Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

Clock Tower – The Magecraft Workshop of Kayn and Zoth

The two madmen kept burying themselves in experiments day after day, dragging in all sorts of test subjects — literal rats — for their Mystic Code trials.

They looked no different than a pair of twisted alchemists in some underground black-site lab.

At one point, they even sat down for a serious discussion on ethics, wondering if they should just start kidnapping a few fallen magi for human testing.

And so—

They contacted Atlas, the most unorthodox research body in the world, to launch a full-on "Humanitarian Purge Project."

Time passed as fast as a knife through butter.

Months had gone by since Zoth first arrived at the Clock Tower.

And finally, the monster they'd poured their souls into — the Mystic Code [Overcharge] — was complete.

Not only could it compress True Ether into a single point, but it also allowed the user to tap into magical subconscious layers far deeper than normal.

But that wasn't its true purpose.

The ultimate function of Overcharge was this:

To isolate True Ether from Zoth's body—

and use it as an independent magical reactor.

Zoth raised the jewel up to the light, watching as True Ether spiraled inward:

"Nice~! With this toy, I won't have to worry about being corroded anymore~!"

He laughed like a lunatic who just brewed his own poison and drank it with pride.

As for Kayn?

His face was pale as a ghost, lying flat on the ground, hands still trembling:

"…It's finally over…"

Overcharge had consumed nearly 80% of his research budget.

And Zoth?

Where did his funding come from?

Don't ask.

At first, he seriously funneled his war-time pay into materials.

But later… he started "borrowing" Kayn's wallet to keep going.

Once everything was stabilized, the two of them sprinted to Zelretch's room — like kids who'd just set off fireworks and ran from their parents — and slammed the door without mercy.

[BANG—!]

"Master!! It's finally finished!!!" They yelled as if dogs were chasing them.

"…You little brats—!!"

Zelretch appeared instantly, as if he'd been standing behind the door all along, and smacked both of them on the head.

[WHACK! WHACK!]

"Next time you bust my door like that, I'll show you why I'm the Second Magician!"

"Yes sir!" Zoth and Kayn stood stiff like soldiers reporting for duty.

The old man sighed, his tone softening:

"Alright, what is it?"

Zoth held out the gem. Magical circles spun around it as True Ether glowed:

"Mystic Code [Overcharge] is complete. We're ready to implant it into the artificial body."

Zelretch nodded thoughtfully:

"Oh. Good. Do it right away. But…"

His gaze sharpened, pinning Zoth like a spear:

"…Zoth. Once it's done… I need to talk to you. Alone."

Zoth's face turned serious. He understood—

If Zelretch used that tone, it was never just a casual chat.

The final procedure began: Implanting Overcharge into the artificial body.

The construct was examined down to the finest detail.

The runes engraved around the artificial heart glowed like golden veins.

Kayn quietly stepped back, giving space to master and student.

Zoth stood silently before Zelretch, voice low:

"You called me back… what for, Master?"

Zelretch didn't answer right away.

He tapped his staff slowly, then spoke, each word deliberate:

"…Zoth. Whatever I'm about to say… you need to stay calm."

"Understood. I'm listening." Zoth took a deep breath.

Zelretch closed his eyes. Then opened them, piercing through space itself:

"…Jeanne d'Arc, your comrade… has been captured by the Bourgogne army."

"…Huh?" Zoth blinked. As if his ears had deceived him.

Zelretch repeated, voice like midnight rain:

"I'll say it again: Jeanne has been captured."

In that moment—

The world around Zoth went white.

True Ether exploded within him, swirling like a gathering storm.

The stone floor cracked. The walls split. Light warped space itself.

"I told you to stay calm!!" Zelretch shouted, smacking Zoth hard across the head, disrupting the runaway energy.

He then stepped forward, placing his hand over Zoth's chest, pulling a glowing thread that connected Zoth's soul to the artificial body.

"I'll link your soul to the new body."

"After that… do whatever you want."

Zoth bit his lip, eyes glowing crimson, but his anger was now under control.

"…You mean… once this is done… I'm free?"

"Yes." Zelretch nodded.

"You may do as you wish."

"I can't directly interfere… but that insane collection of Holy Swords you've got—use them however you like."

