier?
But here he was, very much alive and his face all scrunched up in anger.
Normally, Jeanne would have wasted no time cutting down an intruder like him. But with the big gaping hole in her stomach, recklessly moving around was not a smart idea right now.
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Jeanne had noticed him earlier, surrounded by those two enemy Servants, so he must have some kind of important role or be special in some way.
The only sounds filling the vast chamber were the fluttering banners and occasional gusts of wind.
The young man stood there in silence.
"..."
"Are you just going to stand there gawking at me, trying to mock me?" Jeanne finally spoke up.
The man's hard gaze softened slightly. "...You're not wrong."
"What?" She blinked in surprise.
"...You're not wrong for doing this, you know." His voice was level but firm.
"What are you babbling about?"
"You know exactly what I mean." The man stood statue-still, back straight, exuding an air of quiet intensity despite his gentle tone. "I don't blame you for your anger, your hatred. Hell, right now you're probably just itching to kill me on the spot."
Jeanne felt a flicker of her old violent impulses, but they faded just as quickly in the swell of tumultuous uncertainty gripping her.
"But just know this," he continued, "you aren't wrong."
She was confounded. Just who did this impudent fool think he was, daring to approach her, speak to her as if lecturing a child? What gave him the right?
"You probably know why I'm here, right?"
A sense of cold dread pooled in her gut.
"...To kill me?"
"And am I wrong for doing that? For trying to kill you?"
Jeanne was all too aware of what he referenced - her campaign of destruction against France, the thousands slaughtered by her wyvern armies. In her past arrogant certainty, she would have simply sneered and dared him to try.
But now, her doubts over whether she was even the true Jeanne d'Arc left her reeling.
She bit her lip hard, tasting copper.
The young man began walking slowly towards her, and she remained unmoving, feeling like a condemned prisoner awaiting the executioner's axe amidst a jeering crowd.
Hatred and anger - those had been the driving forces behind her rampage.
But now, she felt unmoored, her entire reason for this madness seeming to crumble to ashes.
The rampaging rhino, impaled upon its own doubts, could only blankly ponder how it had all gone so wrong.
A strange lassitude, the antithesis of rage, settled over her.
What was the point of it all now?
"...You're not wrong," the young man said, his voice heavy yet resolute.
It was like he was constantly repeating that to convince himself that this person was not pure evil.
"...But that won't stop me from killing you. You of all people should at least know the punishment for someone who's killed thousands."
He stopped, gaze falling to his open palm as if seeing it for the first time.
"...Even if you're not wrong... do you think others can see it that way? Do you think your rampage on this country was seen as fine by the people?"
His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that bordered on accusation.
It held no malice, no hatred, yet it was full of killing intent.
"Do you think the person you imitated, the real Jeanne d'Arc, Someone who was loved throughout France, would look at you with anything but despair? She probably even forgave you..."
"But that doesn't change what an entire country's worth of people see her as."
"And now they literally stone her..."
The man clenched his fist.
"And all she does is smile..."
He stopped speaking as he bit his lip.
'Jeanne' felt her breath catch in her throat as his questions struck deep.
"Do you think..." he continued, his expression inscrutable yet carrying a terrible solemnity, "even though you're not wrong in your own beliefs... that it's morally correct?"
As the word 'morals' left his lips, something inside 'Jeanne' broke.
At that moment, She fully embraced her impending judgment, her death.
Morals - that guiding inner compass possessed by every human being.
Morals were what prevented the taking of innocent lives on personal whims.
Morals were something she utterly lacked.
In that moment of terrible clearness, 'Jeanne' knew without a shred of doubt that she could not possibly be the real Jeanne d'Arc.
The true Maid of Orleans, as flawed as any mortal, had been girded by an incorruptible moral fortitude. While Jeanne's path had been one of violence, it was in service of her unshakable faith.
But this marauding impostor had been driven solely by a gnawing, selfish hatred that consumed everything in its path. She was an ideal corrupted, a force of evil and malice that the real Jeanne would have given her very life to stop.
As this realization settled like leaden weights upon her soul, 'Jeanne' felt her body sag, all pretense of bravado and invincibility melting away. In the wake of such profound loss of identity and purpose, only the weary husk remained.
She was not a great heroic spirit, nor even a real person - just a supernatural force of destruction lacking any true self. An unforgivable aberration in the image of one of history's greatest martyrs.
At that moment, Jeanne let go of clutching the wound, no longer trying to stop the blood flow.
The man was just a few inches away from her now.
She accepted it.
This was the dreaded Dragon Witch? Just a girl who didn't look a day over seventeen?
Juro's hand shook as he raised it towards her head. The witch stayed perfectly still, yellow eyes locked on his, a look of total defeat etched on her young pale features. He would dismantle her brain - a swift, painless death.
He was now going to kill a living being.
....
No, he reminded himself, this was just a Servant.
A heroic spirit, not human. She only appeared that way.
Just a spirit.
"Just a spirit, Just a spirit, Just a spirit..."
He repeated it like a mantra, even as his palm came to rest against her silver hair.
Part of him, that idealistic core, rebelled at the thought of dealing death to any sentient creature.
But his rational mind held firm. As an aspiring hero willing to bear that burden, he had to be the one to defeat this 'villain' responsible for so much devastation.
Villain - a being who commits evil, harming others without cause. Usually depicted in stories as one-dimensional, greedy figures hungry for power or riches.
Yet here was someone, a being who had unquestionably committed horrific acts, but not without understandable reasons.
She had the memories of being a martyr, burned at the stake by the very nation she gave everything to protect. Of course, such a revolting betrayal would breed centuries of corrosive resentment, even in the noblest of spirits.
An intellectual part of him accepted that.
However, she truly could not be the real Jeanne d'Arc, precisely because of the resentment she held.
The real Jeanne, as Juro had seen, had to be one of the most forgiving and kind people he had seen in a long time.
Juro's eyes closed.
This 'Jeanne's' fury, however misdirected and horrifyingly indiscriminate, stemmed from unforgivable injustice.
But to abandon all remnants of her former nobility, to lash out in widespread destruction against the very innocents she once fought for?
That was a line that could not be uncrossed, reasons be damned.
"Trace: On..."
What Juro sensed almost made him retch - an unmistakable sensation of vivid, vibrant life thrumming through her form.
Unlike the zombies from earlier, their bodies mere rotted husks, this girl-like entity brimmed with the warm currents of the living. Every fiber of her existence exuded vitality.
Yet, there was an undercurrent distinctly apart from mere biological processes. Juro detected an overwhelming concentration of mana, raw magical energy. It blazed like an inferno within her spirit-forged body, yet chilled him to the bone with its sheer potency.
He traced the ebb and flow of that formless power, pushing to trace where physical matter ended and pure concept began.
This was the essence of a Heroic Spirit crystallized into a nigh-indestructible form.
Focusing his efforts, Juro followed the intricate pathways till he located what passed for her brainstem - that integral junction where physical brain and animating soul intertwined. Disrupting that nexus should theoretically induce the death of higher brain functions, providing a relatively "clean" kill.
Even knowing the Dragon Witch was not a living, mortal being, Juro could not shake the visceral sense of snuffing out a vividly alive existence.
This was merely a simulation of life created by the conceptual mass of her Spirit Origin.
But that made it no easier to avoid the instinctive human hate to killing what felt so palpably, disturbingly real. Over and over, he reminded himself of the ugly condition, the justness in eliminating this threat.
He was a hero-aspirant who had to be ready to make the hardest of choices, to stain his hands so others wouldn't have to. This was simply the first of likely many such brutal acts awaiting him on his chosen path.
Still, his hand would not stop trembling as mana coalesced around his fingertips, preparing to systemically disassemble the Dragon Witch's astral matrix from its anchoring corporeal source.
