Chapter 270: Who Is the Master of the Singularity?
The girl named Marie, whose full name was Marie Antoinette, was not human, but a Heroic Spirit summoned by the Holy Grail, just like Siegfried.
She had been the wife of Louis XVI, the fifth king of the Bourbon dynasty of France in the eighteenth century, known as the dreamlike noblewoman and the very symbol of a Europe ruled by aristocracy.
And standing before her was her childhood friend, the world renowned composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the great musician who had left behind countless masterpieces.
He too was a hero inscribed in human history.
Unlike Marie, however, Mozart was not born in France, and as a musician, he held little attachment to this land.
Yet so long as it was the will of the girl before him, he would do his utmost to obey.
Just as when he was young, when his astonishing talent first blossomed and he journeyed across Europe with his father, he had met Marie Antoinette, a girl radiant enough to feel almost sacred.
Since then, you have been all that I possess, the guiding light of my life and of my music.
In a place no one noticed, the man named Mozart lowered his gaze, and his eyes briefly gleamed.
Marie only pursed her lips and smiled.
"France…"
The land where she was born.
The country she loved.
The homeland she cherished.
Even if it demanded her own sacrifice, she would still do everything in her power to save that ideal country of hers.
"I have already spoken with Charles…"
Her clear and gentle voice entered Mozart's ears and, for the briefest moment, the face of the great musician darkened.
It was fleeting.
The hostility of a man toward a rival in love.
…
That night, beneath a sky dense with stars, the fields outside Orléans stretched into the distance, crossed by narrow irrigation channels.
Far away, a waterwheel turned steadily, drawing water up from the river into the canals. Beneath the moonlight, the winding streams resembled white ribbons, binding the lush fields together.
The windmills seemed to draw in the starlight itself.
Outside the quiet courtyard, Siegfried rose to his feet after putting away the Dragon Slaying Demonic Sword he had so carefully cleaned.
Beside him, a massive dragon eye slowly opened.
"Hmph…"
Fafnir lay sprawled on the ground like a hill of black scales, breathing heavily. Each exhale stirred a violent gust in place.
The Dragon Slayer and the Evil Dragon stood together, and yet the scene possessed an absurd sense of harmony.
Siegfried said nothing. By nature, he was a disciplined and taciturn man, even when facing the greatest enemy of his legend.
Fafnir, on the other hand, sneered.
"You want to swing that demonic sword of yours very badly, don't you?"
Siegfried glanced at him.
Did he want to?
Of course he did.
They were enemies by nature, creatures born from incompatible principles. To humanity, Fafnir was evil incarnate, a curse made flesh, the very omen that foretold a Dragon Slayer would one day become a dragon himself.
That could not be changed.
So yes, from the bottom of his heart, Siegfried wanted to slay Fafnir.
That was his personal wish.
But after hearing Rowe explain the plan in full, he had decisively suppressed that impulse.
"A hero who can only fulfill the wishes of others. How pitiful."
Fafnir seized the chance to mock his old nemesis without restraint.
"So what?"
Siegfried answered, his disordered silver hair stirring in the wind, a faint smile appearing on the face of the epic hero.
"That curse already ended with me."
He had slain the dragon.
And he himself might have become one in turn.
But he had died first.
Before he could ever become an Evil Dragon, he died as a man and as a hero, cutting that curse off with his own life.
"You are already dead. There is no reason for me to kill you again, is there?"
"Hmph."
Fafnir choked on his own sarcasm, then snorted.
"Human heroes. How boring."
Siegfried let out a low laugh.
"Perhaps."
Perhaps it was boring, but he had never regretted his choice, just as he had never regretted answering the summons.
In Siegfried's understanding, the meaning of a hero's existence had always been to fulfill the wishes of others.
And on this land, there were too many wishes.
Destruction.
Disaster.
Resentment.
Rage.
…
And there was also him.
"It seems you have figured out his identity as well."
"It is obvious, is it not?"
"Hmph…"
Even though Rowe called himself an unknown missionary, his actions along the way had long since betrayed enough of the truth to anyone sharp enough to look.
He was older than the planet itself.
The one existence who encompassed countless pantheons.
"The Lord of the Wild Hunt and the Myriad Armies. His glory has already illuminated this place."
Siegfried looked toward the quiet courtyard, his eyes unreadable.
His own wish also existed there.
Hoo hoo hoo.
Inside the room, Ritsuka slept with all four limbs splayed out like a starfish. Beside the window, Mash leaned against the frame, holding Fou in her arms, listening to her Senpai's unguarded snoring and tilting her head.
"Senpai really is relaxed…"
"But somehow, when Senpai is like this, it makes everyone else feel more at ease too, doesn't it?"
"Fou!"
"By the way… is this where Miss Jeanne grew up?"
Mash drew her gaze away from Ritsuka and looked outside.
The courtyard bathed in moonlight, the fields all around it, the fresh and unconfined air… all of it was foreign to Mash, who had spent almost her entire life inside Chaldea, high in its frozen mountain facility.
