In the Nasuverse (TYPE-MOON), I Created a Magical Family Lineage

[The Wild Hunt—avatar of the storm, master of demons, rider at the head of the dead—gallops across the northern frontier, a living calamity that hunts the living]

[From this name alone, one could tell how deeply the English feared—and hated—you]

[You liked the name]

[After capturing the high city of Paris, you made no attempt to reform it. For nearly a decade it had been held by the English, but with just 300 men, no matter how strong, you couldn't govern the entire city]

[To you, taking the city was merely the final step in testing your "theory"]

[To you, this place was never a cage]

[It was bait]

[And sure enough, days later, the English shipped tens of thousands of troops from the ports, launching an all-out offensive to retake Paris. They couldn't allow it to fall back into French hands. So long as they held the French capital, they retained the upper hand—at least, that was how the English saw it]

[The ten-year-old King of England, Henry VI, had already planned to use Paris as a foothold to seize the French crown]

[Facing the onslaught of the English host, you abandoned the city without hesitation]

[They took Paris—only for you to strike again]

[You captured it, then escaped]

[Then captured it again]

[The tug-of-war ground down their numbers]

[After several rounds, the English realized your tactics. They stopped attacking and simply laid siege—hoping to trap you. But each time, you broke out and slaughtered them]

[Your knights grew even stronger]

[By observing them, you further refined your theories, integrating knowledge and deepening your path into the world of mystery]

[In the meantime—]

[You learned Jeanne had fully secured the Loire. Her string of victories had earned her the title of France's "Holy Maiden of Salvation"—its divine shield. Together with you, she was seen as the sword and shield of France]

[Your goal was achieved: your fame now matched Jeanne's. Becoming a canonized saint recognized by the Church was now nearly a certainty]

[Jeanne confirmed this herself in her letters. The two of you never stopped writing to each other—growing ever closer]

[She proudly flaunted her improving literacy each time, only for you to catch every mistake]

[You always promised to properly tutor her, but never followed through]

[She shared her experiences—the love of the French people, and the praise of her officers and soldiers for your efforts in the north]

[She told you—]

["You and I are comrades-in-arms, bound in the deepest trust."]

...

[The English were routed on the battlefield. Hearing of this, Henry VI flew into a rage and ordered more troops sent across the sea]

[You had long distanced yourself from the magical world, but one day, a magus arrived with a message: "The King has crossed the sea."]

[Then news came from the south—]

[The French crown prince, Charles, had been surrounded in the southern city of Chinon]

[The English had bypassed the Channel, landing with 50,000 men at La Rochelle on the Atlantic coast]

[Jeanne, besieging Auxerre for months, was close to victory]

[She intended to withdraw and come to Charles' aid]

[But her high-ranking officers and nobles argued furiously]

[With the north now relatively quiet, you made your decision—]

[To march south and aid the prince]

...

"Are we really to abandon Auxerre Castle now, just as it's about to fall, and give up all our efforts so far?"

Inside the stuffy command tent, the summer night's chill was driven away by a blazing fire, replaced by a stifling heat. A deep, booming voice broke the tense silence, causing those seated around the sand table to raise their eyes toward the burly figure who had spoken.

Another man shot to his feet at once, anger in his voice:

"Count Jean de Brosse—are you suggesting we leave His Highness Charles to his fate?"

"The honor of France rests upon him! As vassals of the realm, we are bound to aid him!"

Though not as tall, the young noble's presence was striking—like a drawn sword.

His accusation made the count's face twist slightly, his mustache trembling.

"Of course not!"

"Then what are you suggesting?" the youth pressed.

Count de Brosse gave no reply.

Another man stepped in:

"Lord John Stewart, of course Count de Brosse intends to fight for France's honor."

He defused the tension, then addressed the rest of the officers and nobles in the tent:

"You must all realize—Chinon Castle has been heavily fortified. Even with the French's ruthlessness, it cannot fall so easily."

"But Auxerre has also been reinforced by the English. If we don't take it now, we may never get another chance."

In truth, they all desired the glory of capturing the castle—of adding to their family's prestige. The idea of saving the prince held no special weight in Europe, where there was no saying like 'none higher than the one who saves the king.' Charles, the heir to the crown, wasn't even their direct overlord. And whether he would ever wear the crown remained uncertain.

Still, their arguments were not without merit.

Voices rose again as the three factions debated—those for attacking, those for retreating to rescue, and those who abstained.

At the tent's head, seated above them all, the commander wore a troubled frown.

Golden hair braided and draped over her silver plate armor, with a dark purple cloak beneath, the young girl lowered her eyes.

As nominal leader of the army, Jeanne naturally supported withdrawing to aid Charles. Though they had never met, she fought for France—and Charles was its future.

But despite her title, she lacked the power to command them by force.

She was still too young.

Famous—but not yet revered.

Yet her silence wasn't due to weakness.

Nor was it her nature to retreat.

She had made her decision—and would not yield.

"Everyone."

She raised her head, voice ringing clear, silencing the room.

Facing the gathered nobles, she stood tall:

"The Lord's radiance shields France."

"France's honor rests with His Highness Charles. We are here by his command. Can we abandon him now?"

Her stance was firm.

She had said it before.

"But Lady Jeanne," de Brosse interjected, "will you truly abandon this rare chance? If we take Auxerre, we regain control of the north. Reclaiming lost lands would be within reach!"

"With respect, your opinion, though noted, cannot be followed."

The pro-rescue nobles bristled. More arguments broke out.

Clearly, consensus was impossible.

Then—we must divide our forces.

So Jeanne thought.

Yes. Divide.

It was risky, but now the only choice.

She drew a breath, about to speak.

She opened her mouth to announce her final decision—

Whiiiiinnnne!

Outside the tent.

Amid the dark, across the camp that surrounded Auxerre, came the thunder of hooves. An avalanche of sound, like a roaring tide.

Jeanne froze.

The nobles turned as one, looking past the billowing tent flap—

There they were.

Tall riders, their bodies wreathed in visible mana that formed thick armor, like knights of Arthurian legend reborn.

Horse after horse entered in a line, forcing the guards to fall back, even kneel.

"They're… the Wild Hunt… No, the Holy Knights!"

It was unmistakable. Lucan's Holy Knights.

The riders parted.

At their center, one figure rode forth, long scholar's robes flaring in the wind like wings—

Drenched in might.

"Seems I arrived just in time. Quite the heated debate."

The scholar spoke.

Voices fell silent.

Only Jeanne rose slowly.

She looked upon her comrade—half a year apart, less than a year known, yet deeply familiar.

At Lucan's unchanged, elegant form.

And once again, she relaxed, from soul to skin.

Yes…

"Yes, Mr. Victoire,"

She smiled with genuine joy.

"You arrived just in time."

For she was the shield of France.

And he—he was its sword.