NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 51: The Saint Jeanne d’Arc Arrives
[Nicolas Flamel is dead.]
[When you first saw the news, you thought you had misread it.]
[Though the greatest alchemist of this age had long shown signs of unnatural aging—a frailty that seemed to touch the essence of life itself—you didn't believe such a master of the Mysteries would perish so swiftly, so suddenly.]
[But it was true.]
[You suddenly remembered: in actual history, Flamel also passed away at roughly this point in time—the date isn't exact, but the discrepancy is small.]
[You understand now that Flamel's death would send shockwaves through the French side of the Mystical world.]
[Its impact would be no less than the death of a monarch in the mundane world.]
[You decide to postpone your assassination plan targeting Edmond Trambellio and return to France.]
[You must return in full strength.]
[In fact, the forces under the Trambellio family have already suffered a massive setback. In the short term, they won't be able to launch another major operation against the Mystical side of France.]
[Your mission is complete—and completed outstandingly.]
[Your name is now feared on England's Mystical side. Mothers invoke it to silence crying children.]
[You board a sailboat and return to France.]
...
[You meet your teacher, François Prelati, once again, in front of that same ancient shop nestled deep within the streets of Paris—six months after you last parted.]
Although you originally set out together, only five people had crossed the English Channel—Prelati was not among them.
In her own words, her presence was too conspicuous; joining you would have made hiding difficult.
Lucan had agreed with her.
From December of the previous year to the current August, more than half a year had passed.
Compared to last year, the streets of Paris had grown increasingly desolate. Although war had not officially reignited, Lucan had already seen the densely packed fleets and throngs of Englishmen disembarking at the five occupied ports.
It was said that even King Charles VI had fled southward.
Paris's fall was now only a matter of time.
In contrast, Flamel's ancient shop remained unchanged—and so too did the figure standing before it: Prelati.
She still wore the guise of a young girl. Her silver hair cascaded down in soft waves, framing her delicate face. Her slender frame was wrapped in a frilly black-and-white dress. The hem of her skirt swayed gently with her hips, and her long legs—covered in pristine white silk stockings—were faintly full in all the right places.
She saw Lucan, now matured visibly over these past six months.
The small boy who was beginning to resemble a little adult—"Victoire Tuval"—still wore that ever-so-slightly sickly smile.
"Ah, our 'Reversionary Tuval,' the great Monsieur Victoire has finally returned to his loyal city of Paris!"
Prelati's voice and expression were just as they had always been.
Her personality? Completely unchanged.
Seeing that Lucan now stood nearly as tall as she was, she couldn't help but reach out to him...
Only to be swiftly slapped away.
"Sensei, cut it out," Lucan said with a straight face. "Minimum sentence: three years. Maximum: the death penalty."
He was referring to laws from his 'future world'—something he'd once mentioned to Prelati.
"Three years well worth it. Death? Still a fair trade."
Prelati grinned but withdrew her hand nonetheless.
She didn't continue teasing her student.
Mostly because she probably couldn't beat him anymore.
"So rich... this magic... absolutely delicious!"
She sniffed the fingers she had used to touch Lucan, her face flushing with a look of bliss.
Lucan thought to himself that if he weren't still physically just nine years old, he might not have been able to fend her off.
Thanks to his "newbie protection period," he opted to ignore the topic entirely.
"So, Sensei, were you waiting here because you knew I'd be back?"
"But of course... not!"
Prelati tilted her head and giggled. "As beautiful as little Vic has become, don't flatter yourself—"
"I was just about to skip town."
"By the way, most magi in Paris have already fled south!"
Fleeing before a battle even starts—truly an old French tradition.
Lucan wasn't surprised. With England massing troops at the ports and the elite fleeing en masse—King included—how could the self-serving magi possibly remain on the front lines after Flamel's death?
Not that they were needed for now.
"Well then, you'll have to wait a bit before fleeing, Prelati-sensei," Lucan said. "You owe me an explanation—what's happened in France these past six months, and how did Flamel die?"
...
[In these six months, France remained as ever—or perhaps even more peaceful than usual.]
[Though civil unrest simmered in the mundane world, open war hadn't broken out. Chaos remained—yet a delicate balance held.]
[On the Mystical front, all incursions were intercepted by you at the ports. Your counterattacks reached even English soil. They were too busy to send further reinforcements.]
