Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

Nightfall in Maine-et-Loire Province — The Refugee Camp, After the Battle.

The ground still simmered with residual heat. Scorch marks streaked across the land, and dried blood crusted into dark patches, yet to be washed away.

Amidst the devastation, the Servants worked urgently to aid the survivors — patching up both physical and emotional wounds as they helped rebuild the ruined camp.

Makeshift tents, cobbled together from torn white fabric, wooden stakes, and frayed ropes, swayed precariously in the wind.

Nothing here was stable. But for the civilians, even that was hope enough.

Why hadn't they left?

Because out there, Megid still lurked. Logos still hunted.

The moment they stepped beyond the protected perimeter, they would be no more than sheep among wolves.

At least here… there were still Knights. Still Servants — brave souls standing firm against the encroaching darkness.

Only when the Sword of Logos, that mad High Priest, and his monsters were vanquished could they dare dream of normal life again.

Amid the shattered ruins, in a shadowed corner formed by heaps of debris…

A blonde woman sat motionless, as though buried within the wreckage itself.

She clutched a white flag, its tip planted in the scorched earth, her forehead resting against the pole — her eyes blank, lifeless, as if the world had already abandoned her.

Jeanne d'Arc.

Around her, hammers pounded, people called out to each other, children cried — but to her, it all faded into nothingness.

Her thoughts drifted through chaotic fragments of memory — Zoth's words echoing like blades across her heart:

"I will rewrite this world… so you'll never have to sacrifice yourself again…"

"Wait for me… Jeannette…"

Her pale hands clenched the flagstaff — so tight, her fingertips bled, crimson droplets seeping into the cold ash.

She didn't want a world like that. Didn't need it. Never would.

A world built on bleached bones and scorched ash — a realm born from blood and sin —

Even if she could smile there, would that smile still be… human?

Jeanne felt like she was the root of it all, the cause of his descent.

Guilt. Pain. Every breath was a fresh wound.

Her lower lip trembled, bitten until it tore — blood trickled down her chin, staining her chest — but she didn't notice.

"Oi! My other self — what's with that damn face?!"

A sharp, steel-edged voice shattered the heavy silence.

From behind the rubble, Jalter emerged — scowling, her black flag slung across her shoulder like a war spear.

Her eyes swept over Jeanne's still figure with disdain:

A Jeanne too weak, too pathetic — crying for a madman.

Jalter furrowed her brow, marched over, and slammed her black flag into the ground, scattering a cloud of ash.

"How long are you planning to rot in this damn hole?

Waiting until that bastard smashes the whole world before you crawl out?"

Her voice was harsh, icy cold — but in her eyes, something painfully human flickered.

Jeanne didn't respond. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, unmoving.

No tears. No trembling. Just a chilling emptiness.

Not because she wanted to run — but because… she didn't know where else to look.

"I can't… I don't want to fight him…"

She whispered, her voice hoarse, like wind sweeping across a desert:

"Zoth… wasn't supposed to become this. It's my fault he did…"

"Shut up. Stop whining."

Jalter cut her off without mercy — her voice like a whip crack:

"You think crying and blaming yourself is gonna change anything?

You think playing the fallen saint here is gonna bring him back?!"

Jeanne flinched slightly.

"No… but if he did it for me, then at the very least… I can stop him myself…"

"Stop him, yourself?!"

Jalter laughed, a cold, metallic sound like steel scraping stone:

"Are you insane, Jeanne?

He doesn't need some white flag bowing and begging for mercy.

He needs someone to punch him in the damn face and scream: 'You're wrong!'"

She grabbed Jeanne by the collar, yanked her up — her eyes blazing:

"You're not a victim. And you're not a savior.

You're Jeanne d'Arc — the woman who dared defy an entire kingdom!

So get up.

If you can't wake him with love, then beat him awake with strength."

Jeanne stared into Jalter's eyes — furious, crude… but not a trace of hatred.

On the contrary, it was the gaze of someone who had known despair, survived it, and refused to let anyone else fall to it again.

After a moment, Jeanne silently gripped her flagstaff.

She stood up — head still low, but her voice steadier:

"…Thank you, my other self."

Jalter scoffed and turned away:

"Don't thank me. I just got sick of seeing you crumpled like some rag."

Jeanne let out a faint chuckle — a sad sound… but alive.

---

Another corner of the refugee camp — where white tarps were being raised among mud and dried blood.

Ritsuka and Mash were working with other Servants to reassemble the tents blown away during the last assault.

Their hands were still dirty when the communication device suddenly began to vibrate in short, urgent bursts.

A pale blue glow shimmered in the air, forming a 3D hologram — a familiar face with messy pink hair, sweat-soaked lab coat, and a panicked expression.

Romani Archaman.

"Ritsuka! Mash!"

Romani nearly shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief for a moment.

"Thank God… you're both alright…"

"Ahaha… Romani-sensei, we're still alive and well."

Ritsuka scratched his cheek, forcing a sheepish yet relieved smile.

Mash bowed respectfully:

"We're unharmed. Situation report: we've temporarily repelled Zoth's assault in the Maine-et-Loire region. However—"

"Wait, wait."

Romani held up a hand, his expression still tense.

"This call isn't just a status check… Zoth asked to speak to you directly, Ritsuka."

At that, Ritsuka froze for a second. Mash's brows furrowed, and her grip on the shield tightened.

From behind Romani's image, Zoth (Chaldea version) stepped out of the shadows — clad in silver and gold armor, wearing his signature lazy grin and mocking half-smile under his helmet.

"Yo~, Gudao~"

Zoth flashed his teeth, leaning close to the screen like he was peering straight into Ritsuka's eyes.

