Shinji Matou at Your Service

The stone-paved passage seemed to stretch infinitely forward, undoubtedly a result of Semiramis' magic.

However, Jeanne d'Arc was convinced that she was progressing toward her goal, as the aura of the Holy Grail was becoming increasingly distinct.

The passageway was quite narrow, only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. In contrast, the ceiling was so high it was almost invisible. The air was filled with a cold, earthy scent, a nostalgic sensation.

Apart from being separated by that sudden trap, she had encountered no further obstacles up to this point. Was it because her adversaries were already prepared for her? Or perhaps—? No, it didn't matter anymore; she had already sensed the person welcoming her.

"Come out, Red Caster—Shakespeare."

"Oh, oh! Even if you hadn't called out, I would have appeared on my own! My manuscript, melding passion, spirit, sincerity, and various other elements, is finally complete!"

Shakespeare, who had been in spirit form, finally revealed himself. He was dressed in a dashing medieval noble style, holding a pen in one hand and clutching a thick book under his arm.

The distance between them was considerable. Speaking as if on a stage, Shakespeare bowed deeply and said:

"It's our second meeting, although the first time we've spoken, country maiden! From now on, I shall be your opponent."

Jeanne merely frowned at his theatrical tone.

"You?"

According to the knowledge bestowed by the Holy Grail and the information displayed on the Servant status screen, Shakespeare had no abilities to counter her except his notoriety. Jeanne had thought so, but before the battle, Shinji had warned her to be wary of Shakespeare. If she encountered him, she must kill him as quickly as possible—

Recalling Shinji's extremely serious expression, Jeanne bit her lip and charged at the supposedly weak writer.

Shakespeare sighed, somewhat troubled: "Oh dear, oh dear, such a madwoman, not even giving me time to recite my lines?"

"Sorry, but I have no interest in listening to your nonsense...!!"

She sped toward him like a bullet. Having decided to trust her companion, she would never doubt Shinji's words.

Unfortunately, the distance between them was enough to give Shakespeare time to activate his Noble Phantasm.

"What a pity, I wanted to explain my Noble Phantasm a bit. Here it comes! The curtain open! Return to your seats. No smoking, photography or recording. The whole world is my stage! The play begin! Let the thunder of applause roar!"

Shakespeare's script opened, sealing the world and transforming it into a stage where the story was forcibly played out—just as Jeanne's Holy Flag was about to pierce Shakespeare's body.

"Huh...?"

The scenery changed. Before she could comprehend it, the nostalgic scent of fresh grass swept over Jeanne's nose.

"This is... my hometown...!?"

She looked at her hands. Having helped with farm work since childhood, her knuckles appeared somewhat pronounced—hands that made her feel a bit ashamed. The armor she wore and the Holy Flag she held were nowhere to be seen.

"…Is this an illusion…?"

Such poor taste—Jeanne couldn't help but frown. Indeed, this was her hometown, Domrémy. It was here that she received the divine revelation and then ventured into the world.

She had six companions. She donned men's clothing, accepted a horse, and went to serve under Charles VII—

Although these were nostalgic memories, now was not the time to be lost in sentiment. How could she break this illusion?

Jeanne looked around and saw a figure.

"Red Caster..."

Facing Shakespeare, who made a ceremonious bow, Jeanne was about to approach him. However, his figure suddenly vanished.

"That's useless. Whether you try to harm me or the characters, this story won't stop. Because that's the nature of this Noble Phantasm. Even if you're the Ruler, you're no exception."

"If it's an illusion, I can break it with my Magic Resistance."

"This is not an illusion, but a story. And the protagonist is you, Jeanne d'Arc. Know that this is my attack. Please, thoroughly relive your life and experience the impossible story."

This was Shakespeare's theatrical Noble Phantasm. Against Jeanne, who could block all attacks with her Holy Flag, magical attacks were completely ineffective.

However, his Noble Phantasm belonged to a domain beyond such magic—essentially, it had the same level of coercive power as a Reality Marble. Once sent to the stage, one could only play their role until the story concluded.