He drew in a shuddering breath, forcing himself to meet the tragic girl's eyes one final time as he committed to this cruelest of necessities.
Juro visualized the connecting point between the Dragon Witch's physical brain and her spirit form.
He traced the intricate shape, feeling the contours of that singular anchor tying her astral self to this plane.
Focusing his will, he metaphysically "pushed" at that junction with the precise dismantlement magecraft.
"Vurr."
There was a subtle vibration, like striking a glass bowl with a spoon's ring.
With a sudden jolt, The Dragon Witch's body went limp in the throne, as if every fiber instantly unraveled.
In that split second, something inside Juro convulsed with visceral anguish.
For all his mental bracing, the logical justifications about defeating a mere Heroic Spirit...
He was still only human at his core.
His body reacted with primal revulsion before his mind could catch up.
He doubled over, violently retching gastric fluids onto the floor.
It looked so real.
It looked so real.
The spasms intensified as the enormity crashed over him. He had just snuffed out what felt, by all accounts, the light from a living creature's eyes.
It looked so real.
Rationally, he knew it was a spirit copy, an astral form. But it had felt so viscerally, indisputably alive in those last moments.
Juro's eyes went wide, body shaking uncontrollably as if flash-fried.
He collapsed further, muscles spasming, struggling to hold his quivering form up.
All that steely resolve, those assurances of noble sacrifice... it meant nothing against the primal rejection of the traumatic reality he had facilitated.
No matter how many plans and convincing one could do... it would all collapse within the moment.
This was Takahashi Juro's brutal baptism into the ugly, inescapable realities awaiting any "hero" willing to walk that blood-stained path.
"I killed her..."
The words felt like shards of glass on his tongue.
"I killed her...!"
In his mind's eye, a box materialized, held aloft by a skinless, conceptual arm.
An intrusive thought loop played on a sickening repeat within that mental container.
'I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her I killed her. I killed her. I killed her.'
Over and over, the accusation battered against his psyche as his mind reached out to grasp that metaphysical box.
His fingers slid across the box.
Upon making contact, the overwhelming feelings of despair, revolt, disgust and fear seemed to get violently suctioned away into its depths.
Juro's mind stopped all functions for a split second, resetting.
He took a deep breath.
It was gone.
The feelings were gone.
His intense panting slowed down.
Recovering somewhat from the initial shock, Juro placed his palm against the cold stone floor beneath him.
The chill seeped into his flesh, a grounding tether of physical reality amidst his fierce mental landscape.
Lifting his gaze, he came face-to-face with the rapidly fading corporeal form of the Dragon Witch. Her body shimmered with golden specks of dissipating energy, the spiritual backlash of her true death.
In those moments, Juro felt an eerie calm settle over him, the earlier anguish and disgust quelled into an expectant stillness. He simply watched, unblinking, as the last traces of the girl-shaped Servant winked out of existence.
Juro closed his eyes as the chair sat empty, the Dragon Witch's form completely faded away.
Only a single dark bloodstain remained on the ornate seat - the only evidence of what had just gone down.
Turning away, he headed down the winding stairs, activating his communication watch.
"Doc, I took her out," he reported flatly.
"Good job." came the crackly reply. "But we've got a way bigger problem... Literally."
"What?"
"Is there a window nearby?"
"Why are you asking that?"
No response.
Frowning, he changed course toward the nearest window embrasure.
What he saw nearly made his jaw hit the floor.
Towering monstrously beside the castle was the grotesque, mushroom-headed abomination. Gross, pulsating tentacles as thick as oak trunks erupted from its jelly-like body in every direction.
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When he had seen it from afar earlier, due to the night sky, he could barely make out its shape, but now that he got a good look at it, it chilled him.
This new threat utterly dwarfed the mighty dragon Fafnir from earlier.
As Juro gawked at its slimy, quivering enormity, just one thought came to mind -
"....That is one ugly mushroom."
His assessment rang horribly true an instant later as one massive tentacle came lancing toward the castle.
The whole structure violently shuddered, startling Juro back to his senses as the entire left wing exploded into rubble.
"Juro! It knows you killed her!" Romani's voice crackled urgently. "Get the hell outta there!"
Another thunderous impact slammed home as a second tentacle obliterated the foundations. Juro lunged for a support pillar as the entire throne room section began collapsing downward in an avalanche of masonry.
He slid uncontrollably across the buckling floor, desperately searching for any exit.
That was when he spotted a leaning pillar miraculously still intact, tilting up towards the castle's peaked rooftops.
Insane, but his only chance.
Juro forced his battered body into a guided slide toward the pillar's base as more of the floor disappeared behind him from the tentacle barrage.
Managing to get a footing on the pillar, Juro's thoughts were shattered as the area of the roof the pillar was resting on broke due to the weight.
With a deep breath, he lunged toward the edge.
He barely caught the edge with his fingertips, desperately trying to haul himself up in desperation.
Once again, his hand slipped further back.
"Shit!"
Suddenly, the obscene appendage of the monster reared back for another obliterating strike at his perch.
Gritting his teeth, Juro poured everything into clambering fully atop the edge as it shuddered violently.
Practically rolling away from the strike as soon as he reached the top, he barely managed to avoid getting smashed into a paste.
There, swaying amid the settling debris, he saw a thick vine snaking down from an overhead parapet.
Gritting his teeth, Juro started a running jump towards the vine.
It was now or never.
With a grunt of effort, Juro leapt across the void, catching the leafy lifeline by his fingertips over the gut-dropping fall.
Not stopping, he slid down in a controlled descent, bark and stone tearing at his clothes and skin.
A blur of motion above made his head snap up - two tentacles converging from opposite angles, aimed to sever the vine he was escaping on!
The damned thing was trying to cut off his only exit!
There was no time to think.
Sucking in one last breath, Juro kicked off the wall, using the momentum of the swing to let go into the open air, his body catching a harsh slipstream of momentum.
He aimed his jump for a massive vine on a wall across the one he was on that could easily hold his weight - one way too thick for the grotesque monster to cut.
The vine also didn't directly drop down like a rope, rather it was shaped like a slide.
Landing on the swaying lifeline, relief washed over him as he sled down. But it was short-lived as he whipped around to see an enormous, wall-sized tentacle barreling straight at him, along with debris flying past him.
No time to think.
Juro bellowed with all his might, "Kraftur!"
The spell burst out, nearly shredding his throat. But it worked - his body instantly hardened like steel.
The colossal tentacle smashed into him with incredible force, launching Juro's near-invulnerable form skyward like a human cannonball. His vision blurred as the ground and sky rapidly swapped places over and over during his skyrocketing ascent.
Limbs flailed wildly as Juro spun through the dizzying freefall. After what felt like forever, gravity finally took over, dragging him back down at terminal velocity.
Bracing himself, arms covering his face, Juro plummeted back towards the ruined cityscape.
He figured he'd be lucky to just plow through a building rather than smear across the cobblestones.
The impact came sooner than expected - him crashing shoulder-first through a solid stone wall in a thunderous explosion of bricks and dust.
Despite the basic Kraftur deflection spell, Juro felt like he'd been rammed in the chest by a bull. Still, it had done its job - he somehow survived the multi-story plummet intact, if badly winded.
Coughing up grit, Juro staggered upright from the settling debris, the spell's protection already faded.
He counted himself extremely lucky to be alive.
His salvation shattered as a distant roar tore through the smoke-choked streets. Whipping around, dread and anticipation filled him in equal measure.
The abomination hadn't been idle during his airborne escape. Its grotesque, skyscraper-sized mushroom form burst from the castle remains in an explosion of pulverized stone.
