Chapter 273: Drawing the Sword
Before this, the Witch had never truly taken the Jeanne d'Arc standing before her seriously.
Because she knew the truth.
She knew that before her death, Saint Jeanne d'Arc really had wavered. However briefly, however faintly, resentment and confusion had indeed existed in her heart.
And because of that, the Saint who answered the call was not whole.
Her Spirit Origin was incomplete. The power that should have descended from the Throne had not descended in full.
So long as even a trace of resentment remained, even the slightest hesitation, then Saint Jeanne d'Arc could never defeat her.
Because the Dragon Witch's existence was, in a sense, the inversion and completion of Jeanne d'Arc herself.
But now, the Witch realized she had been wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The Jeanne d'Arc before her was resolute. Sincere. Free of resentment. Free of confusion.
The sublime will shown by the Saint in this instant, the light burning within those radiant eyes, made the Witch's thoughts go blank at once. Even the Fafnir behind her let out a cry of fear.
The evil dragon formed from the curse that the Dragon Slayer would one day become a dragon himself had always feared this sort of person most.
Because a will like that could resist curses ordinary people would never survive.
That was why Sigurd and Siegfried had been able to slay Fafnir in the first place. It had never been because they were simply stronger. As heroes, they had been powerful, yes, but clearly not enough to surpass an evil dragon standing at the summit of dragonkind, a being whose might rivaled the highest order of Divine Spirits.
What they had possessed was will.
Will, and the pride to uphold their own glory.
And now, even this former Fafnir saw that same brilliance in Jeanne d'Arc's eyes.
A will so steadfast and luminous that all malice seemed destined to fall away before it.
"Roar!"
Under the holy light radiating from the fleur de lis banner, the Spirit Origin supporting the former Fafnir began to collapse.
It was only a projection of history, not the true Fafnir in full. To be broken apart beneath such noble conviction was only natural.
The Dragon Witch took half a step back.
The evil dragon banner in her hand drooped.
Her delicate body, wrapped in black robes and black armor, trembled faintly. Silver white hair danced in the gale, the strands bound by the black headband on her forehead lifting and scattering. Her bared fangs showed unwillingness, yet beneath that defiance lay unmistakable fear.
"You..."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Kill me. Erase the resentment and confusion that once existed in your heart. Kill me, and you will become flawless. A true Saint."
The Witch's origin was simple.
She was the resentment that had once existed in Jeanne d'Arc's heart.
She was the confusion that had once existed in Jeanne d'Arc's heart.
She was the struggle against an unjust world, the hatred born from betrayal, the loneliness of waiting in a cage for judgment.
Even if she was not truly Jeanne d'Arc, her existence was indeed the flaw in Jeanne's heart, drawn out by Gilles de Rais through the Holy Grail.
Kill her.
And the emptiness in Jeanne's heart could be filled.
Kill her.
And all proof that Saint Jeanne d'Arc had once been imperfect would vanish.
Kill her.
"And then you will be complete."
The sky remained smothered beneath black clouds. Vast mist spread across the fields. In the dim, drifting world beyond them, the magnificent palace and sprawling bronze city of R'lyeh showed their weathered outlines in fragments.
The resting place of the Great Old Ones.
Amid that darkness, amid chaos and strangeness, the wind lashed at armor and cloth alike. Gold braids danced in the storm.
Facing the Witch's words, the Saint said nothing.
She only gripped the fleur de lis banner and stepped forward through the grass, one step at a time.
The Witch bared her teeth and laughed.
The laugh sounded wild, but only because it was forced.
It was over.
She could not win against Saint Jeanne d'Arc in this state.
She held great magic power.
But she could no longer use it.
"Ha... a perfect Saint. What a joke."
The Witch stopped retreating.
The world behind her stretched wide, but there was nowhere left to hide.
Then just let it end.
Right here.
She closed her eyes.
Yet the smile on her lips only grew colder and more reckless.
So this is death, is it?
Her thoughts halted.
The death she had prepared herself for did not come.
Instead, she slowly opened her eyes and felt warmth brush her face.
The Saint who had reached her did not raise her banner and purge her with holy light.
Instead, Jeanne d'Arc reached out and gently touched her cheek.
Saint Jeanne smiled.