It wasn't an attack on the body but on the spirit.

Whether hero or saint, it didn't matter—this was a poison that could bring those living with sin to their death.

"Are you prepared?"

"My life, compared to many heroes, is not even worth mentioning. Even if I were to reenact such a thing, it wouldn't be interesting."

To her response, Shakespeare merely shook his head silently and then disappeared.

Making someone relive their own life, as a Noble Phantasm, could only be considered third-rate at best. ...Of course, the coercive power that could even ensnare the Ruler with the highest Magic Resistance was indeed formidable. But even so—even so, she could not succumb to such a Noble Phantasm.

"Jeannette."

Upon hearing this voice, her spine trembled. A complex feeling between joy and dread. It was a very terrifying yet very nostalgic voice.

She turned around and found it hard to believe. This was merely a dream, a product of Shakespeare's Noble Phantasm. However, the person before her was so consistent with her memories that she almost forgot this fact.

The person who called her by her childhood nickname was a gentle and kind woman.

"Mother."

They had parted when she was seventeen, and she hadn't been able to see her again until her death. Though she had long been prepared for this, recalling it now, her heart was filled with guilt and nostalgia.

"Do you have to go?"

"Yes, I must go."

The words came out naturally as if it were a matter of course. Yes, it was just like in the past. The conversation she had with her mother when she was about to leave Domrémy.

"I cannot ignore the Lord's call. Perhaps this farewell means we won't see each other again in this life—but please watch over me. As long as you and the Holy Mother are watching over me, I will never be defeated."

"I will pray that the light always illuminates your path."

Yes, after engraving these words in her heart, she left the village and set out—at least, it should have been like that. However, her mother continued to speak:

"...But, you didn't come back."

"Mother...?"

Jeanne's mother shook her head as if in distress. Her expression bore no malice, only sorrow.

"Why did you have to suffer the stake and be mocked by people for eighteen years after that?"

"This..."

"Your will is forged from fire and steel. No matter what kind of hardships or despair you face, your faith will never waver. But I just feel very sad."

If only she could accuse her of being an impostor, it would have been easier. But this was indeed her mother Isabelle's true feelings. Jeanne knew this... she could feel it.

"So—don't go. You should understand what will happen if you do, right?"

A moment of hesitation. Nevertheless, Jeanne firmly held her mother's hand and said:

"Mother, even so, I must go. To save this village and this country. I must stand up no matter what."

Such a response, of course, offered no comfort. Her mother merely wept in sorrow—her heart felt as if it were being torn apart.

"But you still picked up the Holy Flag. You are indeed Jeanne d'Arc; such resolve is not something ordinary heroes can compare to!"

Hearing the whisper come from nowhere, Jeanne responded straightforwardly:

"Even if you take my mother's form, it won't work, Caster. If you're satisfied, then release me immediately."

"No, no, your story has just begun! Now, let's move on. The second act begins!"

A snapping sound echoed in her ears. The girl merely blinked, and the stage had shifted.

The scent of earth, the stench of blood, and the smell of gunpowder—

Jeanne d'Arc now stood in the middle of a battlefield.

Holding the Holy Flag, she faced the rain of arrows without fear, charging forward on a white horse.

It's fine. Although the impulse to give up and fall to her knees was reaching its limit, she could still endure.

Suppressing the scream of fear, she bravely advanced with the soldiers—

"No matter how many times I repeat this scene—"

No matter how many times she repeated it, what she had to do would not change, and the path she had to walk would remain the same. Her past would not change, nor would she regret it.

Even when facing the moment of death... her heart would not yield.

"I see, just as your mother said. Your heart is forged of fire and iron. No matter the situation, as long as you know what you must do, you charge straight towards the end. Truly wonderful!"

Jeanne barely managed to hold back from saying, "You're so noisy," and continued to deal with the story constructed by Shakespeare.

