Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

Ancient France – Year 1430

Time flies.

From the day he first set foot in France in 1429, it's now already 1430 – meaning Zoth had spent exactly one year on this land.

A year that, for him, felt like a never-ending fever dream.

At Beaugency, after learning that the French forces had received reinforcements, and following the advice of the Duke of Alençon, the English finally surrendered.

Early the next morning, they handed over the fortress and quietly withdrew to Paris.

Right after the victory, Jeanne, the Duke of Alençon, and the other commanders quickly marched toward Patay.

On the way, a scout came galloping back with urgent news: the English were retreating near Patay – a suspicious move, likely a trap.

The Duke of Alençon immediately ordered the army to stay on high alert.

Zoth, feeling the itch for action, decided it was time for a little "fun".

By late afternoon, he snuck into the forest where the English ambush was hidden… and let out a terrifying scream to scare a guard (who, in the original timeline, was actually spooked by… a deer).

His shout startled the English, revealing their position.

The French launched a swift assault.

The English, caught off-guard and unable to form ranks in time, were utterly crushed.

Zoth himself almost got turned into Swiss cheese by friendly fire — French archers mistook his reckless charge for something else.

The battle lasted just one day… but the result was disastrous for the English. Over 2,000 knights were slain.

Calling it a massacre wouldn't be wrong.

Jeanne could only kneel and pray for the fallen souls.

Zoth stood beside her, sighed, and thought to himself:

She's too kind… too idealistic.

He gently advised her not to shoulder all the blame.

War isn't something one person can be held responsible for.

Over the past year, Jeanne had kept him away from the front lines — fearing the True Ether within him would gradually consume his soul.

Once a fearsome swordsman feared across the battlefield, he was now… a logistics knight.

Zoth rode his sacred motorcycle all over the place delivering supplies — or, more often, "borrowing" food from the English army… quite literally.

During that time, he gradually started to see how history was unfolding within the Nasuverse — which wasn't all that different from Earth's real history.

From Prince Charles's coronation as Charles VII, to major battles like the liberation of Paris and La Charité — he was there for all of it.

With his obviously OP cheat skills — [Fales • Omni Visions], Sacred Swords, and Wonder Ride Books — the flow of history did shift… but only slightly.

Zoth was careful — he knew if Counter Force (a.k.a. Alaya) caught wind of him messing with history, he'd be in serious trouble.

The Zoth of today… was no longer the stubborn idiot he once was.

He'd opened up more to those around him.

He was learning to accept care and kindness — still clumsy about it, but making progress.

Once just a tryhard otaku forcing a "cool guy" image, he had grown calmer, more mature — though he kept his signature rebellious edge.

Over that year, he often stayed close to Jeanne.

When they first met in Reims, he thought she was a hindrance — too idealistic, almost naively pure, and would one day reject his methods.

So, without hesitation, he had walked away.

But now?

Now he kept getting bolder — inching closer and closer to her.

He wanted to win Jeanne's heart.

But every time… she gently turned him down.

Even so, he never gave up.

From a bloodstained warrior of countless battlefields,

Zoth had become a lovesick fool, willing to do anything…

just to stay by her side.

---

Bourges – Castle of King Charles VII

A soft breeze rustled through the trees as morning sunlight stretched across the sky like strands of golden silk.

Atop the castle wall, Zoth lay sprawled on a moss-covered stone ledge, arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded in a dead-fish stare as he lazily scanned the peaceful French countryside.

Everything was calm… until a faint glow emerged from the pocket of his coat — a soft, pulsing blue light like a heartbeat being rekindled.

With a grunt, Zoth fished it out.

Before he could react, a teenage voice crackled through — lazy, indifferent, and above all… deeply annoying:

"Moshi moshi. You hearing me, you damn bastard, Zoth?"

Zoth frowned, lips curling into a dry smirk.

"Goddamn it… Kayn."

It was Kayn Meluastea — the "friend" he'd rather not call a friend.

They hadn't met in a year, but thanks to weird Mystic Codes like the gem in his hand, the two had kept in touch.

Zoth had once asked Kayn to look for Zelretch — the only one who might be able to help cure the slow, gnawing pain of True Ether devouring him from the inside out.

"…Yeah, I hear you. What is it now?" Zoth shielded his eyes from the sun, squinting. "And I'm not giving you any more blood, got it?"

He remembered very clearly how Kayn had used the excuse of "helping" to draw blood from him — like a damn lab rat.

