Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

Angers, Maine-et-Loire — Refugee Zone.

"Jeanne… Saint Jeanne d'Arc, please awaken…"

A young voice—soft, like it echoed from the very soul—whispered gently beside her ear.

Jeanne opened her eyes.

Before her—there was no battlefield, no smoke and fire, no chains nor despair.

Only a pure white void, eerily still. No color, no wind, no end in sight.

"Where… am I?"

Her voice trembled slightly, eyes darting around in confusion, searching for something—anything—to hold onto.

"This is the passage to the Reverse Side of the World—the place that connects to the core of all existence.

Where truths are born… and erased."

The voice spoke again. Still young, yet now carrying a deep warmth, a calm that seemed to settle her heart.

Jeanne placed a hand over her chest and bowed her head reverently.

"May I ask… who are you?"

A small orb of white light—gentle, yet radiating pure divinity—floated before her.

"I am a fragment of the Counter Force. The embodiment of Humanity's Collective Will.

My name… is Alaya."

Jeanne's eyes widened.

That name… she had heard it before. In Zoth's fevered whispers. In the winds that carried faint traces of ancient truths—of a force that moved behind the fog of human history.

"Then… what do you want from me?"

Alaya responded—youthful still, but every word fell heavy, like the chains of fate:

"I wish to elevate your spiritual foundation.

To prepare you… for the final battle."

"The world now teeters on the edge of reformation. Heroic Spirits will soon be summoned once more.

And you—shall lead them."

Jeanne froze.

"A battle…?"

The orb of light slowly turned, casting its glow toward the distance—where a massive, monstrous book hovered in the void, radiating black and crimson light, spiraling down toward the earth like a cursed vortex.

"What you see… is the Great Book.

A tool devouring history, erasing memory, breaking the world's natural order.

Once the book reaches its peak… this world will be wiped clean and rewritten—

In his image."

Jeanne fell to her knees, clutching her gown tightly.

Her lips quivered. Her eyes blurred with disbelief.

"Rewrite… all of humanity's history?"

"Yes. A timeline… where mankind is no longer the center.

A world without gods, without souls, without compassion."

Alaya's tone never rose—yet every word cut like a knife.

Jeanne shut her eyes, trembling.

The image of Zoth—once laughing with them over battlefield campfires, once shielding her from arrows on the frontlines—was now the very force tearing apart mankind's destiny.

"…I don't believe it.

I still believe… there is light left in him."

Jeanne raised her head.

Her eyes—wet with sorrow—now burned with unwavering conviction.

"If there's a chance… I want to save him.

To stop him—before everything is lost."

Alaya remained silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, the orb of light turned, as if nodding.

"Very well… Jeanne d'Arc—Saint of France.

Please… stand tall."

"You shall receive spiritual sublimation.

I shall grant you… a new aspect of faith."

Jeanne closed her eyes.

Light exploded around her body—radiant, divine.

Her white garments fluttered as a luminous halo of wings unfurled behind her, flapping gently in the endless void.

But at that very moment—

Alaya's voice grew cold, quiet, and sharp as frost beneath the light.

"…But beware."

"His power… is Omniscience and Omnipotence."

---

Jeanne slowly opened her eyes.

No more surreal white realm. No more eternal light.

She had returned to the real world—now lying on a thin blanket inside a makeshift tent in the refugee camp.

The tattered fabric ceiling fluttered as the wind slipped through the holes, brushing gently against her sensitive skin, still reeling from the spiritual slumber.

She sat up.

A surge of energy, like a sacred spring, erupted from her chest and spread throughout her body.

Gone was the exhaustion of a mere mortal—replaced by something burning, divine, exalted… and unfamiliar.

"This is… a spiritual ascension…?"

Jeanne murmured, pressing a hand to her forehead.

Floods of memories, impressions, and data scrolled through her mind like glowing lines of text—a reconstruction of the hidden truths, the structure of the [Alter Ride Book] being rewritten… and Zoth—or rather, the High Priest Solomon.

"To rewrite the world… to destroy the Foundation of Humanity…

This is no longer myth. It's a nightmare beyond reason."

Just then—

"Jeanne!!!"

Gilles burst into the tent like a rampaging bull.

His face was pale, drenched in sweat, and his eyes bulged as if about to pop out. Arms flailing, he gasped:

"Th–There's someone outside! A guy calling himself Charlemagne, along with three others!

They said they're here to see you!"

Jeanne stood up—faster and steadier than ever before.

"I heard you. Gilles, lead the way."

---

Camp Gate – Refugee Zone

Before Jeanne stood four figures — two men, two women... no, that wasn't quite right.

Three men, one woman — or perhaps two men, one woman, and one whose gender was impossible to define.

Their presence didn't belong to this world. Every fiber of their being seemed to radiate a personality forged by legend.

