Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

Domrémy – Calm Before the Storm

In the soft light of a French countryside sunset, Jeanne d'Arc walked slowly through the golden wheat fields.

Sunlight spilled over her hair like warm honey.

A gentle breeze played with the hem of her simple dress.

No longer the warrior at the stake.

No longer the Holy Maiden of Orléans, bringer of divine victory.

For now… she was simply Jeanne—the daughter of Domrémy.

Her sleeves rolled up, hands calloused from harvests and chores, she spent her days tending the fields and teaching the village children.

Children flocked around her, eyes wide with wonder as she recited the Scriptures.

Not in the cold, rigid tone of a priest—

But with warmth in her smile, and unwavering faith in her voice.

"Sister Jeanne, when will Big Brother Zoth come back?"

One child looked up, still clutching a little crown woven from grass.

Jeanne paused.

"Zoth, huh…"

She smiled—

A bittersweet smile, with quiet sorrow buried deep in her eyes.

"He'll be back soon. I'm sure of it."

"Yay! We'll wait for him!"

The child cheered and ran off, joining the others chasing butterflies by the brook.

But Jeanne…

She frowned—just slightly.

Domrémy was no longer the peaceful village it once had been.

Each day, more refugees arrived—

Eyes red from crying, hands empty, bodies trembling from hunger and fear.

Gilles did his best—setting up shelters, sharing supplies.

But the number kept growing.

And the news… it grew darker with every passing day.

War had erupted once again between England and France.

But this time—

They faced a new enemy.

One who called himself:

"Kamen Rider Solomon."

Jeanne had heard the name whispered by trembling lips.

Solomon—leader of the Sword of Logos.

He captured English and French alike, sacrificed them in blood rituals,

turned them into Megid—twisted demons of story and flame.

Then sent them rampaging into camps and towns,

killing soldier and civilian alike—without care, without mercy.

Bayeux… had become hell on Earth.

St. Malo and Angers… were burned to ashes.

Jeanne clenched her fists.

She knew who he was.

And she knew—

She could no longer stay silent.

She bowed gently to the villagers still working in the fields.

Then turned, heading back to her small home at the edge of the village.

She donned her armor—

Each piece fastened slowly, like part of a sacred ritual.

She lifted her old banner—

White cloth billowing like the very soul of France.

Her sword, once shattered, had been reforged.

Its blade gleamed like the dawn.

And in her eyes… burned the reflection of its fire.

At the village gate, Gilles de Rais was waiting.

"Gilles. It's time to go."

"...Huh? Jeanne? Where are you going? Why are you wearing armor…?"

Gilles frowned, clearly shaken.

"I'm going to Bayeux.

To end this senseless war."

"WHAT!? That place is— it's the epicenter of hell right now! There are Megid, demons-level threats—!"

But he fell silent.

Because in her eyes—

He saw a fire that could not be extinguished.

"The people need me.

I cannot run away."

She said it softly.

But her words were heavier than the roar of a thousand armies.

Gilles was silent for a long moment.

Then—

He drew his sword.

Plunged it deep into the earth.

The ground trembled.

"If you have resolved to fight…

Then I—and every knight under this banner—shall ride with you."

Jeanne smiled.

She turned toward the village square.

Raised her standard high.

The wind caught her cloak.

She stood like a heron in the setting sun—regal, unwavering.

"Knights of France! Once more, I ask you to rise with me!

We ride to rescue the innocent of Normandie!

For righteousness! For life!

O you who carry the flame of justice in your hearts!"

"OOOOOH!!!"

The battlecry roared across the valley—

A thunderclap echoing from the very soul of the people.

Saddles were fastened.

Blades were drawn.

Spears raised high.

They were a small force.

But their eyes…

Burned brighter than a thousand suns.

And so—they rode.

---

Bayeux – Central Command of the Sword of Logos

Across the plains of Calvados, the Sword of Logos' stronghold loomed — shrouded in dense mists of magic, silent and foreboding, as though it had never awakened from the world's worst nightmare.

Within the grand war chamber, Zoth sat in solemn authority at the head of the hall.

Around him, Megid generals knelt one by one, delivering reports from the various battlefronts.

To his right stood Emiya, unmoving — a living statue of steel.

His cold gaze swept across the floating magical map, conjured from the [Blanc Ride Book], suspended midair in pale blue light.

