Chapter 269: Martha Wants to Serve Lord
Atalanta's first thought had, of course, been Rowe.
In her eyes, Rowe was fully capable of something like this. When it came to schemes, traps, and underhanded little twists of fate, the huntress from Greece had never met anyone better.
"Hoo hoo hoo…"
Standing atop the hill, the girl lifted her head. Emerald hair fluttered in the wind. Her beastlike eyes narrowed slightly as she looked into the distance.
A smile curled across her lips, just enough for her fangs to show.
"So," she murmured, baring her silver teeth, "you failed too?"
"I was delayed on the way."
The answer came in a clear, sacred voice.
The woman who stepped into view matched it perfectly.
A white ornament rested in her hair. Soft dark violet locks spilled down her back. Her face was fair and lovely, her deep blue eyes calm and solemn. Her white robes outlined a graceful figure, with the smooth curve of her chest descending into a slender waist. Blue stockings wrapped her full thighs, lending her posture a taut, disciplined elegance.
In her hand she held a cross shaped spear.
Behind her followed a massive dragon, its head crowned with multiple horns, its shell like scales layered across its back like a living fortress.
Martha.
The dragon taming saint of the early first century.
Later legend said that after serving the Savior, she received revelation from the Lord, subdued the raging evil dragon Tarasque, and from then onward made the dragon follow her in submission.
She was among the earliest saints to believe in the Lord and follow the Savior.
So when the Lord descended, she sensed it instantly.
More clearly than Jeanne's true self.
The resonance born from revelation and faith was something the Dragon Witch, a false existence constructed through imitation of Jeanne, simply did not possess.
And yet, at this moment, like Atalanta, she had still arrived one step too late.
"Who delayed you?" Atalanta asked.
"An indescribable Outer God."
Atalanta did not look surprised.
"Of course," she said. "So they are here too."
After all, they were both Servants from the Origin Universe. Under Rowe's leadership, that universe had long been at war with those dreadful beings that could taint stars even while fighting the gods of the Divine Land beyond the cosmos.
Chaos.
Madness.
Things that could not be described.
Rowe had been reigniting one dead world after another, dragging them back from the edge of extinction.
And yet those nameless horrors were trying just as hard to drag those same dead worlds into the ultimate abyss, using them as vessels for their own descent.
It was a gamble.
For now, Rowe still held the advantage.
"But I truly did not expect you to dare come here," Martha said, raising a brow. "Lady Atalanta."
"Aren't you afraid your Spirit Origin will be tainted by death?"
"Hmph. What is there to fear?"
Atalanta's fangs gleamed faintly as she smiled with all the confidence of a predator that had already chosen its quarry.
"If I do not take risks, how am I supposed to catch the prey I want?"
That prey was obviously Rowe.
And more than that…
"Rowe came to this world," Atalanta said. "So this world will surely turn from death back to life."
"He is prey worth chasing."
"He will succeed."
"So what exactly is there to worry about?"
If a dead world could rekindle its spark of continuation, then Servants from the Origin Universe could manifest here, stabilize their existence, and stop worrying about death contaminating their cores.
Atalanta spoke with absolute certainty.
Martha only smiled.
"Indeed."
"My Lord is the Lord of Hosts, the victorious God of countless splendors. Wherever His shadow falls, there is victory."
She paused, then coughed lightly and corrected herself.
"So it is enough to strike down those ugly monsters. Or rather, those indescribable evil gods."
"Hmph. Even if that is true, I still have no intention of cooperating with you, Martha."
Atalanta's eyes remained wary.
"You and your so called faith in the Lord… that does not seem to be simple devotion anymore, does it?"
"Hm?"
Martha tilted her head.
Atalanta snorted.
"Perhaps it is only a legend…"
"Ah."
Only then did Martha understand what she meant.
The old tale that Martha had once served the Savior and received revelation from the Lord naturally made suspicion inevitable.
But Martha did not deny it.
"To be close to my Lord is the pursuit of my entire life."
Her face was serious. Her eyes shone with pure longing.
So pure that even Atalanta briefly wondered if she had misjudged her.
But no.
Better not trust that expression.
"In any case," Atalanta said, turning away and tossing back her long green hair, "I will not work with you."
"I will go hunt down this singularity first."
"Including that man."
She left without another glance.
She did not notice the change in Martha's expression behind her.
The longing in Martha's eyes slowly turned into anticipation.
"So this world actually has that sort of legend?"
Martha withdrew her gaze and lightly licked her lips.
For a fleeting instant, she genuinely wanted to make that not entirely true rumor become reality.
The fleur de lis banner whipped above the carriage.
The holy maiden, clad in silver armor over dark clothing, stood before it in still silence as the wheels rolled past crossroads and stone roads alike.
The road ahead was uneven. The countryside stretched around them. Sparse buildings rose on either side. And yet countless people lined the roads to greet her.
The evil dragon pulling the carriage roared toward the sky.
At any other time, the dark and terrible shape of the dragon would have caused panic and terror the moment it appeared.
But not now.
Now, seeing that same dragon submit before the holy maiden standing above it only filled the people with greater certainty.
There was a simple reason for that.
In the hearts of the French, the name Jeanne d Arc was already synonymous with miracle.
She came from the countryside. Her parents were only minor nobles and landholders, the class nearest to the common folk. She had been educated, yes, but not in any exceptional way.
And yet that same girl, without prior military experience, had pulled France out of its disaster and led the army to victory after victory against England.
She was a true saint.
A worker of miracles.
At this point in the fifteenth century, Jeanne d Arc had become the embodiment of France's glory.
And now the saint had entered the city once more.
Naturally the people flooded the streets.
Is that Lady Jeanne?
Lady Jeanne is a servant of God, the manifestation of miracle, the true saint.