Enemy soldiers begging for their lives, soldiers advocating for killing captives, and numerous contradictions on the battlefield.

Although she was a saint, she fought on the battlefield. Although she was a saint, she accepted the killing actions of her people.

The enemy soldiers who should have already died condemned her for this.

"If you are a saint, why do you kill us?"

"Why do you harm us while holding the Holy Flag?"

"We are not sinners; we are just ordinary people standing on a different side from you."

Jeanne quietly accepted these accusations. Everything they said was true. Although she was a saint, she wielded the flag and approved of harming others. That shouldn't be the actions of a saint.

The past saint Martha once drove away a dragon with the power of prayer—

What she was doing now was merely commanding people to strike down other people.

"That is indeed the case. I am by no means a saint; this is what I believe myself."

Even if she held an immensely devout faith and prayed to the Lord every day— even if she became a being who received revelations, she still believed this.

"In that case, why do you stand up?"

An enemy soldier with an arrow piercing his skull asked. His head was drenched in blood, his eyes hollow, and his purple lips taut.

Facing him, who had turned into a zombie, Jeanne responded solemnly:

"Because even so, I firmly believe that this path leads to the right one."

It was not out of anger but a resolute declaration of will.

Her words shattered both the enemy and her soldiers. They turned to dust and slowly disappeared along with the battlefield filled with the smell of blood.

Stepping over her helpless sense of guilt, Jeanne shouted:

"Caster! You have a third act, right!? Hurry up and start it already!"

"Yes, yes, of course. This is a story to explore whether your life was a mistake and, if it was, whether it should be corrected. Now, let us enter the third act!"

The scenery darkened—after the scene changed, Jeanne found herself riding a white horse in a parade. The surrounding people were cheering with joy.

Without even looking, she knew where she was just by these cheers. The coronation ceremony of Charles VII was a miracle that had finally been realized. In Reims Cathedral, Charles VII underwent the anointing ceremony on his forehead and completed his coronation here.

The smiling angel statue at the front entrance of the cathedral—while gazing up at the angel statue, she shared her inner emotion with her companions.

Charles VII, who had stood up, turned his face toward her. Despite his slender build, his eyes contained a strong will, and with a sincere expression, he asked Jeanne:

"Saint Jeanne, why do you not stop at this point?"

The cheers ceased, and everyone in the cathedral looked at her with puzzled eyes. Ignoring the slight pain in her chest, Jeanne countered:

"—What do you mean?"

Charles immediately replied:

"It is here that I diverged from your path. From this moment on, your downfall—even if not the Lord, anyone should be able to understand. Someone as wise as you couldn't be completely unaware, right?"

"…"

"Answer me, Jeanne. Do you still think the path you walked was the correct one?"

"Yes."

"You have no basis for that. The revelation you received was something the Lord granted to you alone. The results only came later. Why should others believe in the path you alone think is right?"

"The path I walked is exactly such a path. It is different from Your Majesty, who harbors doubts yet wants to try believing in others."

Charles VII hoped for peace with the enemy Burgundy faction, and this became the decisive reason for his separation from Jeanne.

Although the cathedral was crowded with people, it was as silent as if frozen. This was Jeanne's story; the supporting characters could not speak or disappear without permission.

Charles VII spoke with a voice as if coughing up blood:

"In retrospect, you were indeed proven right. But that was just the work of historians adding it later. At that time, under those circumstances, was my choice wrong? Could it be said to be wrong? And Jeanne, why didn't you try to make me believe you? With your power, I should have believed in you! It wasn't that I didn't believe in you! It was you who didn't believe in me…!"

That was the anguish born from being accused of "making a mistake" in later history.

At the same time—it was the frustration born from abandoning the beloved girl. Jeanne held Charles VII's hand and shook her head, denying it:

"No, it was destined for Your Majesty and me to walk different paths here. ...Moreover, even if Your Majesty had chosen to believe in me, the result likely wouldn't have been any different. We are just bricks in the massive staircase of history. But, it is right. I might be right. But, it is also wrong. Both Your Majesty and I fought with all our might. Just that—just that alone, isn't it already enough?"

