I am dreaming.
I already know what this dream holds.
It's a dream of a Heroic Spirit.
Ah, it's her.
The Avenger-class Servant.
An Alter of a saint.
The "dark side" of Jeanne d'Arc.
She is a reflection, yet she denies it.
She strives to forge her own identity, yet the shadow lingers.
She is an Avenger, the inverse of the saintly light.
A being bound to the lake of evil.
She wades through it, each step heavy and slow.
She despises the taste of it, the sensation of it.
But she cannot escape.
This is her role.
If there were a god, surely she would be punished.
Yet, none does.
There is no judgment, no acknowledgment.
The other version of her—the saint—is cherished.
Loved. Revered.
She watches from the depths of hell, unseen by heaven.
Not that she cares, of course.
Or so she tells herself.
She endures the constant anguish.
The never-ending darkness.
She is the shadow of the golden saint who saved France.
No, less than a shadow—
A replica without memories.
She can't recall her mother.
She doesn't even know her life before this form.
She is a faker.
An imitation of a saint who burned herself for others.
And yet, she burns others for her own sake.
Her flames are born of hate, swirling and devouring.
To be acknowledged, she seeks strength.
To surpass the original, she hardens her resolve.
She will become something greater—
A double worthy of the name.
But ever since she was summoned, something gnaws at her.
A boy.
A persistent, foolish boy.
He approaches her again and again.
He talks to her, always smiling.
Always trying to be close.
She hates it.
She hates him.
Every word he speaks grates on her nerves.
Every glance stirs the embers of her disdain.
Serving another disgusts her.
The sight of him makes her want to rip him apart.
Yet, she doesn't.
She wants to.
But she doesn't.
And she can't understand why.
She is an Avenger.
A being steeped in self-hatred.
She punishes the world, then punishes herself.
"If I am an inferior copy, I will surpass the original."
…
She hates me.
I know she does.
But I can't stop.
I won't stop.