Whole city blocks crumbled under its incomprehensible bulk. Tentacles wider than tree trunks slammed down, smashing abandoned structures as the monster relentlessly scanned for its prey.
"Seriously," Juro stretched his back with a groan after dusting himself off. "...To think I was just sitting in a coffee shop like, what, a week ago?"
He shook his head in disbelief before breaking into a wild grin.
"That was absolutely badass though! Can't believe I pulled that off. You see all that, Doc?"
"Doc?"
"Ah, sorry, Juro, I was busy telling Fujimaru about your whereabouts."
"...."
"Is something wrong?"
Juro let out an exaggerated groan as he leaned his head back, resting it on his hands behind his neck as he began walking.
"...Just tell me where the others are."
A lone flame flickered within a cavern, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the weary Chaldea crew.
Fujimaru eyed Jeanne with concern, his voice laced with worry.
"Jeanne, are you holding up alright?"
Jeanne's gaze drifted down to the cavern floor. "Fujimaru," she began, her voice soft, "I believe that… apparition wasn't my 'dark side' as we initially thought. Rather, it might have been a manifestation of a twisted wish granted by the Holy Grail."
A tense silence settled over the group.
"Think about it," Jeanne continued. "No Heroic Spirit, not even a Berserker consumed by rage, could harbor such pure hatred."
"...But If she wasn't a true spirit, then who could have conjured her? The Grail, most probably, had been a catalyst for her summoning."
A note of sadness crept into her voice. "Even so, I can't help but feel a deep pang of sympathy. Gilles must have summoned her, his heart overflowing with nothing but malice."
Suddenly, Siegfried, his imposing figure framed against the cave entrance, broke the contemplative mood.
"The Creature... It seems the foul creature can finally move again."
Mozart swiveled his head, eyes following Siegfried's gaze, at the giant creature standing in front of the rising sun.
"Indeed. It appears Gilles has finally taken control. Perhaps the time for action has arrived."
"What if we leave it?" Fujimaru asked.
"That creature," Romani's voice crackled through the Sheba lens, "will devour anyone it encounters. If it's left unchecked, it will engulf all of France."
"Hold on!"
"What about the soldiers!?"
"Don't worry, Fujimaru," Romani reassured him. "We've already alerted the army to evacuate. However, given their sheer numbers, we should probably find a way to destroy that thing soon."
Elizabeth, with a smirk on her face, leaped to her feet, a wild glint in her eyes. "I have a brilliant idea! Let's unleash a barrage of Noble Phantasms! We'll obliterate that beast with a show of overwhelming power!"
Kiyohime scoffed before getting a word in edgewise. "You idiot! Such a brute force approach is-"
But Romani interjected, surprisingly agreeing with Elizabeth.
"Actually, that might just work."
"?!"
"...At this point, we're grasping at straws anyway."
"If we've decided on that," Siegfried declared, a determined glint in his eyes, "Let's go."
Saint George chimed in, his voice resolute, "Indeed, this grotesque creature deserves to be purged from this world."
Suddenly, Mash pointed into the distance, her voice tinged with urgency. "Master, look! Someone's approaching!"
A man's ragged form came into full view, the sun obscuring his form. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his chest heaved with exertion. He stumbled to a halt, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
"Wait, is that-?!" Fujimaru's voice trailed off, a mix of surprise and relief washing over him.
Takahashi Juro.
Juro finally straightened, his voice hoarse as he continued to run.
He began yelling as he ran. "Oh my… Oh my god! Water! Water…! I need water, dammit!"
Juro gulped down the water from the canteen with the fervor of a man lost in a desert.
"Man, Mash! How do you keep this water so cold?" he exclaimed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Well, my shield isn't just for bashing things," Mash replied with a smile. "It has a built-in cooler along with other items."
"Amazing!" Juro breathed as he looked up for a moment.
"So, are we really just gonna throw everything we've got at that giant worm thing? Was that really the best plan we could come up with?"
Fujimaru, who was relaxing across from him, raised an eyebrow.
"You're acting like you haven't just returned from the dead... Maybe ease into things a bit?"
"Come to think of it, you haven't even told us what happened, senpai," Mash added.
Juro waved a dismissive hand. "Details for later! Right now, giant worm monster, right?"
Outside the cavern entrance, Kiyohime noticed Jeanne staring down at the ground, a melancholic look etched on her face.
"Thinking about Gilles again, Jeanne?" she prodded gently.
Jeanne flinched slightly. "No..." she mumbled, but Kiyohime wasn't buying it for a second.
"I can tell when people are lying."
"I..." Jeanne hesitated, then sighed.
Fujimaru spoke up before she could give any more excuses. "Yeah, you should tell us, Jeanne. We're all ears."
Juro, his expression serious, added, "Spill it, Jeanne. A spirit like you shouldn't have anything bothering them. You all should be content with the way you lived."
A faint blush crept up Jeanne's cheeks as she offered a small smile.
"...I always thought a Servant's duty was to support the living," she whispered. "But you... you help the dead as well."
These Masters, surrounded by the remnants of countless past lives, were determined to offer ease even to those who had already passed on.
Two people brimming with life, choosing to reach out to those whose flames had already flickered out.
"What was that?" Fujimaru asked, his brow furrowed.
"Nothing," Jeanne quickly backtracked.
"Let me explain..."
She began to weave a tale of Gilles de Rais, a man born in 15th century France.
A loyal companion to Jeanne d'Arc, he was a devout believer who fiercely defended Christianity during the Hundred Years' War. After their success in reclaiming Orléans, he was hailed as a hero.
The coronation at Reims was a sight forever etched in Gilles's memory, a testament to his unwavering faith. It instilled in him a sense of pride, a purpose he clung to with unwavering conviction.
Most importantly, he was hopelessly enamored with Jeanne. In her, he saw living proof of God's grace, a beacon of salvation sent straight from the heavens.
But reality, as it often does, shattered his idyllic world. When Jeanne was branded a heretic and burned at the stake, Gilles, consumed by despair and helplessness, watched his beloved turn to ash before his very eyes.
His faith crumbled, replaced by a hollowness that gnawed at his soul.
What kind of god would allow this?
Why would god allow one of his most subservient servants to die like this?
Those thoughts ran rampant in Gilles's mind.
Driven by his anguish, he delved into the forbidden arts. He became a practitioner of dark magic, a monster who tortured, raped, and murdered countless innocent children in a twisted attempt to disprove God's existence.
Juro's jaw clenched tight, his fists balling into white knuckles.
He had seen the horrifying aftermath of Gilles's crimes.
The lifeless bodies of children displayed like trophies on a wall.
Their stomachs ripped open, their eyeballs...
FUCK.
He squeezed his eyes shut. No matter the circumstance, no matter the pain, inflicting such suffering on others...
The metal canteen in his hand creaked ominously, warping slightly under the immense pressure of his grip.
Unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable.
Juro was a firm believer in karma.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Even if your reasons were pure as a mountain stream, if you hurt others, justice would come knocking.
You couldn't just lash out like a cornered beast, inflicting pain on whoever crossed your path.
That was bullshit.
Pure, unadulterated bullshit.
Justice would be for that individual.
Pity had flickered for a brief moment, but hurting others was an unforgivable transgression.
Jeanne's explanation hit a snag when she saw the raw hatred burning in her Master's eyes. She paused, letting the silence simmer for a moment.
Gilles de Rais, she continued, met his end in 1440. But not for the countless young lives he snuffed out.
No, his execution stemmed from the bottomless pit of human greed.
They just wanted his land.
Juro's jaw locked tighter, his molars grinding against each other. This was a prime example of the insatiable hunger that plagued humanity.
A man who bathed his hands in the blood of innocents, who reveled in cruelty, escaped true punishment. His demise wasn't a shining moment of heroism, but a petty land grab.