[As for Flamel's death—it was as peaceful as the times. Without incident, without surprise.]
[He died of natural causes.]
[At least, that's how your teacher, François Prelati, explained it.]
[But you weren't convinced. For the same reason as before: you believed that a magus as powerful as Flamel wouldn't die so easily—unless it was like that first simulation during the Tsar's era.]
[Not death that finds you—but death that you embrace.]
[Prelati confirmed your suspicion.]
[She said Flamel had chosen to embrace death.]
["Life is a great journey. But death is an even greater one."]
[Those were Flamel's final words.]
[Yet you couldn't understand. You could face death calmly—because for you, it was just the end of a simulation. A false death. But Flamel clearly wasn't the same.]
[Prelati offered no further explanation. She simply smiled—a satisfied, indulgent smile.]
[She relished the confusion on your face.]
[She said only this:]
["You'll understand when your time comes, little Vic."]
["When that day arrives, I'll tell you my true age—and my true identity."]
["Look forward to it."]
[With laughter, Prelati departed. She said she had found something even more interesting than you—leaving you alone in the streets of Paris, staring at the old shopfront.]
[You had expected that upon returning, you would need to prove your strength and claim Flamel's place among France's magi.]
[But in the end, that wasn't necessary.]
[The magi didn't care.]
[And neither did you. You simply followed the current.]
[You left Paris. You didn't go south. You didn't return home.]
[You wandered the north. Witnessed riot after riot. Head after noble head fell to the guillotine.]
[Social tensions escalated.]
[You remained calm amid it all—studying magic as you traveled.]
[Your mental magecraft grew more refined.]
[You began constructing a new kind of "magecraft."]
[What you imagine, becomes your Law.]
[This is the foundation of mental magecraft.]
[Now, you sought to build on it—]
[What you witness, becomes your Law.]
[From thought to observation.]
[From intent to action.]
[Mind, will, and body—a triple circulation.]
[You grasped this new direction.]
[This would be your greatest goal for this simulation.]
...
[You traveled northern France for a full year. You witnessed forty-six uprisings. Over a hundred nobles beheaded. You met a bard who sang of ancient saints.]
[Your body matured. You wove everything you saw into the foundation of your mental magecraft.]
[That year, you turned ten.]
...
[At eleven, you finally headed south—but before leaving, you discovered an English mage team.]
[You crushed them. From their mouths, you learned that Trambellio's forces were stirring again. Many magi were also hunting for you, believing you inherited Flamel's Philosopher's Stone.]
[They searched his tomb, but found nothing.]
[You didn't care. The Philosopher's Stone belonged to Flamel—not to anyone else.]
[That year, war finally broke out.]
[England's King Henry V declared war on France, citing the nation's instability and violent uprisings.]
[That year was 1415 AD.]
...
[At twelve, you roamed central France. You saw commoners suffer. You witnessed Mystical battles flare up once more. You heard Edmond Trambellio was still searching for you. You ignored him.]
[At thirteen, your magecraft foundation hit a bottleneck.]
[You needed more knowledge—mundane and arcane alike.]
[That year, Paris fell. The Dauphin, left behind by the fleeing king, escaped to Bourges in the Bourbon region and formed a new court.]
[Under the guise of a renowned scholar, you were invited to join.]
[At fourteen, you read and wrote.]
[At fifteen, you left court and returned to your obscure home village in central France.]
[You kept reading. Kept writing.]
[On the Mystical side, you vanished. In the mundane world, your books became famous.]
[At sixteen, you heard that northern France had completely fallen.]
[You remained unchanged.]
[At eighteen, both King Henry V of England and King Charles VI of France died. Their successors intensified the war.]
...
[At twenty, France was in full retreat. Most of the central region had fallen.]
[That year, you heard of a girl from rural Orléans who claimed to have received divine visions—from Saint Michael, Saint Margaret, and Saint Catherine. She prophesied England's coming defeat.]
[Her prophecy came true.]
[You knew the Hundred Years' War's true protagonist—Orléans' Maiden, the Saint Jeanne d'Arc—was about to step onto the stage of history.]
[You kept reading. Kept writing.]
[At twenty-four, in May, news arrived: Orléans, France's last central stronghold and southern gateway, was under siege by the English.]
[In September, that autumn—]
[Two strangers arrived at your village.]