Jeanne stepped forward. Holding to the proper form, she placed her hands together and bowed slightly.

"Greetings. Have you come looking for me?"

The one leading the group turned — a silver-streaked black-haired youth, eyes cold like tempered steel beneath the moonlight.

His air of royalty didn't come from arrogance, but from ideals sharpened by blood and war.

Placing a hand on his chest, he bowed solemnly.

"It's an honor, Saint Maiden.

I am Charlemagne, a Heroic Spirit summoned by Alaya — to stop the Holy Master Solomon from destroying this world."

"And I'm Astolfo~! Nice to meet youuu~!"

A pink-haired "girl" (?) bounced with energy, waving excitedly like an idol greeting their fans, a grin bright as spring sunshine.

"I'm Roland! Ha ha! Great to meetcha!"

A brawny blonde warrior laughed loudly, muscles rippling like bronze statues brought to life.

"Put a shirt on, Roland! We have company!"

A slender young woman with sharp golden eyes sighed in exasperation. Then she turned to Jeanne with a smile — gentle, yet burning with quiet strength.

"I am Bradamante. A pleasure to meet you, Saint."

Jeanne nodded respectfully.

"Jeanne d'Arc. It is a pleasure to meet you all."

Her voice turned firm, blue eyes gleaming with caution.

"You… are the Heroic Spirits Alaya spoke of?

The ones sent to stop the Holy Master Solomon?"

Charlemagne nodded.

"Yes.

We are part of humanity's final resistance — summoned to prevent the collapse of Human Order."

Jeanne lowered her gaze, uncertainty rippling like waves beneath her calm.

"But… why call him Solomon?

The Zoth I know…"

"No."

Charlemagne clenched his fist slightly, his voice cold as a drawn blade.

"He is no longer the Zoth you once knew, Saint.

He is now Solomon — the Holy Master.

Zoth Vari-El… was devoured by ether to the point where he no longer exists.

Even Heroic Spirits like us nearly broke when facing the thing wearing his face."

He paused a beat, then continued:

"What remains now is an empty shell…

Spreading destruction, creating Megid, and erasing everything."

Jeanne held her breath. A word rose unbidden from deep within her memory:

"Megid...

Wait—those are… the things we've been fighting?"

Bradamante stepped forward, eyes filled with both sorrow and anger.

"Yes.

They are born from despair, from the flesh and blood of humanity.

Twisted by the Holy Master's [Alter Ride Book]."

Jeanne took a half step back, hands trembling as they gripped her flagstaff tightly.

Her voice cracked.

"No…

Zoth… how could he…"

This time, Roland — now wearing a shirt — walked up and placed a massive hand gently on her shoulder. Not forceful. Not heavy. Just… sincere.

"There's no more time for doubt or regret, Jeanne d'Arc."

Jeanne bit her lip. Hard.

After a long silence, she bowed low — as if swearing an oath.

"Then… I beg of you…

Please stop this madness."

Charlemagne nodded solemnly.

"Even if it costs our lives…

we will not let this world be rewritten."

Jeanne looked up, surprised.

"You said 'we'…

There are others?"

Charlemagne smiled — a glimmer of hope shining through the encroaching end.

"Yes.

It's not just us.

More Heroic Spirits are awakening…

This battle —

you will not fight it alone."

---

Meanwhile — Somewhere Else, United Kingdom

The skies above London were blanketed in ashen gray.

Mist slithered through the narrow streets, clinging to crumbling rooftops and weather-worn monuments drowned in moss.

In a place where day and night seemed to have lost all meaning, two figures in heavy armor strode silently through a dazed crowd seeking shelter.

Above them —

The [Great Book], massive and ominous, hovered in the air like a death sentence carved across history itself.

Veins of crimson-black energy seeped from its pages, dripping down like the ink of an apocalypse being written.

"Our target... is that book, isn't it, Bedivere?"

The voice came from behind — lazy, scornful, yet sharp as a blade at one's throat.

Mordred.

The traitor. The usurper.

Clarent rested on his shoulder like a declaration of defiance — against gods, against fate, and against the past he no longer feared.

"Yes."

"According to the Counter Force, that is the [Great Book] — the core system anchoring the current world's destiny."

Bedivere didn't turn back.

Silver hair fluttered softly in the mist. His gaze was as calm and frigid as a statue's.

Each step he took seemed to crush the very bones of a decaying timeline beneath him.

"Hmph... Looks like some oversized ornament." "And it's supposed to be able to erase all of humanity? This world really has a twisted sense of humor."

Mordred scoffed, kicking a shard of broken glass along the curb.

The jagged reflection showed the burning red book in the sky — glaring down like a demonic eye watching ants scramble below.

"It's not just a tool."

"It's a weapon — forged by the Master Logos, Solomon, to rewrite the history of mankind."

