When Logos stepped out of the grand council chamber, Jeanne—who was sitting on a park bench nearby feeding grain to the local featherbeasts—could tell at a single glance that the young Banshee was in a remarkably good mood. In fact, a faint, dopey smile was threatening to break through his usually solemn, stoic features.
For a visually striking, refined Banshee like him, seeing such a relaxed expression was a rare sight indeed, considering the widest emotion Jeanne had seen from him during the past week was a polite, subtle smirk.
"It seems your discussions went smoothly?" Jeanne remarked with amused interest. She found it quite surprising that those cautious empires had agreed to Kazdel's terms; for them, it was a massive political concession.
"The Iberian High Inquisitor was the first to accept our conditions," Logos replied, coming to a stop before her with joy illuminating his face. "Once Pope Yvangelista voiced his approval, the other delegates weighed their choices and fell in line."
"There are endless logistical headaches waiting down the road, and those empires won't honor their promises without pressure," Jeanne noted softly, watching the elated Banshee. "Still, a step forward is a step forward."
She felt genuinely happy for him—and for Theresa, who was still pouring everything into her vision. After so many painful decades, the Sarkaz had finally carved out a new path. It was no small achievement.
"Though don't go celebrating just yet!" Jeanne suddenly added, dousing his excitement like a cold bucket of water. "You still face immense trouble, both inside and outside your borders. Getting complacent now would be a terrible mistake!"
Kazdel was still plagued by severe internal fractures. There were the rogue mercenary warbands he had promised to handle, a horde of traditionalists violently opposed to reform, and a certain shadow lurking somewhere in the dark, plotting who knew what...
Theresis.
If any single link snapped, all their hard-earned progress would evaporate in an instant. Jeanne was hardly exaggerating.
"We are well aware of the risks," Logos admitted, a shadow of worry creeping into his eyes. The road ahead felt longer and more agonizing than ever. While managing these political affairs wasn't his direct responsibility, merely thinking about the mountain of upcoming tasks gave the young Banshee a headache.
"That will depend entirely on your own efforts," Jeanne murmured, turning her focus back to the hungry featherbeasts squabbling over breadcrumbs at her feet. Sometimes she truly envied these little creatures' carefree lives, blissfully ignorant of continental disasters and ruinous wars.
Not that Jeanne considered herself overly burdened, mind you. Compared to the stress others carried, her life was practically smooth sailing.
"Judging by your luggage... are you preparing to leave?" Logos asked, noticing her packed bags resting beside the bench.
"Your grand meetings move at a glacial pace!" Jeanne complained instantly. "If I stayed here waiting for your committees to settle every detail, I'd be stuck twiddling my thumbs for months."
While she understood that coordinating multinational efforts required careful deliberation, she had no intention of idling away in Laterano for half a year.
"I plan to return to Chernobog," Jeanne said, a wry smile touching her lips. "I've been gone for so long that someone back home is probably furious enough to beat me up. Disappearing out of nowhere for this long would make anyone lose their temper."
Recalling the fiery, short-tempered girl waiting for her, Jeanne suspected she might get pinned to the floor and thrashed the moment she stepped through the door—assuming the girl could actually overpower her, that is.
"Then I wish you a swift and smooth journey," Logos offered warmly, bestowing a heartfelt blessing upon the departing Saintess.
"Of course it will be smooth!" Jeanne replied with supreme confidence. "I refuse to believe anything could possibly block my way back to the city this time! Nothing will go wrong!"
She stacked meta-flags one after another in her mind, completely oblivious to the unwritten rule of the world: the more absolute one's confidence, the higher the chance of chaos striking!
Sitting nearby, Logos could only manage a quiet smile, praying internally that the Saintess would actually reach her destination without encountering unexpected trouble.
When word spread among the foreign delegations that the Saintess of Laterano had departed alone, most envoys found it utterly bewildering. They were stunned that the Pope would grant such freedom to a young woman, letting her wander the continent as she pleased.
To foreign eyes, Jeanne was likely nothing more than a religious figurehead. Foreigners who failed to understand the depth of Sankta faith—or Jeanne's true standing among her people—never viewed her as a decision-maker capable of steering the nation's future.
Enciodes Silverash, the visionary envoy from Kjerag, held a similar view. He had initially categorized Jeanne as a figure similar to the Saintess locked away in Kjerag's sacred mountains—a high-status puppet chosen by entrenched factions to control the masses without holding real political sway.
Even now, that impression lingered. He was simply astonished by Laterano's sheer confidence, believing they could let Jeanne wander unchecked while keeping everything under control.
Perhaps I can observe how they manage this arrangement, Enciodes thought quietly. When I return to Kjerag, I might adapt their methods to push through my own reforms.
Having witnessed the sheer scale of the foreign powers gathered in Laterano, a fresh surge of urgency burned within his chest. If Kjerag remained isolated from the outside world, it would fade into a primitive curiosity—a backward tourist attraction in some foreign broadcast.
Sargon, a land composed of literal wilderness tribes, had already begun sweeping industrial reforms, yet Kjerag remained trapped in its ancient ways!
Whenever Enciodes thought of foreign nations waging war with mobile cities and high-speed warships while his homeland lacked basic electric lighting, he felt as though his hair was falling out in handfuls from stress!
Logos noticed the shifting, troubled expressions crossing the Silverash leader's face. Remembering that this mountain lord had once visited Rhodes Island seeking commercial ties, the young Banshee adjusted his robes and walked over to greet him with flawless etiquette, initiating a quiet dialogue.
"I told you nothing would go wrong on this trip!"
Having navigated past stray Sarkaz warbands and a sudden, unexpected Catastrophe near Laterano's borders, Jeanne sat in the driver's seat of her vehicle, radiating self-assurance.
"Though that Catastrophe was bizarre... how did a storm gather out of thin air without a single warning sign? It gave me quite a scare!"
Jeanne muttered to herself, gazing back at the dark Catastrophe clouds swirling in the sky behind her. She hadn't managed to dodge the localized storm, plowing straight into the heart of the vortex instead.
How had she survived? Driving a vehicle through a raging Catastrophe while maintaining her Noble Phantasm, Luminosité Éternelle, was not an experience she ever wanted to repeat.
Up ahead, a thin plume of smoke rose into the afternoon air. Recognizing signs of human presence, Jeanne decided to check it out. Her vehicle had suffered structural damage during its escape from the storm; borrowing a few tools to patch up her ride was essential if she wanted to reach Chernobog.
Her defensive Arts had protected her from harm, but her trusty vehicle hadn't been so fortunate.
Approaching the campfire, she spotted an overturned, wrecked transport vehicle. A solitary figure huddled miserably near the flames, shivering against the cold. Jeanne figured they could offer each other a helping hand.
Yet in a shadowed corner of the wrecked transport's damaged frame, she failed to notice a familiar, faded emblem painted on the metal—
The mark of Reunion.