No valiant heroes to vanquish the villain.
The revelation did little to sway Juro's initial disgust.
"For myself," Jeanne murmured, her gaze fixed on the ground, "I hold no bitterness towards my demise. It was a path I chose to walk." Her voice hitched slightly. "And truly, I wouldn't alter it."
"But..." A shadow of sadness crossed her face. "My heart aches for the innocent souls Gilles devoured. Their suffering..."
Juro's expression softened a fraction.
The monstrous form of Gilles loomed over the group, who now stood in front of the towering creature, a grotesque giant thrashing its tentacles in the open field.
A booming voice echoed across the wasteland.
"Well, well, seems I've finally taken control of the demon! How convenient of you to drop by and save me some time."
Juro felt a prickle of awareness, a gaze burning into him despite being unseen.
"You," the voice continued, laced with surprise. "I could've sworn I splattered you like a bug earlier after you killed my beloved saint, but here you are, kicking and breathing."
Despite the monstrous form before him, Juro couldn't help but scoff internally. Gilles' voice, for all its dramatic depth, sounded hollow, like a grand theater with nothing but cardboard scenery.
It was all bluster with no bite.
Or at least, that's what it felt like.
Juro kept his brow furrowed, ignoring the jab about his demise.
"So, all this demon possession just saved you a trip to the dry cleaners, huh?"
"Silence!" Gilles roared, the ground trembling slightly. "Who gave you permission to speak, lowly boy?"
Juro clenched his jaw, swallowing his retort like bitter medicine.
"Now," Gilles continued, his voice regaining a semblance of composure, "as I was saying, with my newfound power, I can finally grant my Saint's wish. If only you would cooperate, Jeanne, we could-"
"Gilles," Jeanne interrupted, her voice surprisingly steady at first.
"From the very beginning, your intention was to resurrect me, wasn't it?"
A beat of surprised silence followed. "Indeed," Gilles finally rumbled.
"That was my desire."
Suddenly, a tremor ran through Jeanne. Her voice, though initially steady, began to crack with emotion.
"Then you were terribly mistaken!" she declared, tears welling in her eyes. "Even if I were resurrected, I would never become the monster you envision!"
"Even with a second chance, I would never become the dragon witch!"
"Yes, I was ridiculed! Yes, I was berated! Yes, they mocked me!"
"You could say that was my final regret!"
Jeanne pressed on, her voice rising in intensity, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "But never," she cried, "never would I bear resentment towards my homeland! Never could I hate it! Because..."
Her voice hitched, her entire body trembling. "...You were all there!" she finally burst out. "You, my friends, my family... You, Gilles! You were all part of this land! I could never bring myself to destroy it! To harm any of you!"
A heavy silence descended upon the battlefield. Jeanne, her voice cracking with vulnerability, pleaded.
"Please, Gilles... Just stop this. I don't want any of this."
A long pause followed, filled only with the rasping wind. Then, a deep rumble echoed from the monstrous form of Gilles.
"Your words... kind, truly kind," he rumbled, a hint of sorrow lacing his voice.
A flicker of hope ignited in Jeanne's eyes. Perhaps she was getting through to him.
But her relief was short-lived.
"But even if you choose to forgive this country," Gilles continued, his voice turning cold, "you forget one thing..."
"I HATE THIS COUNTRY!!!"
The very air trembled under the force of his fury.
"I swore on everything I held dear that I would destroy them! I made it my goal to destroy it!" he raged. "This land that betrayed us! I clawed my way towards that goal, but it always remained just out of reach. Yet, how could it be within reach? I was never truly part of it, was I? Still, I clung to that desperate hope! I begged endlessly, but the outcome remained the same! Why? Why couldn't I have been there? Why..."
His voice cracked, raw with anguish. "WHY, OH WHY DID NO ONE SAVE HER?!"
The monstrous form writhed, tentacles lashing out in a frenzy. "You may forgive them, Jeanne," he roared, "but I never will!"
The earth itself began to tremble as grotesque appendages erupted from the creature's flesh.
"God!" he shrieked, the sound echoing across the desolate plains.
"The King!" The creature's form contorted, its central mass splitting open.
"This country!" he screamed, his voice a maddened echo. "I'll destroy them! I'll kill them all! Every last one! That's my wish! The one I entrusted to the Grail!"
The monstrous form continued to mutate, growing larger with each agonizing transformation.
"Don't stand in my way!" he bellowed, a monstrous caricature of his former self.
"JEANNE D'ARC!!!"
Jeanne let out a pained groan, her face etched with despair. The ground continued to shake violently as the creature doubled in size, its rage threatening to consume the world.
Mash, her voice taut with urgency, turned to Fujimaru. "Senpai, these emotions... this anger... it's strong enough to tear the world apart. I don't understand."
Fujimaru stood silent, his gaze fixed on the monstrous form before him. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice quiet yet heavy with understanding.
"It's because... he's human."
Mash fell silent, contemplating his words.
Humans, with their messy emotions, their capacity for both immense love and devastating hatred. They were the ones capable of such cruelty, such destruction. They were the ones who lashed out when their world shattered, who clung to anger in the face of despair.
A desperate plea hung in the air as Jeanne stammered, "Wait, Gilles! I can still-"
Juro, his face hidden beneath the shade of his hair, stepped protectively in front of her. "Jeanne, stop," he commanded, his voice firm.
"You again!" Gilles roared, his monstrous form trembling with rage. "Silence yourself, pathetic insect! You have no right to speak here! Do not presume to judge my views!"
Juro met the creature's gaze head-on.
"When I faced the Dragon Witch," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, "I believed she wasn't entirely wrong. Her rage stemmed from emotions anyone could understand. But there was one thing I believed she deserved – justice. She deserved to pay for her actions. Even if she was understandable, she still chose to involve innocents. That's a line I won't cross."
"But then you come along," Juro continued, "and reveal that she felt that way because of you. It sparked a flicker of pity within me for you. Honestly, even now, I can't help but feel a pang of sympathy."
He took a deep breath, his voice hardening as he clenched his fist.
"But that sympathy has its limits! You chose to inflict agony on others! I saw those bodies! Children, displayed like trophies on a wall! I witnessed their lifeless faces with my own eyes! What you endured doesn't erase your crimes, Gilles de Rais! Jeanne, in her boundless kindness, forgave you! Yet you remain in this way of destruction!"
Juro's voice boomed, echoing across the desolate field.
"As Jeanne's Master," he declared, his eyes blazing.
"I, Juro Takahashi, will not let you continue your rampage! Your reasons may be understandable, but abandoning Jeanne after her forgiveness would be a betrayal!"
Earlier, when faced with Gilles, a flicker of empathy sparked for the man. But that empathy quickly flickered and died.
The piles of bodies Juro had witnessed, displayed like grotesque trophies, were a stark reminder of Gilles' monstrous actions.
However, the true turning point, the moment Juro's internal conflict ignited into burning resolve, was witnessing Gilles' rejection of Jeanne's forgiveness. Here was a man who had caused so much suffering, yet when offered a lifeline of redemption by the very Saint he claimed to love, he cast it aside.
Juro's voice echoed across the desolate field, his anger a counterpoint to the monstrous roar of Gilles.
"Destroying the lives of further innocents is unacceptable!" he roared. "Destroying the country that wronged you is unacceptable too! Leaving you to rot in this darkness – that, Gilles de Rais, would be the greatest betrayal of all!"
"Silence!" Gilles roared back, his monstrous form writhing in fury. Tentacles lashed out towards Juro, who instinctively covered his face.
A flash of blinding light erupted before him, followed by the metallic clang of steel. Jeanne stood tall, her blade dripping with a grotesque ichor, the severed tentacles smoking at the tips.