Then, in the next instant, she saw two figures again beneath the moonlight.
Those were…
"Mr. Rowe and Miss Jeanne?"
The man in classical fitted clothing and the blonde girl in dark violet garments walked side by side through the fields. The strong night wind lifted his loose black hair and tangled it for an instant with the tips of her golden hair.
The Son and the Saint.
The image was strangely harmonious.
Mash tilted her head. It seemed the two of them were speaking.
"Fou!"
Fou's cry rang out clearly.
Both Rowe and Jeanne heard it at the same time. They looked toward the window and saw the girl and the small beast watching them.
Rowe smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
Jeanne nodded politely, then turned her gaze back to Rowe.
"My Lord…"
"There is no need to say anything more."
Rowe continued walking, his voice calm.
"Since I am here, there is no way I would simply stand by and do nothing."
Jeanne opened her mouth. She had come precisely to persuade him not to act personally.
It was not merely because, as a believer, she did not wish the incarnation of the Lord upon the earth to be tainted by this singularity.
It was also because…
In the end, this singularity had begun from her.
She wanted to resolve it herself.
To face that other self with her own hands.
"You are mistaken about one thing."
Rowe slowed his steps.
"This singularity may once have begun because of you, but at this point, you are no longer its true source."
Jeanne was startled. She wanted to continue, yet discovered that Rowe had already raised his eyes again.
He looked over the surrounding countryside.
This was, without question, Jeanne d'Arc's home.
Her home in Orléans.
Jeanne had come from a minor noble household there. Her family possessed a little land and a little wealth, and the courtyard they now occupied had once belonged to them.
According to the proper course of Pan Human History, the Hundred Years' War had already ended long ago, and Jeanne's family had naturally passed away as well, leaving the place empty. But as the former owner of the estate, Jeanne herself could use it without issue.
That was why, after entering Orléans during the day, they had chosen to rest here.
Many years ago, it had been in the church not far from this very courtyard that Jeanne prayed to the Lord, received revelation, and first stepped onto the path that would save France.
"But now is not then."
Rowe felt the night wind sweep across the fields, his voice drifting over the wilderness.
"What France faces now may be terror from the ultimate abyss."
"This is not something you can resolve alone."
"Of course, what belongs to you to solve, I will not interfere with."
"For example, that other you."
Terror from the ultimate abyss?
Jeanne frowned, pondering those words.
But since the Lord had already spoken this far, she did not press any further.
The evening breeze was gentle. The grass rustled in waves. And amid the swaying fields, the air seemed to carry the sound of an endless concerto.
Wait.
A concerto?
Jeanne froze for an instant, then suddenly focused.
She looked ahead.
And at the same time, Rowe casually caught a streak of cold light between two fingers.
The gleam of an executioner's blade scattered and dimmed in his grip.
The man who had swung the greatsword recoiled the instant the strike was stopped. His body withdrew at once, black cloak snapping in the wind, silvery green hair tossing wildly around a young and severe face.
His movements were silent.
He was an excellent assassin.
The attacker.
Jeanne's gaze darkened slightly.
If it had truly been Saint Jeanne d'Arc standing here, then naturally no assassin would ever have come.
But she had not forgotten that outwardly she was still acting as the Dragon Witch.
An assassination attempt was only natural.
And this attacker had come fully prepared. He had used music to cloud the senses. Had Rowe not been standing before her, then the instant that blade had been drawn, Saint Jeanne would likely have lost her head.
Her Noble Phantasm, Luminosité Eternelle, was an almost absolute defense.
But she had always been vulnerable to sudden ambush from outside her awareness.
The saint of Orléans, invincible on the battlefield, had once been captured precisely because her marching route had been betrayed to the enemy by French nobles, resulting in a surprise attack.
Thank the Lord.
Yet just as Jeanne assumed the assailant would flee after failing his first strike, the silver haired attacker, while retreating, suddenly threw the greatsword in his hand.
From the side.
Past Rowe.
The earlier slash had only been a feint.
"An excellent assassin," Rowe said, turning slightly and catching the thrown blade with one hand, "but useless."
"Did it fail?"
The retreating man stopped. His boots carved a clean trail through the grass.
"Of course it failed. None of your movements can escape my notice."
Rowe smiled.
"Charles Henri Sanson."
"You know me?"
The silver haired executioner's pupils shrank.
Charles Henri Sanson, fourth head of the Sanson family, executioners of Paris for generations. Born during the age of revolution, infamous for ending the lives of nobles and commoners alike, including Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.
Golden light flickered within Rowe's eyes.
This was one of the manifestations of the Spirit Origin of the Son of God.
"True Name Discernment?"
"No."
"Revelation."
[Revelation (EX)]
The highest rank of revelation. The eyes granted from heaven to the incarnation of the Lord upon the earth.
Eyes that observed all things and saw through all mysteries.