"Last time, you called me a weakling back in Babylonia, remember that?~

Now that you've seen my true power, got anything to say~?"

Ritsuka gave an awkward laugh, one eyebrow twitching at the provocative tone.

He clenched his fist, trying to stay composed:

"…Hahaha… Zoth-senpai… that was my fault. I sincerely apologize."

"Yeah, yeah."

Zoth waved a hand dismissively, clearly impatient.

"Forget the past. I called this time because there's something serious we need to discuss."

He looked up, narrowing his eyes — all sarcasm vanished.

"Gudao. I'm going to tell you my greatest weakness… from when I was still 'alive'."

The atmosphere grew heavy.

Mash glanced at Ritsuka. He clenched his fists tighter and gave a slow, resolute nod.

"…I'm listening, senpai."

Zoth nodded.

"You remember the Orleans Singularity?

The one where you met my Alter version — the one that was both an Avenger and a disguised Caster?"

Ritsuka flinched. The memories of that burning city, of Jalter, and those two deranged lunatics… it all came rushing back like it happened yesterday.

"Yes. I remember it vividly…"

"Good."

Zoth crossed his arms, exhaling like he was dragging some long-buried truth from deep underground:

"My weakness hasn't changed. No matter how much I evolve… the core of me remains the same."

Ritsuka frowned.

"What do you mean…?"

"What I mean is—"

Zoth scratched his head, then looked away, as if embarrassed to say it:

"Let that bastard Solomon keep using Omni Force nonstop.

His half-dead body will eventually be devoured by Ether and disintegrate.

In short: don't let him rest. Push until he rots."

Mash's eyes widened. Ritsuka swallowed hard.

He tried to stay calm, but his voice wavered slightly:

"…And what if he doesn't die?

What if his power surpasses even that decay…?"

Zoth turned his head back, and his face was no longer mocking.

His voice dropped low — almost… sorrowful:

"…Then leave it to Jeannette.

Tell her to use [La Pucelle] — and end it all."

Ritsuka was stunned. He pictured Jeanne standing in a sea of flames, her body dissolving in holy light — sacrificing herself once more to end the life she once tried so desperately to save.

Zoth turned his back to the screen, his voice heavy:

"…Don't let this spiral out of control.

If you hesitate, people will die."

Ritsuka took a deep breath, then nodded firmly:

"Understood, Zoth-senpai.

I… I won't let anyone die again."

Zoth gave a faint nod.

Saying nothing more, his image faded like smoke into the air.

Mash clutched her shield tighter, murmuring:

"…Senpai, this… this is serious."

Ritsuka didn't answer.

He looked up at the sky — where black mist was gathering, swirling like a gaping maw preparing to consume all of humanity.

---

Night falls over Bayeux — Sword of Logos Grand Hall.

Magical light bathed the polished stone floor, reflecting the image of a shadowy throne standing solemn in the cold heart of the cathedral-like chamber.

Zoth sat slouched upon it — one arm propping up his chin, legs lazily crossed, the other hand flipping through the pages of [Omni Force] as if it were some light reading. His half-lidded gaze drifted over the group of Servants below like one skimming a disappointing report.

"It's not your fault."

His voice was weary.

"Don't bring those funeral faces in front of me…"

He leaned his head back and exhaled slowly, then smirked:

"It was me… I underestimated those damn Grand Servants."

"No."

Vlad knelt on one knee, his voice low and filled with remorse.

"It was our failure. We failed to live up to the expectations of Master Logos."

Zoth raised an eyebrow, mildly intrigued.

"Oh~… shouldering all the blame, are we?"

Frankenstein stood silently at Vlad's side — she said nothing, but her eyes burned with frustration and suppressed rage, as if barely holding back a scream.

Zoth let out a soft, sarcastic laugh.

"Heh… and here I thought you cold-blooded monsters only knew how to kill.

Didn't expect you to give a damn about honor."

He rubbed his temples and glanced around the vast hall — still echoing faintly with the ghosts of hundreds of war councils.

Then he waved a hand.

"Enough. Dismissed. Return to your posts.

The Chaldea Servants… they'll start their counterattack tomorrow."

"Oh?" Vlad narrowed his eyes.

"So soon? I thought they'd be licking their wounds for a while."

"Haha~ looks like I scared them so bad they forgot how to sleep."

Zoth shrugged, his smirk laced with mockery.

"All the better. The sooner they move, the sooner I get new entertainment."

"Understood."

Vlad bowed slightly, asking no more.

Frankenstein turned without a word, her white hair swaying gently with each step.

The grand doors closed behind them.

Inside, only Zoth remained — bathed in the cold magical light that clung to the throne like frost.

He sat there — unmoving.

Seconds later, he raised a hand—

[Shhk!]

The disguise peeled away.

A flare of light revealed cracks spreading across his body — jagged, splintered like fractured glass ready to shatter.

Brilliant golden lightning sparked within him — violent, unstable.

His body… was decaying from within.

"Haah…"

Zoth murmured, as if mocking himself.

"So this is it… just a walking corpse after all.

Guess I'm not as badass as Issac from Kamen Rider Saber…"

He let out a hollow chuckle — a lonely laugh, not meant for anyone, not prompted by anything.

The light suddenly retracted.

With another motion of his hand, he rewrapped his form in flawless illusion — the cracks vanished, as if they'd never existed.

Once again, his figure gleamed like a "divine master," regal and invincible beneath the somber glow of the grand hall.

But the truth was already clear.

It was all just gilded wrapping — inside, the rot was spreading.

Zoth slowly closed his eyes, and his whisper echoed through the empty air:

"…Alright then.

The game's almost over."