"Why would I kill you?"
The Witch froze.
"You said it yourself. My heart truly did once hold resentment."
"So you are me."
"If I kill you, then what I gain is not completion. It is loss. It is abandonment. More than that... it is betrayal."
"I cannot betray France."
"And even less can I betray myself."
You are me.
You are the flaw in my heart.
You are the imperfection within me.
But I acknowledge you.
I acknowledge the resentment I once carried.
I acknowledge the confusion I once carried.
Only by acknowledging the past can one truly have the courage to face the future.
"Isn't that right?"
Jeanne slowly withdrew her hand.
Her smile was serene. Beautiful.
The Witch stared blankly at her.
There was no killing intent.
Only acceptance.
Only recognition.
The Saint was acknowledging her.
Acknowledging the false self born from her own heart.
"Really... you are so annoying."
The Dragon Witch turned her head away, her face faintly flushed. Yet for reasons she herself could not quite explain, there was relief in her expression.
There was joy.
And there was peace.
She had always known that she was a fake.
Her resentment, her revenge, all the things she had done before now, perhaps they had only ever been attempts to prove to the world that she existed at all.
Perhaps she had only feared returning to emptiness.
Feared loneliness.
"From now on, you are me. You are Jeanne d'Arc."
Jeanne extended her hand and took the Witch's hand in her own.
"Everyone needs flaws in order to move forward. It is because people are imperfect that they can feel real."
"This is the truth the Lord taught me."
"Will you walk forward with me?"
"Annoying, annoying, annoying!"
The Dragon Witch's canine teeth flashed, but she did not pull her hand away.
"I'm not doing this for your sake. I'm only doing it for myself."
"So do not misunderstand."
How could she refuse?
How could she possibly refuse?
"Yes. I understand."
Jeanne smiled, happier than before.
This was exactly why she had asked Rowe to let her handle this herself.
We are both Jeanne d'Arc.
So why should we fight one another?
As the clasped hands of the two girls began to shine, the Dragon Witch stared at the Saint's face and could not help smiling in return.
The Dragon Witch had originally been nothing more than a false Servant who should not have existed.
But now, with Jeanne d'Arc herself acknowledging her, the world at last recorded her properly.
She officially became a possibility of Jeanne d'Arc.
The Dragon Witch, born from the flames, bearing vengeance in her heart, riding an evil dragon, returning to burn those in power.
She and Jeanne were both Jeanne d'Arc.
They both loved France.
And above all else, they both revered and loved the Lord.
"That's right, isn't it? He is the Lord. The incarnation of the Lord upon the earth."
Seeing the shock in the Dragon Witch's gaze, Jeanne's lips curved into a slightly mischievous smile.
She lifted her eyes to the heavens.
Toward Rowe, who had risen into the sky to stand before Cthulhu.
Jeanne knew that now that the Dragon Witch had truly become another Jeanne d'Arc, she could finally feel the Lord's revelation for herself. She could now understand the source of all those strange emotions she had held toward Rowe before.
"The Lord has never abandoned us."
"This is the Lord's salvation, for us and for this world."
The Saint raised her fleur de lis banner.
The Dragon Witch gave a snort.
"The Lord or whatever, I do not care."
And yet she still lifted her evil dragon banner.
It was like the divide between angel and demon, heaven and hell.
But whether good or evil, both still belonged to humanity.
Both still belonged to the world.
"My Lord is here, and His glory is eternal!"
The cry rang out into the storm.
"This is... surprising. But moving, too."
Siegfried cut down another monster with a swing of his sword. As he sensed the joined presence of the Saint and the Witch, he paused and smiled.
Beside him, Fafnir shot him a sideways glance and let out a roar.
"Do not forget. You and I are still enemies."
"Since we are enemies, let us compete, evil dragon."
Siegfried raised his Noble Phantasm.
Balmung, the Phantasmal Greatsword, Felling of the Sky Demon.
The ancient dragon slaying sword blazed crimson.
"Let us see which of us can protect more people."
"Which of us can slay more monsters."
"Are you joking?" Fafnir scoffed. "I am an evil dragon. A dragon that curses the world."
Siegfried tilted his head.
"So you intend to surrender?"
"No. What this old man means is... this old man will win!"