"Jeanne!"
Jeanne offered him a small smile.
"...Thank you, Juro. I am truly glad to have you as my Master."
Her voice grew steely as she planted her flag firmly in the earth.
"In the name of Ruler Jeanne d'Arc, I hand down the sentence to that monster!"
She turned to her assembled comrades, her eyes blazing with determination. "Everyone, I request your assistance! I want you to open up a path for me with your Noble Phantasms!"
A chorus of affirmations rose from the group.
Siegfried hefted his massive sword. "Leave it to us, Jeanne."
Saint George, his armor gleaming in the dying sunlight, echoed the sentiment. "Aye, open a path for the Saint!"
Elizabeth smirked, a glint in her eyes. "Okay! I'll sing you a song to remember!"
Mozart, his expression solemn, fixed his posture.. "Brace yourselves," he announced. "This is the final performance."
Kiyohime fluttered her fan, her expression unreadable. "Naturally, although this is a little embarrassing..."
Mash stood firm, her shield raised high. "Mash Kyrielight! At your service!"
With a resolute nod, Jeanne pointed her flag at the monstrous form of Gilles. "Let's go!"
The monstrous form of Gilles de Rais lumbered towards them, a grotesque mockery of its former humanity. "Large enemy lifeform incoming!" a voice from the Chaldea staff blared over the comms, urgency lacing every word.
"Prioritize the Masters' backup!" Romani, the head of Chaldea, barked. "Allow maximum mana output for all Mystic Codes!"
"We're counting on you, Fujimaru, Takahashi!" their voices echoed through the battlefield.
The Servants sprung into action, forming a defensive line before Juro and Fujimaru. A colossal appendage, resembling a nightmarish drill, erupted from the creature's flesh and hurtled towards the group. Its sheer size threatened to obliterate them all.
"Mash!" Fujimaru yelled, his voice tight with concern.
"I got it, Senpai!" Mash responded, a determined glint in her eyes. She raised her shield, meeting the drill head-on.
"Lord Chaldeas!" she roared, straining under the immense weight. Her feet dug deeper into the ground, leaving deep furrows in their wake.
"I'll hold it back!" she declared, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm counting on you all!"
While Mash held the monstrous drill at bay, the other Servants didn't waste a moment. Mozart and Elizabeth charged forward, flanking the creature.
"I'd thought that after defeating my future self, Carmilla, it wouldn't matter what happened," Elizabeth declared, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "But today's special! I'll sing for my friend Marie! I'll use my Noble Phantasm, match my rhythm, Amadeus!"
Mozart halted for a beat, an unexpected warmth blossoming in his chest. Was this... heroism? Could a cynical composer like him truly be feeling a hero's resolve?
"How embarrassing," he muttered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It seems I'm starting to think like one of them."
Quickly composing himself, Mozart joined the fray. Elizabeth placed a strange microphone on the ground, activating her Noble Phantasm.
Golden musical notes materialized, swirling around them like ethereal birds. Mozart's notes intertwined with Elizabeth's, a captivating melody resonating across the battlefield.
"Of course I'll join your song! With ease! I'm a genius, after all!" Mozart declared.
The melody intensified, accompanied by a surge of magical energy. A magnificent castle, emblazoned with speakers, materialized from the ground, unleashing a cacophony of music.
Upbeat classical melodies intertwined with techno beats, creating a strange yet powerful soundscape. The ethereal birds unleashed beams of pure mana, bathing the battlefield in a radiant light.
As the music reached a crescendo, Elizabeth's voice boomed through the air.
"Báthory Erzsébet!!"
Mozart followed suit, his own Noble Phantasm echoing across the battlefield.
"REQUIEM FOR DEATH!!"
The duet of magic and melody, a blistering fusion of Mozart's somber chords and Elizabeth's vibrant notes, pushed back against the monstrous form.
Staggering under the sonic assault, the creature lurched backward, its grotesque form momentarily suspended in mid-air.
"It's floating!" Fujimaru yelled.
Tentacles lashed out blindly, whipping at the air like the flailing limbs of a dying beast.
Mash, finally relieved of the immense pressure, slumped to her knees, panting heavily. A soft voice reached her ears, and she turned to see Kiyohime approaching, her fan held aloft.
An otherworldly blue flame danced across its surface, casting an eerie glow upon the battlefield.
"You've done well, Mash," Kiyohime spoke, a hint of respect lacing her voice. The flame intensified, bathing her figure in an ethereal light.
"It's my turn," she declared, taking a deep breath. A melancholic smile played on her lips.
"..."
"While I was denied the chance to meet my beloved," Kiyohime continued, her voice tinged with a bittersweet longing, "this summoning has brought me unexpected companions. I have gained more than I could have ever imagined."
She cast a fleeting glance at a certain boy, his short, slicked-back hair framing a face etched with confusion. A flicker of emotion, perhaps even a hint of interest, crossed her features before she quickly averted her gaze.
'There's a spark there,' she thought to herself, a hint of sadness lurking beneath the surface.
'But if he sees what I am about to become… he'll flee, just like all the others.'
The intricate patterns adorning her kimono began to smolder, consumed by the blue flames.
'Well, no matter, perhaps it is not meant to be.'
Kiyohime's form blurred and distorted, the flames coalescing into a grotesque mockery of a body – a long, serpentine dragon with an amorphous form, its true nature barely discernible. A power both terrifying and exhilarating pulsed within her.
"Samadi Tenshin!" Kiyohime roared, her voice distorted by the transformation, a monstrous echo of her former self.
KASHOU ZANMAI!!
The monstrous form of Gilles de Rais, battered by the relentless sonic assault and now engulfed in Kiyohime's fiery barrage, crashed down onto the battlefield with a bone-jarring thud.
Smoke and dust billowed from the point of impact, momentarily obscuring the creature from view.
Seizing this opportunity, Saint George charged forward, his armor glinting in the dying sunlight. His face, etched with a solemn resolve, mirrored the weight of the situation.
"Blasphemy born from faith," he muttered, his voice heavy with sadness. "Hatred born from love. It truly is a tragedy to see how far a pure knight has fallen."
He raised his sword, its polished surface reflecting the swirling smoke on the horizon. "However," he continued, his voice ringing with conviction, "I cannot allow innocent civilians to be harmed any further!"
"Now is the time to perform my duty as a Saint!" With a mighty roar, Saint George thrust his sword skyward.
"Abyssus Draconicus!!"
A blazing white light erupted from the blade, condensing into the unmistakable image of a roaring dragon – the insignia of his Noble Phantasm.
Upon activation, it designated any targeted being as a "dragon," effectively altering their core essence for the purpose of combat. In this case, Saint George's target was the monstrous form of Gilles de Rais.
Which was a perfect setup for a dragon slayer.
In a blur of motion, Siegfried became a whirlwind of steel. With a roar that echoed across the battlefield, he lunged towards the monstrous dragon, Balmung held high.
The legendary blade crackled with a blue light, its immense size threatening to split the sky in two.
"Good and evil are only a matter of perspective," Siegfried bellowed, his voice a force of nature against the creature's agonized screeches.
"I cannot judge him as evil, nor can I claim my own path is inherently righteous."
Juro's speech flashed in his mind.
"You cannot let him pass, not based on good or evil… You fight to stop him in the name of justice."
Siegfried's eyes hardened with newfound resolve. Juro's plea resonated within him.
The act of Justice commanded punishment of the offender, even with a valid reason. Even if they had good reasoning, if they involved the harm of others, that was evil.
That is the feeling of justice.
Siegfried understood that feeling.
"I will answer that cry!" he roared, his voice drowning out the creature's tormented shrieks. "Regardless of good or evil, that is the justice I believe in!"
"Phantasmal Greatsword: Sky Demon's Fall!"