Lately, Emiya had been personally trained by Zoth to wield Kurayami — the obsidian sword now ever-present at his right hip.

No longer did he rely on his twin blades, Kanshou & Bakuya.

Now, he used only one weapon — Kurayami.

And what drove Zoth nearly mad with a mix of awe and irritation—

Was that Emiya no longer even used Caladbolg II to fire his signature spatial arrows.

Instead, he simply drew Kurayami like an arrow, stringing it on his ethereal bow,

and released shots that pierced through space like black comets.

During training, Emiya had discovered something terrifying:

Kurayami could not only seal away Sacred Swords —

But even Noble Phantasms of Heroic Spirits were devoured by it,

as if they had never existed in the first place.

Arms folded, eyes still locked on the map, Emiya spoke in a cold, emotionless tone:

"Master Logos.

Why did you start this war again?

Wasn't your original goal… to rewrite the history of Jeanne d'Arc?"

Zoth chuckled softly.

Leaning back in his dark throne, he swayed ever so slightly — like a dancer cloaked in shadows,

and cast a sly glance at Emiya, eyes gleaming with both humor and malice.

"Heh…

Because now, I want to harvest the souls of mankind."

Emiya's brow twitched.

His pupils contracted.

A cold breath escaped his lips.

"Harvest… souls?

What for?"

Zoth turned, resting his back against the pitch-black stone table.

He smiled — a twisted, elegant smile, and replied slowly:

"My plan is simple."

"Step one —

Shatter this continent.

Tear open a path to the Reverse Side of the World —

or as the humans like to call it… the Inner Sea of the Planet."

"Step two —

Unleash all the True Ether slumbering within my body,

and let these harvested souls guide the way to Akasha."

"And finally…

I will rewrite her fate and history."

Emiya froze.

This plan—

Was madness.

It surpassed any myth, any thaumaturgy, any forbidden lore.

No one had ever dared conceive such a thing—let alone attempt it.

Just then, the chamber doors burst open.

A Megid stumbled in, falling to his knees before Zoth.

"Holy One!

Urgent report!"

Zoth stopped mid-sentence.

He turned his head, voice colder than a blade pressed to a traitor's throat:

"Speak, Ari."

Ari Megid bowed low, voice trembling:

"M-My Lord!

A French force is advancing from the Maine-et-Loire direction!

They've already clashed with our vanguard units!"

Zoth rose.

A crimson glint flashed in his eyes —

Predatory.

Hungry.

"Is that so…

Then I'll greet them personally."

"You're going?! But the base—"

"Silence."

Zoth's voice cut like ice.

"I do as I please."

"As for you, Emiya-kun—

Watch over the castle for now.

If anything happens, report to Legeiel or Zooous."

With that—

Zoth dissolved into a cloud of blood-red mist, vanishing into the void.

And in his hand—

Caladbolg burned bright.

Like a spear of divine fire,

ready to set the heavens ablaze.

---

The Battlefield at Angers

The earth trembled beneath the hooves and claws of chaos.

The screams of the Megid echoed across the plains, a requiem of fire and blood.

At the front of the French cavalry rode Jeanne d'Arc, armor soaked with sweat, the banner in her hand blazing through smoke and flame — a white fire cutting through the bloodstained night.

With every swing of her arm, she felled dozens of Megid closing in around her.

At her side, Gilles de Rais roared like a lion among wolves, his greatsword cleaving through their defenses as if through straw.

But things were getting worse.

Knights fell one by one.

Yet the Megid multiplied, surging like hellspawn erupting from the gates of the abyss.

"Gilles!

Hold the line!

I'll circle southwest and reinforce the flank!"

Jeanne shouted amidst the clash of steel and flesh.

Her breath was ragged, but her eyes still burned with resolve.

"Understood!

But don't throw your life away!"

Gilles bellowed, his body like a fortress shielding her.

He took a full blow from a Megid, the impact sending shards of earth flying.

And then—

A chilling wind swept across the battlefield.

Blood-mist rose from still-warm puddles of gore.

The air itself... began to suffocate.

"This is where it ends."

"Now, drop your weapons~"

A mocking, high-pitched voice rang out — like laughter from the edge of death itself.

From the crimson fog, a young man stepped forth.

Hair as dark as the void.