The instant the words left his mouth, the evil dragon spread its wings and shot away.
"As expected of an evil dragon. Resorting to trickery."
Siegfried bent his knees and sprang after him at once.
The Saint and the Dragon Witch had joined hands.
The Dragon Slayer and the evil dragon now fought side by side.
"Mozart, are you even capable of this?"
"That wretched Charles Henri Sanson. How dare he make me lose face in front of Marie."
"That is because you are incompetent."
"Just you wait."
Marie watched the two of them resume bickering with a helpless expression. Then she looked into the distance.
"So it succeeded... Miss Jeanne d'Arc?"
She could feel it clearly.
The two auras had intertwined.
A smile rose to her lips.
"So this is the outcome."
Outside the city, in the outskirts, Vlad III pulled his spear free and shook his head in weary disbelief.
They had actually united.
So why had he bothered with so many plans, so many calculations, so much preparation?
"What does it matter?"
Beowulf's fist smashed another fish like monster into fragments. The great warrior grinned with utter abandon.
"As long as there is a fight, isn't that enough?"
Vlad III gave a small sigh.
"Yes."
"Perhaps... this is better."
He looked at the tide of monsters flooding the land.
"This is what I should be doing."
The later generations would call Vlad III Dracula, the Impaler, a tyrant of slaughter. Yet what none of them knew was that Vlad had never loved killing for its own sake.
He had only ever chosen cruelty because his homeland was weak, because fear alone could hold back the stronger powers around him.
Even knowing he would be hated.
Even knowing he would be condemned.
He had chosen the spear for the sake of salvation.
He did not love slaughter.
"Then let us stand together against the outside threat, gentlemen."
His spear struck the ground.
A forest of stakes erupted upward like bamboo after rain, impaling the invaders in place.
"Hahaha, that is more like it." Beowulf laughed. "You really are strong, Vlad III."
"If there is ever a chance, I must fight you."
"I have no desire to fight a monster from myth."
That was what Vlad said, yet there was a trace of excitement on his lips.
Then he looked toward the sky.
Toward the chaotic monster above.
He only glanced for a moment.
He did not dare stare too long.
The air grew wetter.
The vast silhouette of ancient ruins gradually sharpened above the world.
Rowe stood in the sky before the Great Old One of the abyss.
The Lord of Nightmares who slumbered in R'lyeh sought to drag the world into a dream and drown it in eternity.
Yet even within that nightmare, a light began to appear.
Brilliant.
Dazzling.
Illuminating everything.
Gilles de Rais had summoned the Great Old One because he wished to destroy this Singularity through Cthulhu's power, to take revenge on the era and nation that had betrayed the greatest Saint in his heart.
Cthulhu's power was indeed terrible.
But...
"When the end of the world appears, humanity becomes more united than ever."
"We are always fighting among ourselves. Factions, divisions, endless conflict."
"We possess good."
"And we possess evil."
"Only when the apocalypse descends do we finally stand together."
"Because beneath the chaos of good and evil..."
"Our essence remains human."
Across the sky, water vapor tore itself into colossal shapes.
A writhing tentacle lashed downward toward him.
It was immense, like a tidal wave given flesh. Countless hardened folds lined its surface. In every fold there seemed to be an eye, and in each eye pale fragments twisted and crawled like swarms of worms.
As it descended, thousands upon thousands of eyes fixed on Rowe at once.
The malicious pressure was enough to make any living thing tremble.
But in that very moment, Rowe reached behind him and caught the light.
He caught Jeanne d'Arc's acceptance of the Dragon Witch.
He caught the hidden love for France still burning in the Witch's heart, and her longing for the Lord.
He caught Siegfried's heroic resolve.
He caught Fafnir's act of protecting humanity despite being an evil dragon.
Marie. Mozart. Charles Henri Sanson. Vlad III. Beowulf.
The wishes of those heroes were all the same.
To protect the world.
To protect humanity.
And Rowe gathered those wishes into his hand.
The Lord in Heaven.
The Son upon Earth.
The Spirit in the Void.
He answered them.
He took up the glory of human heroes.
Then he stepped forward.
The light in his palm became mottled, converging little by little into the shape of a sheath.
And with that sheath in hand, he advanced.
Drawing the sword.