Jeanne d'Arc possessed Revelation as well, but hers was far beneath this. What Rowe bore surpassed it entirely.
It was another of the skills in Rowe's current Spirit Origin, alongside [Jacob's Limbs (A++)].
"A saint of the Church…"
Charles understood at once.
Only a saint of the Church would possess Revelation.
And only such a saint could casually foil his assassination.
The Church had endured for ages. Among the many saints and holy maidens it produced, there had never been any shortage of terrifying saints.
Rowe neither confirmed nor denied it. He merely set the captured sword down.
"And the great musician hiding in the shadows can come out as well."
"Did it really fail? How useless, Charles Henri Sanson."
A voice sharp enough to carry a faint mocking music rose in the air, and the melody that had shrouded the fields came to an abrupt end.
The newcomer who stepped out was a somewhat gaunt man in a black musician's formalwear with a deep purple overcoat, conductor's baton in hand.
His face was narrow and pale, but his eyes were unnaturally bright.
"You dare call my music insufficient?"
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart looked furious.
"If not for my music, you would still be a wandering madman!"
Charles fell silent, unable to refute him.
Though they were both Heroic Spirits, their manifested states as Servants were quite different.
And unlike most Servants, Charles, perhaps because he had executed too many in life, especially Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette, had manifested in a deeply unstable state, mad and bloodthirsty.
Had Mozart's music not awakened his reason, Charles would likely still be prowling the wilderness like a feral executioner.
"Enough, both of you."
A clear voice stopped their argument at once.
Mozart and Charles simultaneously bowed.
"Your Majesty."
Rowe and Jeanne both turned their eyes toward the newcomer.
The approaching woman wore a red round hat, with long silver hair falling over her shoulders. A crimson dress wrapped around a graceful, though not overly voluptuous, figure. The short skirt swayed in the wind, showing pale, bare thighs.
Her face was lovely and radiant.
Her nobility and warmth were entirely different from Jeanne's purity.
She was closer in temperament to Nero.
An idol.
"Marie Antoinette?"
Rowe recognized her immediately.
Jeanne's Revelation was weaker than Rowe's, but even she could tell the woman's True Name at a glance.
"Greetings to both of you."
Marie Antoinette lifted her skirt slightly in a flawless court curtsy.
Her bearing was unmistakably noble.
Even though she had come to assassinate them.
Yes, the assassination had failed. And yes, the enemy before them was obviously powerful.
But even so, as the wife of Louis XVI and Queen of France, she could not simply retreat.
This was their only chance.
At that very moment, the noble queen lowered herself in courtesy, and the air around them twisted.
Night folded in upon itself.
The fields vanished.
The wild grass and distant irrigation channels disappeared, replaced by towering palace walls and stone pillars. Beneath their feet, the ground transformed into layers of luxurious interlocked tiles. Palace light washed over Marie's body.
The Reality Marble called Guillotine Breaker.
This was Marie's Noble Phantasm as the Queen of France, summoning the royal palace and using its splendor to strengthen her, while shutting away the exterior world.
"If the surprise attack failed, then you mean to fight directly?"
Rowe looked around.
Jeanne's hand tightened on the fleur de lis banner at once.
"Luminosité Eternelle!"
Eternal Radiance.
Mozart raised his violin.
Charles gripped the restored executioner's blade in his hand.
Rowe did nothing to stop them. He only looked at Queen Marie.
"Confident?"
The royal light shone all around. Marie stood straight beneath it, lips pressed together.
"One must always try."
She was not absolutely confident.
But neither was she without confidence.
She knew Rowe was also a saint of the Church. But she would never believe he was the Son of God from the early centuries of the faith.
Three against two.
Within this Reality Marble, Marie, Mozart, and Charles all received enhancement.
As noted before, this was a once in a lifetime chance.
But Rowe only smiled.
"Unfortunately, this is not your chance."
The instant his words fell, the Reality Marble shook violently.
Mozart and Charles, who had been preparing to rush forward, both stopped.
They looked up.
The dome overhead shattered. The Reality Marble was being torn apart from outside.
And then the intruder arrived.
"You who have stolen my name."
"Your doom has come."
Like a demon king descending to confront a hero, a fierce wind swept in.
The figure that stepped from the void wore black armor that traced the lines of a beautiful body. Her expression clearly said that she believed herself to be extremely cool.
In Rowe's judgment, however, she was suffering from terminal chuuni syndrome.
He glanced sideways toward Jeanne.
Just in time to see the real saint cover her face.
As for Marie and the other two, all three had gone blank with shock.
Why was there another Jeanne d'Arc?
Could it be…
"Is your Noble Phantasm some sort of double?"
Mozart blurted out with sudden inspiration.
Charles immediately denied it.
"No. Impossible."
Then, after a beat, he looked at the pair before him and gave his conclusion.
"Undoubtedly…"
"These two are simply puppets who believe they are Jeanne d'Arc."