By the Lord's blessing, France will always be victorious.
Prayers rose one after another.
Hands folded.
Heads bowed.
Standing before the carriage, Jeanne swept her gaze over the people and let out the slightest breath.
"Is this really enough?"
She was truly a little surprised.
"Am I really that important to France?"
Jeanne, who had once been betrayed by the upper nobility of France, could not help feeling uncertain.
Even if no resentment remained in her now, the old wound of having been sold out still lingered somewhere in the shape of her self worth.
Saints were still human.
And in essence, Jeanne had only ever been a village girl.
A girl who embraced miracle.
A girl who remained pure.
"Of course you are Saint Jeanne d Arc."
Leaning lazily against the side of the carriage, Rowe smiled as he looked out at the fervent faces lining the streets.
"The Hundred Years' War lasted one hundred and sixteen years."
"The first hundred years were a century of humiliation for France."
"The last sixteen years changed from the moment Saint Jeanne d Arc raised her banner at Orléans."
"That was the moment France began to strike back."
"To them, you matter more than any noble. More than any king."
"Nobles may betray you."
"They will not."
"Yes…"
Jeanne sighed softly.
"The common people may not all be good, but they are all sincere."
That, more than anything else, was what she had learned.
It was why she had taken that first step in Orléans.
Why a girl from the countryside had raised the banner of resistance.
Back then.
Until now.
She had never regretted it.
Not before the pyre.
Not while hearing the sentence read aloud by the judges.
Even in the end, the girl's face had never shown true hesitation.
The fleur de lis banner flew high.
Once, she had left from this place.
Now, she had returned.
As a Heroic Spirit.
As the Jeanne d Arc whose name remained in human history.
Starting again from here.
To save France.
Yes.
This was Orléans.
Jeanne d Arc's home.
"So this is Miss Jeanne's hometown?"
Inside the carriage, Fujimaru Ritsuka poked her head out, red hair fluttering in the wind, her eyes bright with curiosity.
She had read about Jeanne d Arc in history books.
Now she was seeing the place with her own eyes.
Now she had truly reached one of the key crossroads of history.
She was excited.
Then a moment later she looked around at the plain medieval streets and houses and seemed a little disappointed.
Mash, beside her, also leaned out to look.
Inside the carriage, only Siegfried remained seated properly, methodically wiping down the blade in his hands.
"This is reality," Rowe said, glancing sideways.
Still, no matter what, they had reached Orléans.
And Paris, the capital of France and the true center of the singularity, was no longer far away.
That capital, once retaken by Jeanne d Arc during her lifetime, had now become the lair of the Dragon Witch.
The Dragon Witch occupied Paris, imprisoned the upper nobility of France, and from the capital extended her control across the land.
But Rowe's plan had worked very well.
Because they had acted under the Dragon Witch's banner from beginning to end, the witch herself had not yet noticed anything.
She had not noticed that the regions around Orléans had already fallen under the influence of the true Jeanne d Arc.
She remained full of confidence.
Confident that she controlled the entire singularity.
Confident that she could crush every enemy.
Confident that…
"Hmph."
In the golden hall, the silver haired girl dressed in black opened her eyes.
"Ah, my great holy maiden, what troubles you?"
A deranged voice echoed before her.
Gilles de Rais stepped from the shadows. His gaunt face looked even more horrific beneath bulging, bloodshot eyes.
"Nothing," the Dragon Witch said coldly. "I only had a dream."
"A bad dream?"
Gilles grinned.
"It was merely a dream."
Vlad and Beowulf have already left Paris, he reported.
"It seems matters outside have become quite lively lately."
"Lively?"
Black Jeanne's gaze sharpened.
"Perhaps those nobles are plotting something again," Gilles said, baring his gums in a hideous smile. "But it matters little. They will handle it."
"Is that so…"
The witch lowered her eyes.
She remembered the nightmare.
The execution ground.
The pyre.
The flames surging up around a body hanging limp in chains.
And beyond the fire, the grotesque faces of nobles from both France and England laughing.
Of course, that was not truly her.
Not really.
The Dragon Witch understood that clearly.
She was Jeanne, yes.
She was Jeanne d Arc, yes.
But she also knew she was not the girl who saved France.
That girl would never have wanted revenge on the world.
That girl would never have walked this road.
So the memory must have been something else.
A residue.
A fragment inherited through being Jeanne.
Perhaps some lingering impression from the current world that had not yet dispersed.
And yet…
Even in that memory, the saint on the pyre had possessed resentment.
"Gilles."
"I am here, my great saintly maiden."
"I want to leave the city."
Gilles paused for only a moment.
"An enemy has arrived, has he not?"
"Or are you planning to imprison me?"
"I would never dare!"
He immediately retreated, smile widening all over again.
"In that case, I can only wish you fortune in battle."
No matter what, Gilles de Rais could not oppose Jeanne's will.
And yet…
"I will guard Paris for you."
In the name of chaos.
In the body of an ancient evil god.
"I will complete your revenge for you."
"My great saintly maiden."
"This must be what you wish as well."
…
"The witch has come to Orléans."
"Your Highness, what do you intend to do?"
"How will we know whether it works if we do not try? Besides, do we not still have you?"
"But I am only a musician…"
"You are the finest musician in the world, are you not?"
"Then rest easy. As long as I am here, no one will break through your defenses."
"Mozart, we agreed there would be less of this nonsense."
"Ah. My apologies. It was merely instinct…"
In a narrow, secluded corner, the tall and slender man lowered his head. His gaze lingered on the beautiful girl before him, and he bowed.
"But no matter what, I will protect you."
"Even if it costs me everything."
"That is reassuring, is it not?"
The girl called Marie smiled.