With a single, earth-shattering swing of Balmung, Siegfried unleashed the full fury of his Noble Phantasm.
A blinding blue light erupted from the blade, slicing through the very ground itself.
The sky momentarily lit up as the air crackled with raw magical energy. The light lanced out, engulfing the monstrous form of Gilles de Rais in its incandescent embrace.
A deafening scream, filled with a lifetime of rage and despair, ripped through the air before being abruptly cut short.
Siegfried landed beside Jeanne, his massive blade leaving a crater in the earth. "The path is open," he announced, his voice gruff yet tinged with respect. "The rest is up to you, Saint."
Jeanne offered him a small smile. "Thank you, Saber. I'm glad I could fight by your side."
Her gaze shifted towards the pulsating mass of flesh where Gilles struggled in vain. The creature writhed, desperate to regenerate, but the sheer power of the combined assault had overwhelmed its borrowed resilience.
"You fiends!" Gilles roared, his voice a rasping echo trapped within the monstrous flesh. His form, half-submerged within the grotesque mass, twisted in a grotesque parody of a human struggle.
He watched, disbelief curdling into a desperate plea as Jeanne approached the creature. "Are you going to stab me with that flag?!" he shrieked. "It won't stop anything! If I perish, the Grail will seize control! With its infinite regeneration, none will stand a chance! Your comrades, this revolting country… they will all be crushed!"
Jeanne stood unfazed, allowing Gilles to spew his venomous threats.
"Yes, that is why I'm going to burn it all," she declared, her voice unwavering. "You, this monster, and me."
A faint golden light began to emanate from her outstretched hand, coalescing into a radiant blade. It was the sword of Saint Catherine, the weapon that had once guided her through countless battles.
"What are you… what are you doing, Jeanne?" Gilles stammered.
"A Noble Phantasm?!"
Jeanne stood silent.
"Jeanne, you can't mean-"
Gilles reached a hand towards her, a desperate plea etched on his face.
"Please stop! Anything but that!"
Jeanne, resolute in her purpose, ignored them both. A solemn prayer escaped her lips.
"Lord, I offer this body to you."
In that instant, a blinding light erupted from the creature's core. It wasn't the grotesque pulsating glow they had witnessed before, but a brilliant explosion shaped like a radiant flower.
Juro shielded his eyes from the sudden brilliance.
"Doc! What the hell's she doing?! I can't feel any mana output from her!" he yelled, his voice strained.
Romani's voice, heavy with sorrow, crackled back through the comms. "This is her second Noble Phantasm, Juro. It's the materialization of the concept of her end, the Saint burned by flames. And because of that concept, her life force is being extinguished."
Juro's heart hammered against his ribs as realization dawned. "It's a suicide Noble Phantasm?!" he roared, disbelief and fury warping his voice.
"That's right," Romani confirmed, his voice tight. "Its true name: La Pucelle."
"WAIT!" Juro's scream echoed across the battlefield, a desperate plea swallowed by the deafening silence that had descended upon the group.
"If you knew that, why not stop her! She's going to die! Stop her!"
Romani spoke, his voice devoid of his usual bravado. "It's something only she can do, Juro. And I wouldn't let you stop her, even if you hated me."
A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken emotions. Juro gritted his teeth, a bitter taste coating his mouth. "Damn it!" he cursed, his fists clenching.
Why? Why did it have to end like this? She had been given a second chance, a life as a Servant, and she had thrown it away.
Why?
The thoughts of both Juro and Gilles, at that precise moment, were the exact same.
As the flames intensified, consuming not just the monstrous form but also Jeanne and Gilles within, a final, anguished scream ripped through the air.
It was Gilles' voice, laced with a horrifying mix of terror and existential despair.
"THERE IS NO WAY SOMETHING THIS ABSURD CAN EXIST!! A NOBLE PHANTASM, THE PRIDE OF A HERO! TO BE A FLAME SUICIDE! GOD! WHY MUST YOU DEFILE HER LIKE THIS?!"
His scream, filled with a profound misunderstanding, echoed across the battlefield, a haunting counterpoint to the radiant light that bathed the scene.
Juro could only stare, his mind numb as the flames danced, a silent testament to the Saint's sacrifice.
A flicker of surprise danced in Gilles' eyes as he noticed the serene smile playing on Jeanne's lips amidst the inferno. "You can smile through this? In the middle of these damned flames...?" he rasped, his voice choked with disbelief.
"I do not think of these flames as abominable," Jeanne replied, her voice a soft whisper against the roar of the conflagration. "Yes, they burn with an intensity that sears even the soul, but even when I walked the mortal plane, I was captivated by their beauty, this brilliant hellfire."
Gilles scoffed, a wet gurgle escaping his charred lips. "I don't understand! How can you feel that way in the face of such torment?"
Jeanne's smile remained unwavering. "It is because I believe," she spoke, each word a testament to her unwavering faith.
Despite the flames licking at her very being, charring her flesh and searing her bones, her lips continued to form silent prayers. From the day the voices of her Lord and the grief of her land had first touched her heart, she had known this path would lead to fire. Yet, she had embraced it with open arms.
"I chose not to avert my eyes from my fate," she continued, her voice barely audible above the crackling flames. "I refused to abandon the sorrow of those who perished in that brutal war."
She spoke of the battlefield, of the chants of "Saint" that had echoed in her ears as she fought. A bitter truth hung heavy in the air. In their eyes, she was a holy warrior, a symbol of righteous fury.
However, she was also a girl who had taken lives – lives deemed heretical, yet belonging to another Christian nation nonetheless. In their blind patriotism, they branded her enemies as devils while painting themselves as angels.
This hypocrisy gnawed at her, the guilt a constant companion.
"I ran across the battlefield, branded a saint," she whispered, her voice laced with a melancholic acceptance. "But how can a saint condone the slaughter of innocents from another land, another nation blessed by the same God?"
A single tear escaped her scorched eyelid, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "And because of that, I knew the fires of retribution awaited."
Gilles could only stare, a flicker of understanding battling with his despair. "And this… this fiery pyre is your punishment?" he croaked, his voice raw with emotion.
"Can such a ridiculous narrative be true?!"
His voice cracked, shattering the fragile illusion of anger he had maintained.
Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the grime and blood that caked his skin. "This is wrong! This is an injustice! Your life, your unwavering faith, ending like this... unrewarded, condemned to this fiery oblivion! A second time at that!" he sobbed.
But Jeanne's smile never wavered. "You are mistaken, Gilles," she spoke softly, the flames seeming to dance in response. "No matter the fate that befalls me, there are lives I have touched, lives I have saved."
Closing her eyes, she drew a final, ragged breath. Her voice, barely a whisper now, carried the weight of a life lived with conviction.
"This path…" she breathed, her words echoing in the vast emptiness that death promised, "...was not the wrong one."
"After all this was the correct one! The country didn't reach its end! Even after I died, though there were many more tragedies and sacrifices! It continued on! And on! Even until the modern times!"
A pall of sadness settled over Gilles' face as Jeanne finished speaking. The fiery inferno that surrounded them seemed to dim in response to his despair.
"Even if you never forgive them," Jeanne continued, her voice a beacon of hope amidst the flames, "our ending will remain miserable. Even if that sin is not forgiven, the two of us remember..."
Her voice trailed off, replaced by a single word, heavy with meaning: "Light."
A memory flickered in Gilles' mind, a vision of a young Jeanne d'Arc standing tall on a podium, her banner held high, bathed in the holy light filtering through stained-glass windows. It was the day he had first witnessed her, a girl radiating an untainted purity that had captivated him then.
Jeanne's words echoed in the fiery emptiness.
Simply because one refused to forgive, it did not change the past. In fact, clinging to resentment would only fuel the flames of hatred, consuming them both.