The moment she finished speaking, everything disappeared.

"—I wanted to know this answer. Very well, let's move on to the next scene."

The next appearance could perhaps be described as "as expected."

"Pierre Cauchon..."

He was the bishop who presided over Jeanne d'Arc's trial. He was a member of the Burgundian faction, opposed to Charles VII, whom Jeanne supported, and had no rightful authority to judge her.

He was also a man with an unusual enthusiasm for executing Jeanne d'Arc as a heretic.

With a mocking smile on his face, the man said:

"We meet again, miserable bitch."

Jeanne sighed, not knowing where to turn her gaze for a moment—she had to stare into the void for now.

"Red Caster, it's useless. Even if your script recreates him, it will only repeat the same scene as before. This Noble Phantasm cannot cause physical pain, can it?"

Jeanne's critique was correct. Shakespeare's Noble Phantasm purely affected the mind. Even someone as famous as Shakespeare couldn't recreate pain in a stage play.

Pierre Cauchon shrugged and nodded:

"Indeed, that's correct, Saint Jeanne. With my power, I can't even make you bleed a drop. The only ones who could oppose you are probably ancient heroes like Red Lancer and Red Rider, or my master."

Shakespeare spoke eloquently through Pierre Cauchon's mouth.

"…In that case, what is the purpose of this Noble Phantasm?"

"That, I'll save for the final act."

Shakespeare, disguised as Pierre Cauchon, began to walk. With just a snap of his fingers, the scenery changed—although she had expected it, Jeanne sighed wearily.

"This is the scene of your crucifixion, right?"

Time was stopped.

Those who cursed her, those who looked at her with sympathy, and those who cried as they sent her off—most of those mourning her execution in Rouen's Vieux-Marché were ordinary citizens. Of course, many accused her as a witch.

—If curses are distant country's songs, then sorrow is like a mother's lullaby—

"Did you foresee such a scene?"

Facing Shakespeare's question, Jeanne nodded:

"Yes, I had long been aware of such an outcome."

"No regrets?"

"—Of course not. Because, with me as the foundation, my homeland has been saved."

"Is that so! You say you have no regrets. Whether in this era or later, there's no girl more tragically celebrated than you, right?"

"From an outsider's perspective, it's different from experiencing it firsthand. I've never felt my life was bad."

That was Jeanne's true feeling.

A life too short, glory too fleeting, and a sorrowful end. But even so, she could confidently assert that her life was not merely sorrowful.

Flames suddenly surrounded her. In the now empty square, the two faced each other. That was the saint who vanished in the flames and the man who gave the order.

"Was your death here predestined?"

"Yes, it's a fate I cannot and do not intend to escape."

"Do you need to justify yourself to those who were implicated by your arrogance?"

Shakespeare, borrowing Pierre Cauchon's face, smiled as he spoke—even Jeanne felt her heart waver.

The blazing flames seemed to accuse her as they flickered. A pair of dark eyes stared intently at Jeanne. Like during the past heresy interrogation, those were eyes full of hatred and mockery.

Even so, Jeanne nonchalantly responded. She did not hate Pierre Cauchon. He lived in his way and met a miserable end. ...In a way, they were similar.

"No, there's no need. Although I find it sad."

Yes, there was no need to justify herself to those implicated by her. It would be an act of desecrating their fate and choices.

Jeanne arrived at the unequivocally correct answer—

"That's what I wanted to hear."

He smiled at this correct answer. With a snap of his fingers, the flames disappeared. It was not darkness that appeared in her sight but a pure white space. At some point, Pierre Cauchon was gone, and Shakespeare revealed himself.

"Now, let's move on to the next scene."

"…What are you saying?"

The next scene. Jeanne had no next scene. She had no life beyond this. She ended here. Facing Jeanne, who furrowed her brow, Shakespeare smiled:

"Because this is a bit unbearable, please be careful!"