Eyes a deep, maddened brown, twisted with hatred and ruin.

He walked slowly, Caladbolg slung over his shoulder — not like a weapon, but like a sentence already passed.

"Zoth…!!" Jeanne froze.

She hadn't expected the mastermind behind all this… to be him.

The battlefield fell into absolute silence.

"Oho~ Jeannette...

Is it really you?

What a surprise~"

Zoth smiled, like an old friend reunited amid war.

But his eyes... were those of a demon dressed in flesh.

Jeanne trembled.

She looked at the one who once made her heart flutter—

Now standing as the incarnation of madness and annihilation.

"Zoth… you…

How did you become like this...?"

Her voice cracked.

Her grip on the banner tightened — clinging to a faith threatening to shatter.

Zoth spread his arms like a prophet addressing his faithful.

"Because I want to rewrite the ending of this world."

"I want to save humanity from its cycle of stupidity, death, and betrayal."

"And to do that...

I must destroy everything!!"

"YOU—!!" Jeanne screamed, driving her flag into the earth.

Cracks spread from her feet like lightning.

"What about Justice, Zoth!?

You once believed in that!"

Zoth scoffed.

"Justice?"

He tilted his head, gaze sharp as a blade slicing through hope.

"Justice is nothing but a moral illusion spun by the powerful to blind the weak."

"I've chosen a different justice:

Execute the wicked.

Erase the corrupt nobles who leech off the people.

And annihilate all who have, are, or will ever start a war."

"That's not justice!!" Jeanne cried, her voice shaking with rage and sorrow.

"That's hatred masquerading as virtue!

You're spilling blood in the name of righteousness!"

Zoth turned his back to her.

With a wave of his hand — like passing judgment — the Megid fell silent, retreating like shadows awaiting their master's next command.

"No, Jeannette…"

"True justice is a blade."

"And I… am the one who will wield it."

He looked back at her one last time.

And his eyes now…

Were terrifyingly void of all emotion.

"But it doesn't matter."

"In the end…

There's only ever been one conclusion."

Zoth vanished — dissolving into a mist of blood —

and the air warped where he had stood.

His final words lingered…

like a dagger left buried in every soul present.

Gilles stood frozen, cold sweat trickling down his forehead.

"That boy…

He's beyond saving now."

Jeanne bit her lip.

Her gaze shimmered with grief —

but within it, the flame of defiance still blazed.

"Zoth…

So this is the path you've chosen."

She raised her eyes to the storm-filled sky.

Her hand gripped the flag tighter —

as if ready to carve destiny apart.

---

Bayeux – Sword of Logos Headquarters

As soon as Zoth set foot in the hall, he raised his arm coldly, his voice booming like thunder through the war council chamber:

"Assemble all Megid. Assemble them now!"

Across the fog-shrouded fortress, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the stone corridors. Shadows of Megid from every branch began pouring into the central square, thick and countless — like a storm gathering strength to sweep the world clean.

From above, Emiya stepped forward.

Still as cold as ever, his gaze betrayed a flicker of suspicion.

Kurayami let out a faint, metallic hiss at his side, as if resonating with the tension in the air.

"What's going on…

Master Logos?"

Emiya asked, voice calm and flat.

Zoth exhaled deeply, running a hand across his forehead like trying to scrape away a lingering, gnawing pain.

He looked up — and for a brief moment, there was a strained smile on his lips.

But in his eyes… lay the weight of deep, inescapable exhaustion.

"Jeannette…

She's stepped onto the battlefield."

Emiya narrowed his eyes slightly, a glint of understanding flashing within.

He nodded, paused for a moment… and then spoke slowly:

"I see…

In that case…

What will you do now?"

Zoth's eyes narrowed.

His jaw tightened — grinding teeth behind sealed lips.

And from between them came words colder than a winter's curse:

"There's no other choice.

I have to accelerate the plan."

He turned to face the square —

where hundreds of Megid now stood, shoulder to shoulder beneath the light of the blood moon.

The air grew thick… saturated with killing intent.

Zoth raised his arm high, voice echoing like a sacred decree cast upon the damned:

"ALL UNITS, HEAR ME!

Advance the plan. Immediately.

Gather the remaining 1,000 souls —

as quickly as possible.

DO NOT let this opportunity slip away!"