Understanding dawned on Gilles' face. He closed his eyes, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek.
Jeanne d'Arc smiled.
"....Let's return to our own chronicle, my dear friend, Gilles de Rais."
For a fleeting moment, the monstrous visage of the creature melted away, replaced by the weary face of a man untainted by the evils of the world. A radiant light engulfed them both, washing away the inferno and the sins that bound them.
"FWOOSH!"
The light slowly faded away, revealing Juro standing, his back turned.
"Juro..." Fujimaru's voice broke the silence.
Juro remained motionless for a moment, a newfound lightness settling in his body. It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders, the burden of Jeanne's sacrifice finally released.
He looked down at his hand, a fake smile playing on his lips.
"Dammit," he muttered, the word laced with a strange mixture of frustration and relief. Was that all he could do? Just say those words?
But what else could he have done?
Suddenly, a brilliant light erupted from above, momentarily blinding him. He shielded his eyes and looked up, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
Floating gracefully in the air, bathed in a soft celestial glow, was a young woman with cascading golden hair, devoid of any armor, simply just the clothes of a village girl–
Jeanne d'Arc, returned.
"I'm still here..."
she began, her voice filled with wonder. "But I used my Phantasm..."
Beside her, the broken form of Gilles materialized, his spectral form tethered to hers by a radiant chain.
"Using the Grail," He explained, "I've returned your spirit origin to before you used your Phantasm."
A bittersweet smile touched Gilles' lips. "...This seems like my loss," he said, his voice filled with a quiet acceptance.
He reached out and gently grasped Jeanne's hand. "Goodbye, Jeanne. I will return to where I belong, the deepest pit of hell."
"Ah..." Gilles squeezed her hand one last time.
"I'm glad..." he began, his voice thick with emotion, "...I could finally save you from those flames."
A warm smile crossed his features.
"Wait! Gilles!" Jeanne cried, but her words were cut short as Gilles' form shimmered and faded away, dissolving back into the ether.
"Thank you!" she cried out, her voice echoing in the emptiness. "Thank you!!"
Tears welled up in her eyes as she slowly descended towards the ground.
Juro, his heart heavy with unspoken emotions, rushed forward and caught her before she could touch down.
Silence blanketed the group, a heavy weight settling in the wake of the dramatic events.
Juro helped Jeanne to her feet, his gaze drifting towards a nearby mound of rocks.
"Hold on, I need to do something," he muttered, a determined glint in his eyes.
Romani began the debrief as Juro walked away.
Juro stood hunched over the spectral torso and head of Gilles de Rais, a storm brewing within him.
For some reason, he was still tethered to this world.
The man who had caused so much suffering, who had become a monstrous caricature of his former self, now lay before him, seemingly at peace with his fate.
Yet, peace was the very thing Juro couldn't grant him.
Not now at least.
"Honestly," Juro began, his voice laced with a bitter truth, "what you did was… complicated. In that moment, offering yourself to the flames to save Jeanne, it was… noble, I'll give you that. You gave your life once again for another."
He paused, the weight of Gilles' actions pressing down on him.
"But that doesn't erase the past, Gilles. At that moment, seeing you reject forgiveness like that, a chance of redemption, I hated you. I resented everything you stood for. The countless lives you killed, the innocence you devoured… I saw those faces, those lifeless eyes, haunting me."
Gilles remained silent, his spectral form an empty vessel compared to the monstrous entity it once housed. Juro wasn't sure if it was acceptance or resignation etched on his face, but it fueled the fire in his gut.
"But right now," Juro continued, his voice low and dangerous, "I'm not driven by hatred. I want to understand. Do you think the families of the children you killed, the children themselves…"
He trailed off, letting the question hang heavy in the air. Did Gilles, in his final moments of selflessness, earn their forgiveness?
Did their pain diminish with his sacrifice?
"Do you think," Juro pressed, his voice gaining a sharp edge, "that despite you sacrificing your life for someone else, do you feel they forgive you?"
Gilles' spectral form flickered slightly, a hint of unease flickering across his features.
Finally, a raspy voice emerged from his lips. "I will pay my due payment once I go down there," he rasped. "I regret what I did. I truly still condemn it, but… I feel at ease."
"Regret? Ease? It doesn't matter if you regret it, Gilles. You still… you did what you did. Countless lives, stolen just because you wanted to disapprove of the existence of god. Don't you think were better ways to do that?"
He straightened up, his gaze unwavering.
"I don't hold a personal grudge against you. But I'm sure you've heard of the term 'justice,' haven't you? You died a fiery death staged by the selfishness of others. An improper one. I'm here to deliver justice for the innocents you devoured. A proper death."
This wasn't about vengeance, Juro realized.
It wasn't about satisfying some primal urge for retribution. It was about ensuring that the scales of justice, however imperfect, were balanced. The lives Gilles had taken couldn't be returned, but Juro, in his own way, could ensure that his actions weren't simply relegated to a footnote in history.
"Justice," Juro repeated, the word resonating with a terrible finality. "For the children, for their families, you will be judged."
Juro wasn't naive. He knew that killing Gilles here wouldn't bring back the dead. It wouldn't erase the pain or mend the broken lives.
It was a way of saying, 'Your crimes will not be forgotten.'
He was a hero, wasn't he? Didn't heroes exist to judge the acts of villains?
"You're probably wondering," Juro muttered, his voice laced with a cynical amusement, "why some random guy like me is judging you like some kind of high and mighty figure? Why can't I just leave you be?"
He knelt beside Gilles, the spectral form shimmering faintly in the fading light. "Because," Juro continued, his voice hardening, "a truly good person, no matter the darkness that consumes them, no matter the good they attempt in its wake, no matter what sacrifices they make, would always face the consequences of their actions. They wouldn't expect absolution without atonement."
A flicker of doubt crossed Juro's face. Perhaps, if he hadn't seen the horrifying aftermath of Gilles' deeds, the mountains of innocent corpses, the raw grief etched on the faces of the bereaved, his desire for justice wouldn't be so passionate.
Maybe, he thought, a part of him was using this as an excuse, a justification for the deep-seated loathing that still burned within him.
Gilles remained silent.
Juro raised his hand.
"Trace: On,"
As the energy crackled around his hand, Juro couldn't help but notice a peculiar hollowness emanating from Gilles. It was like a vast emptiness, devoid of malice, yet utterly devoid of anything resembling genuine remorse.
As the magecraft dismantled Gilles' spectral form, a chilling realization dawned on Juro. This wasn't a being consumed by darkness. This was a broken creature, a shell of a man seeking solace in a twisted form of self-sacrifice.
There was no grand redemption arc here, no last-minute epiphany.
Just a hollow acceptance of his fate.
"Gilles de Rais," Juro spoke, his voice heavy with a newfound understanding, "Maybe now, you'll be forgiven by the people you killed."
The very word tasted foreign on his tongue.
Who was he to decide such a thing?
Some random guy thrust into extraordinary circumstances?
Why was he judging like it was his job?
Because he felt a strange obligation to do it.
He felt a duty.
Juro watched as Gilles's spectral form dissolved into nothingness.
A strange hollowness settled over him, a chilling realization gnawing at his insides.
But before he could fully process it, a primal urge erupted within him.
A primal, ravenous hunger flared in his gut, the kind that bypassed reason and clawed at his sanity. It demanded flesh, a specific kind of flesh. Juro's mind screamed in protest, but his body reacted on autopilot.
Without conscious thought, his hand lashed out, the urge guiding his movements.
He tore at the empty space where Gilles had been moments before, his fingers encountering a resistance that shouldn't have been there. A gasp escaped his lips as a small, glistening shard materialized in his grasp.