"As for Atlas and the Wandering Sea… I'll keep them busy."

Zoth said nothing more.

He simply nodded.

Then, he opened the [Book Gates] — a black spiral gate, leading into the depths of his own essence.

He bowed low to Zelretch.

"Thank you… for everything you've done for me."

Zelretch waved him off, turning away:

"Just go. You're giving me a headache."

Zoth smiled, then stepped into the gate, vanishing from the room.

Zelretch stood alone for a while.

Mana winds swept his cloak softly.

He sighed — a sigh burdened with centuries.

"…Master, huh… heh."

"Zoth, you're the only entity I can't track in any parallel world…"

"Don't let me down."

He turned to the artificial body, still lying in silence.

With a flick of his hand, he summoned a teleportation array.

It was time—

To send it to the only place capable of containing someone like Zoth—

Akasha — the birthplace of all souls.

---

Bourges — Castle of King Charles VII.

Inside the opulent grand hall, crystal chandeliers reflected off golden vaulted ceilings as nobles and officials stepped forward one by one, bowing to report on the state of the war.

Charles VII sat lazily upon his throne, legs crossed, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest.

The air reeked of decaying politics — full of flattery, deception, and schemes.

Every word was hollow.

A never-ending farce of courtly performance.

[CRACK—!!]

The air split with a deafening tear.

Right in the center of the hall — a swirling black gate appeared, a vortex that seemed to swallow light itself.

From within, a wave of killing intent surged forth like a midnight storm, pressing down on the atmosphere.

Everyone present felt their chests tighten, their vision blur—some couldn't even breathe.

Before anyone could react—

Zoth stepped through.

His narrowed eyes burned like the fires of hell, scanning each soul in the room with seething fury.

In his hand, Caladbolg pulsed dimly like a dying coal on the verge of detonation.

His entire body was engulfed in a thick, heavy fog of True Ether, as if he carried the essence of some ancient calamity.

His voice cut through the silence — ice-cold and soul-piercing:

"Charles… tell me… what do you mean Jeannette has been captured?"

The grand hall froze.

No one dared to move.

His presence was a blade hanging above every neck.

And then—

"You… insolent cur! How dare you speak the King's name so—!"

A trembling nobleman with a thick white beard shouted, grasping at the last shreds of royal dignity.

[SLASH—!]

Before he could finish, a blade tore clean through his chest.

Bones shattered. Blood splattered like a crimson blossom blooming midair.

The noble's eyes widened in disbelief before his body crashed to the marble floor, spilling a dark red pool across the once-pristine royal patterns.

Zoth withdrew his sword without even a twitch in his hand.

His gaze sharpened, and he snarled:

"I'll ask again… What. Happened. To. Jeannette?"

True Ether erupted from him like a tidal wave breaching its dam.

The air ripped apart — freezing cold yet burning hot, like molten rock under ice.

Servants, guards, and ministers near him collapsed on the spot.

Some passed out. Others were incinerated in an instant — reduced to ashes, erased as if they had never existed.

The hall plunged into chaos.

Nobles screamed.

Guards abandoned their weapons and fled like rats scalded with boiling water.

Some crawled across the floor, lips trembling, too terrified to speak.

Only Charles VII remained—trembling upon his throne, cold sweat pouring down his noble collar, soaking into his purple velvet robes.

He knew — if Zoth truly went berserk, this entire court would become a graveyard.

"T-The crown… is powerless…" Charles stammered, choking out each word like shards of glass in his throat.

"I wanted to save Jeanne… but… but the Burgundians had help from the English... I— I couldn't—"

[SPLURT—!!]

No warning.

Caladbolg flew from Zoth's hand like a thunderbolt.

One slash — the air cracked.

Charles's left arm was severed clean.

Blood gushed like a fountain, splattering the throne, the walls, and the floor at Zoth's feet.

"Aaaaaaaaaa—!!!"

Charles screamed like a slaughtered beast, toppling from his throne, clutching the empty socket at his shoulder, writhing in a growing pool of crimson.

His cries echoed through the castle halls.

Zoth recalled his sword in a casual motion — like brushing off dust.

He didn't spare Charles a glance.