"Once the [Great Book] finishes absorbing everything… this world will be rewritten to fit his will."

Bedivere's hand tightened slightly on the hilt at his side.

Not out of rage — but because he understood.

There was no going back now.

"Rewriting the world, huh. Sounds about right."

"Fits the type who think they're 'authors of a new era.'"

Mordred halted, eyes flashing with unfiltered killing intent.

"Only problem is... guys like that never write their own damn endings."

Bedivere glanced over — not with concern, but with certainty.

He knew this companion — dangerous, unpredictable, but exactly the weapon he needed.

"I know you've no love for France… especially after what happened back then."

"But now isn't the time to bring old grudges into this."

"France, huh…?"

"You mean that dump Lancelot used to crawl around in?"

Mordred growled, picking up his pace.

"Don't mention that bastard in front of me. The stench of his blood still clings."

The air around them grew heavier.

From the distance, sirens screamed — a low-level Megid sighting near Camden.

Bedivere didn't flinch.

"Lancelot doesn't matter anymore."

"Our sole target… is Master Logos, Solomon."

"That lunatic who calls himself a saint?"

Mordred snorted.

"If he dares proclaim himself the 'Final Chapter'—

Then I'll carve the damn epilogue with my blade."

Clarent trembled faintly in Mordred's hand, humming like a blade starved for blood.

It wasn't rage — it was hunger.

"We need to get to France."

"If we don't reach the port before the Megid torch every ship… we're stuck here."

"Got it."

Mordred cracked his neck. The joints of his armor clicked, crisp and sharp.

"Let's just hope those Frenchies aren't all dead yet."

"I'd like to say hi to a few old faces…"

The two figures vanished into the swirling fog, leaving behind a city on the brink of collapse.

---

Bayeux, Normandy – The Great Hall of the Sword of Logos

Faint light streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the cold stone floor of the hall.

Each footstep echoed like a whisper from another world—where time had splintered, and the laws of causality held no meaning.

High upon the black throne at the heart of the sanctuary sat the Holy Master Solomon—or rather, Zoth Vari-El.

His shadow stretched long behind him, like the scythe of an ancient god of death.

His burning crimson eyes reflected the light from the [Almighty Book], which lay wide open before him—its living script slithered across the pages like fire-serpents, sketching out the very map of fate.

Behind him, the massive stained-glass pane trembled slightly.

A pulse of magical energy seeped out from the book, warping the very space around it.

Zoth rose to his feet.

Tall and slender, he walked forward, each step pressing against reality as if it were cracking beneath his heels.

He stopped before the glass and gazed toward the horizon—where timelines shattered and unraveled into glowing strands.

"Charlemagne… and his band of deluded knights."

"Grand Lancer Romulus=Quirinus, Nero Claudius, Grand Rider Noah, Taigong Wang…"

He listed the names as if reciting an obituary.

"Hmph… and now even Tezcatlipoca, the Grand Berserker of the Aztec civilization?"

His head tilted slightly. His lips curled upward, like the grin of a corpse refusing to rot.

"…And those three rotten Knights of the Round Table showed up too, did they?"

Each word poured oil onto the inferno dancing in his pupils.

A soft, dry laugh slipped from his throat—echoing across the chamber like a funeral bell:

"To be greeted by three Grand Servants all at once…

Truly a fitting welcome for someone like me—the 'main character', wouldn't you say~?"

Zoth turned, theatrical in his movements, spreading his arms wide as though unveiling a grand stage for a blood-stained opera.

He sank back into his throne, fingers tapping idly on the black iron armrest etched with ancient runes.

Below the throne—four massive summoning circles began to glow faintly, swirling with silver and blood-red light like soul-devouring wells.

"They've come faster than I expected~"

A voice broke the tension, from the shadows of the right pillar.

Emiya—the familiar white-haired archer—stood with arms crossed, leaning against the stone column, his expression barely concealing his irritation.

"Master Logos…"

"How much longer do you plan to stall? Are you going to wait until those Grand Servants destroy all of Normandy before you act?"

Zoth slouched lazily, letting his arms fall to either side.

"Tch. I'll act when the mana concentration reaches its peak."

"No need to be so impatient, Emiya-kun~"

He chuckled, his voice a blend of venom and honey—like soothing a child who couldn't grasp the rules of a grown man's game.

Emiya shrugged, eyes drifting to the summoning arrays etched into the floor.

"I don't care about your ideals, Master Logos.

We're just using each other. As long as this arrangement benefits me... I'll cooperate."

Zoth tilted his head, dark hair falling across half his face.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes flared from deep brown to blazing orange—

—and a jagged laugh hissed from between his teeth:

"Fufufu~… Excellent."

"Because the time has come."

He spread his arms like a high priest at an ancient altar, gaze fixed dead center on the glowing summoning circles.

"It's time… to summon my allies."