"Don't need it anymore. Just get to the Clock Tower. My master wants to see you," Kayn's voice was as cold and uninterested as ever.

Zoth raised an eyebrow.

But then he sat up, eyes flashing with a faint glimmer of hope.

He glanced downward — in the courtyard below, Jeanne d'Arc sat alone, holding her banner close. Her hair flowed in the morning mist, neatly fluttering like it was dancing with the wind.

Zoth leapt down, landing light as a feather.

He approached her, waving cheerfully:

"Jeannette!"

She turned, her eyes gentle as always.

"Yes?"

Zoth smiled softly, then stretched his arms wide like he wanted to shout to the heavens.

"I think I've found something — maybe… a way to deal with the True Ether inside me."

Jeanne blinked in surprise.

Then, she smiled, gently set her sword down, and said quietly:

"Is that so? Then… I'm glad."

Zoth pulled out [Book Gates] and flipped it open.

A swirl of dark violet light gathered, forming a vortex — a doorway to another dimension.

"Don't worry. I'm not going off to cause trouble this time."

Before she could say a word, he stepped into the portal — and his figure vanished without a trace.

Jeanne remained still.

Only the breeze and scent of grass filled the empty space he left behind.

She let out a soft sigh, lips curling into a small, gentle smile:

"You're always like that… never letting anyone react in time."

"But this time… I'll trust you."

"You better come back, Zoth."

---

Clock Tower – United Kingdom

A pale mist clung to the outskirts of London, veiling the city in a thin, ghostly shroud.

Through the dim light of a sun swallowed by heavy clouds, the ancient tower emerged — tall, solemn, steeped in history.

Invisible magical barriers rippled in waves of mana, making the very air tremble with quiet, arcane energy.

Standing before the entrance, Zoth spotted a black-haired teenager in a crisp brown coat, leaning lazily against a stone pillar. He looked as relaxed as if this were a public park — not the stronghold of the most dangerous minds in human history.

Kayn Meluastea.

"Yo, bastard… Long time no see." Kayn raised a hand in greeting, his tone as flat as a weather forecast.

Zoth approached just as Kayn disabled the magical ward — ancient runes spun like living silk, glowing with light before parting to let him through.

"Tch… You mages really don't know what to do with your money." Zoth muttered as he glanced at the lavish interior — vaulted ceilings laced with gold, chandelier crystals glowing with soft mana light, rare magical beast fur carpets stretching down the hall.

"How are we supposed to study magecraft without funding? Think grimoires and relics grow on trees?" Kayn shrugged, then pointed down the corridor.

"This way. You're going alone."

Zoth stopped in front of a massive ebony door inlaid with silver runes. Hand on the handle, he turned back.

"You're not coming?"

"Master's orders," Kayn's voice dropped to something more serious. "Left is death."

Zoth raised an eyebrow, but merely gave a nonchalant shrug and pushed the door open.

---

Inside – The Grand Audience Chamber of the Wizard Marshal

The room was vast — rivaling the Buckingham Palace ballroom in size — and warped slightly by the density of ambient mana.

Floating crystals shimmered from the ceiling like stars caught in mid-breath, casting fragmented light across rune-etched stone walls.

At the center, atop a three-step dais, sat a throne forged from obsidian and embedded with dark gemstones.

Seated on it, back straight, was an old man with hair white as ash and eyes deep as a bottomless void.

Though time had carved its lines across his face, his presence was sharp — so sharp it silenced even the mana around him.

Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg.

The Old Man of the Jewels.

The Second Magician.

Disciple of Solomon.

His eyes locked onto Zoth — piercing not just his flesh, but the very construction of his soul.

"Welcome, boy." His voice rang out like a solemn bell. "My useless apprentice has told me everything."

Zoth stepped forward, bowing slightly.

"Lord Zelretch, I am—"

"No need," the old man waved a hand, voice calm yet absolute. "I know who you are — and why you're here."

He tilted his head slightly, eyes closing as if feeling the currents of Zoth's power.

"You carry within you a mass of True Ether… equivalent to the Albion Burial Grounds beneath this very Clock Tower."

Zoth froze for a heartbeat, frowning.

"Then… can you help me?"

"No."

The word fell like a blade. For a moment, the air itself seemed to recoil.

Zoth stood still, fists tightening. Without a word, he turned to leave.

Just then—

"…However," Zelretch's voice came like a whisper from the stars, "there may be a way for you to save yourself."