Didn't care whether he lived or died — king or corpse.

He only spoke one word —

Colder than a moonless night, and heavy as a verdict etched in stone:

"Trash."

No one dared move.

No one even dared breathe.

Zoth turned.

The black gate behind him remained open —

a gaping maw of the abyss.

He stepped into it—

And vanished, like a nightmare sent from the heavens.

---

City of Compiègne.

Inside the fortress's great hall — wine flowed like rivers, roasted meat filled the air with grease and smoke, and raucous laughter shook the stone walls as metal cups clashed like thunder.

The Bourgogne soldiers were drunk and rowdy, slamming their fists on the tables, roaring with laughter.

The French royal banners lay trampled beneath their boots, replaced by the dark, blood-stained hues of treachery and victory.

They were celebrating their greatest triumph in the war so far:

Capturing Jeanne d'Arc — the maiden hero who haunted England's every nightmare.

And worse still... selling her to her enemies for a hefty bag of coin.

But the revelry hadn't yet reached its peak when—

[BOOOOOOMMMMMM—!!]

A thunderclap ripped the sky apart, as if the heavens themselves had taken offense.

The noon sky turned crimson, and black clouds spiraled above the fortress, twisting into a colossal cyclone.

At the heart of the storm — a rift burst open, radiating divine brilliance tainted with a foreboding sense of doom.

[BOOM! BOOM! BOOM—!!]

Gleaming golden Mecha, summoned in the name of the King of Solomon, descended like divine wrath upon the earth.

They landed in all four cardinal directions of Compiègne, surrounding the city from every side.

Each footstep of theirs struck like an earthquake, shaking the stone walls, shattering windows, throwing the entire garrison into chaos.

No one reacted in time.

No one understood what was happening.

"W-What the hell is that!?" a soldier screamed, eyes wide in horror, staring up at the sky like he was witnessing the end of the world.

The killing intent pressing down from above was so heavy, he vomited blood on the spot.

Atop the highest wall — Zoth appeared.

His long coat billowed in the wind, black hair flowing within the unstable aura swirling around him.

His cold brown eyes held no emotion… yet deep within — storms were howling.

His voice echoed — calm, steady, yet inescapable — the kind of voice Death uses when it no longer needs to raise its tone:

"Jeannette… where have you taken her?"

The entire fortress fell deathly silent.

Every gaze turned toward him like they were staring at something no longer of this world.

"We… we sold her to the English…"

"We don't know where they took her… we swear!!"

A trembling soldier cried, eyes watery, screaming as if even a wrong breath would seal his doom.

Zoth closed his eyes.

A deep breath.

Stillness — like the calm before annihilation.

And then—

He opened his eyes again.

And only wrath remained.

"I see… Then — that makes it simple."

He raised Caladbolg, plunging its tip toward the ground like he was stabbing into the city's very heart.

No command shouted.

No signal needed.

His will alone—

Was enough to summon the apocalypse.

The golden mechs charged up.

[WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRR—]

[CLANG—!!]

A massive sword-arm swung down.

[BOOOOOM!!] A watchtower exploded.

[BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!!]

Step by step, blow after blow — Compiègne was torn apart like paper beneath metal claws.

The clash of steel.

The screams of the dying.

The crunch of bones.

The spray of blood.

Fire engulfing the ammo stockpiles.

A symphony of destruction had begun.

Zoth stood above it all, the inferno reflected in his eyes like twin rings of blazing hellfire.

His coat flared in the smoke-choked wind, and yet — there was no victory in his gaze.

Only emptiness… and deep within it, the ache of betrayal carved into his very soul.

He spread his arms — as if to embrace the chaos erupting below.

And then he—

Laughed.

Laughed loud.

Laughed mad.

Laughed like a man who'd severed all ties with reason and humanity.

"Huhahahahahaha…! FUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—!!!"

He tilted his head to the sky.

His face twisted in pure hatred.

"Now~... Thy Judgment has come."

His voice rang like the bell that tolls the world's end.

"You want to play it this way, huh…? Then—"

He turned, walking through the blazing ruins, leaving Compiègne behind — reduced to ash.

"I'LL SHOW YOU— WHAT HELL TRULY IS!!"