For a fleeting instant, the shard pulsed with a sickly, unnatural light, a grotesque mockery of life. Then, just as abruptly, it dissipated, consumed by Juro's body in a single, ravenous gulp.
Confusion washed over him like a tidal wave. What had just happened? What had he consumed? His mind, sluggish from the violation, finally dredged up a horrifying possibility.
"Malefactor?" he rasped, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. Was this some kind of demonic residue, a remnant of Gilles' twisted essence?
Panic clawed at his throat. Had he just condemned himself by consuming a piece of a demon?
Wait. Was this the pillar that Malefactor mention-
Before he could spiral further, Fujimaru's voice cut through the fog of terror in his mind. "Juro!"
He jerked his head up, his gaze snapping towards the Chaldean Master.
"Coming!"
He paused for a moment, staring at the rocks where he finished off Gilles.
Maybe now, his punishment down there wouldn't be as dire.
Juro headed towards the group.
Panic flared in Fujimaru's eyes as Elizabeth and Kiyohime shimmered, their forms destabilizing. "Ah! Why're they disappearing?" he cried.
Elizabeth flashed a grin. "Well, with the baddies gone, our job's done here!"
"Your job?" Juro echoed, confused.
Romani's voice cut in over the communicator. "Ah, I see. Since you fulfilled the Grail's purpose, you Heroic Spirits must depart as well. A Spirit lingering too long in the world...well, let's just say it wouldn't be pretty."
Elizabeth bounced on the balls of her feet. "There you have it! We may be fading, but if fate brings us together again, let's team up! And you," she turned to Juro, a playful glint in her eyes, "you've fought hard, so consider yourselves honorary puppies from now on!"
Juro sputtered. "Wha...? Why puppies?! What would elicit that name!?"
But Elizabeth was already gone.
Kiyohime let out a dramatic sigh. "That girl's a fool. The odds of meeting the same person twice in a Grail War are astronomical."
"I suppose I'll take my leave then," she continued as she fluttered her fan. "We likely won't cross paths again."
Kiyohime cast a fleeting glance at Juro, a hint of vulnerability flickering in her eyes. "It's a shame you had to witness such an unsightly display at the end, however..."
Juro tilted his head. "Unsightly?"
"Don't make me spell it out! My noble phantasm!"
"What!? I thought it was amazing! You turned into a giant dragon! I only heard about it in legends, so seeing the actual thing was sick!"
"Right, Fujiimaru?!"
As Juro continued his enthusiastic praise, a thought flickered across Kiyohime's mind.
There was no way her monstrous form could be considered slightly to look at. He was probably speaking just to make her feel better about herself.
After all, she could tell when someone was lyi-
"..."
A blush bloomed across her face.
"C-could you...?" she stammered, extending a pinky finger. "Stick out your pinky?"
"Is this some kind of goodbye ritual?"
Before he could finish, Kiyohime's finger brushed his. In a flash of light, she vanished.
"Ack! Did I...did I kill her?! I killed her didn't I?!" Juro shrieked as he clutched his head.
A few meters away, Saint George and Siegfried exchanged weary glances. "Quite the eventful Grail War," Saint George remarked.
Siegfried clasped his hand. "Thanks again, Saint. You truly saved the day."
Saint George returned the gesture. "The same goes for you, Sir Dragon Slayer. I hope I cross paths with you again."
With a final nod, he faded away.
Mozart waltzed over to Fujimaru and Mash. "Time for my curtain call, I believe! A fitting conclusion, wouldn't you agree?"
Siegfried and Mozart shared a smile.
"Thanks to you, Fujimaru, I got to fight the glorious battle I yearned for," Siegfried declared.
"Likewise," Mozart boomed. "And the privilege of fighting alongside a fine maiden like Mash!"
Mozart looked at Juro, who had just noticed the presence of Fou, petting it on the head.
"You too Takahashi, even though I didn't know you for long, hearing about your sacrifices was incredible!"
Juro smiled.
An awkward silence settled over the group.
Mozart frowned.
"Seriously!" he exclaimed, pinching Fujimaru and Mash's cheeks. "Don't you two know how to say goodbye properly?"
While Mozart launched into a playful tirade about farewell etiquette, Siegfried turned to Juro, a serious glint in his eyes.
"When I heard you mention 'justice,' it made me ponder, lad." Siegfried smiled warmly.
"Upholding justice isn't just about following rigid rules. It's about understanding, discerning right from wrong. True justice requires a keen eye and a kind heart, the will to protect the innocent and fight for what's right, no matter how treacherous the path."
Juro nodded, taking Siegfried's words to heart.
Siegfried placed a hand on Juro's shoulder. "You have the potential to become a true hero if you follow that path."
Juro's eyes widened, but before he could respond, Siegfried vanished.
Something gnawed at him, however.
Siegfried was a hero sure, but his definition of a hero differed from what Juro believed.
Ignoring the feelings from now, Juro shook his head.
Across the field, Jeanne stood alone, the younger Gilles having walked away—likely after apologizing for his earlier mistakes. Juro approached, intending to bid her farewell.
She turned to him.
"...Jeanne. Honestly, it feels like I've known you for a long journey."
"It's weird, it's only been a few days...." Juro swallowed the lump in his throat.
"But I need to tell you something. Thank you for—"
Juro's words caught in his throat as Jeanne pulled him into a warm embrace.
"?"
"You were the first person I met in this singularity, yet you were the one who helped me. You could have left me be, but you didn't. You helped me regain my former power. You risked your life for me, time and again. You even cared to ask what was bothering me whenever I felt down. You busied yourself with the feelings of a mere spirit."
She pulled back, eyes shining. "For that, I truly cannot thank you enough. But with words, I can say: Thank you so much, Takashi Juro."
"No problem." Juro smiled, then his expression turned pensive.
'Seriously?! That was the best you can say?!'
Jeanne's expression changed slightly.
"There is one thing, however. Your friend Romani said that all the events that occurred in this singularity will be erased."
She nodded in understanding. "I will be glad that my mother didn't die. However, meeting Fujimaru, you, and everyone else, fighting together..." Her gaze turned wistful. "That being erased does make me a little sad."
Juro looked downcast for a moment before Jeanne's bright smile returned. "We shouldn't be too serious, however. Let's part ways smiling!"
She turned away briefly, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "I've got a feeling that we'll meet again. My hunches are usually correct, you know?"
Juro opened his mouth to respond, but his feet suddenly lifted from the ground.
"!?"
Mash, Fou, and Fujimaru also began to float upwards in a strange array of blue particles.
"Wait, what's happening?!" Juro and the others called out in alarm.
"I'm starting the Rayshift," Romani's voice came through. "Any longer and you'll get caught up in the restoration of history."
"Tch!" Juro clenched his fists, frustration welling up inside him. He wanted to say more, to talk to Jeanne longer, to properly express the depth of his gratitude and the bond they had forged.
As his body began converting into spiritron particles alongside his companions, he knew this might be his last chance.
He had fought alongside legends - Mozart, Marie Antoinette! Siegfried! He had slain a dragon!
For the first time, he had experienced what it truly meant to be a hero, to save people!
But none of it would have been possible without her:
"Jeanne!"
He called out, his voice thick with emotion as she turned to face him. The blue particles swirled around them, but in that moment, only she existed.
"Thank you for everything!"
Juro's eyes shone.
"I hope...no, I know we'll meet again! Thank you!"
The last thing that filled Juro's vision was the smile of Jeanne d'Arc as his vision went dark.
"M..Master..."
"Wake up my master..."
Juro's eyes fluttered open, met with the familiar white of Chaldea's ceiling.
As he turned to his right he noticed a small lump in his bed.
Removing the sheet, Juro shrieked.
"GAH! KIYOHIME?!"