Zoth stopped, turning sharply.

"Truly?"

"You possess True Ether — a substance that transcends this world," Zelretch nodded. "Why not craft an entirely new body… and transfer your soul into it?"

Zoth's eyes widened.

"You mean… reincarnation?"

"Yes. Your soul… is already being refined by True Ether."

The old man smiled — a strange, unreadable smile.

"If you can shape a vessel strong enough to contain it, you'll become… something no longer bound by human limits."

"But… I don't know magecraft," Zoth admitted, honest and raw.

Zelretch leaned forward. His eyes gleamed like multifaceted gemstones.

"Then let me teach you."

---

One Month at the Clock Tower

Time passed like an arrow strapped to a rocket engine.

In that single month, Zoth barely saw the sun.

Under the guidance—or rather, relentless mental beatdowns—of Zelretch, he began diving deep into the arcane truth of magecraft.

Kayn was also involved—obviously not by choice, but dragged along—to help him craft a unique Mystic Code:

> [Overcharge] — a limit-regulating, refinement-type core that channels and controls the True Ether surging within Zoth's body.

Normal magecraft couldn't handle that near-primal energy, so they had to design a system capable of harmonizing with it.

At one point, they even tried creating an artificial body, one that mirrored Zoth's original structure but reinforced with layered internal barriers.

Naturally... it failed.

The body exploded within three minutes, unable to withstand the pressure — turning the entire lab into a magical pressure cooker.

"...At least the data's intact," Kayn wheezed, buried under debris.

"And I'm still alive." Zoth exhaled smoke, hair fried into spikes, face scorched.

But failure brought knowledge. With it, Zoth gained a deeper understanding of the fundamental truth behind "becoming something else."

---

One day, during a routine analysis, Zoth stared at the results and blurted out:

"Wait a minute… I don't have magic circuits!?"

Kayn nearly choked on his coffee.

"You're just noticing now!?"

"It's fine." Zelretch chimed in like he was discussing grocery shopping.

"You've been brute-forcing everything with True Ether this whole time."

"Something this big and you say it like you're ordering lunch!?" Zoth groaned, clutching his head.

Time continued its quiet march. Zoth's knowledge deepened to the point that even high-ranking Magi might not comprehend his theories.

He could feel the change within himself — no longer fully human, yet not quite divine.

There was still one final threshold — a fragile veil he hadn't broken through.

---

Zoth knelt within the formation meant to host his artificial body.

Light spiraled around [Overcharge] as he murmured:

"Master... is it time to transfer my soul into the new body?"

He had never officially taken Zelretch as a teacher, but… no harm in calling him that now.

Zelretch rested his chin on his hand, eyes sparkling like they held a thousand stars.

"Not yet." The answer was blunt.

Zoth frowned, exhausted. "Why not…?"

The old man stood, paced the room once, then casually dropped a bomb:

"Throw it into Akasha."

Silence.

Zoth froze.

"A-Akasha!? The Root!?"

His voice cracked, like someone handed him a death sentence.

As a Fate fanboy, Zoth knew what that meant.

Akasha wasn't just a place. It was the origin of all things—birthplace of Magicians, and the final border between logic and madness.

Zelretch remained unbothered:

"No need to panic. You have True Ether. That alone gives you the qualification to reach it."

"If your new body isn't baptized by the Root, it'll fall apart like before. It's all a matter of compatibility."

Zoth nodded—half out of understanding, half out of the realization that resistance was futile.

He turned to leave, when—

"Ah, one more thing." Zelretch's voice turned low, like he was recalling something from behind a curtain of fog.

"You'd best hurry. Otherwise… someone might not wait for you."

Zoth froze mid-step.

"What!? Who's waiting!? If it's Jeannette, then—"

"Nothing's set in stone." Zelretch waved him off.

"Fate shifts wildly when anomalies like you exist. Focus on the present."

Then, like a cranky schoolteacher, Zelretch slapped the back of Zoth's neck.

[Smack!]

"Ow! What the hell!?"

"Move your ass." The voice of death itself.

"R-Right, got it!!" Zoth bolted, cold sweat running down his spine.

---

In the hallway leading to the lower labs:

"Kayn! Get back to the lab!!" he shouted, dragging his unlucky friend along.

"Yamerōōō!!! Just five minutes of peace, you damn demon!!!" Kayn wailed, tears streaming down his face, still clutching his half-finished coffee cup.