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

Within the towering fortress on the wide plains of Chinon, firelight danced in brilliance across elegant halls. Crimson carpets stretched out in royal grace, leading to the throne. A young girl, seated at its end, slowly rose in her long gown. Her radiant smile greeted the familiar voice with warmth.

Jeanne blinked in surprise.

She wondered if she was mistaken—or if the figure before her wasn't the Crown Prince Charles known throughout France.

But Lucan wasn't surprised at all.

Charles VII de Valois, sole heir to the French crown, the uncrowned dauphin—was a girl.

He had known this for years. When he was fourteen, he had been invited to the court to give lectures. The "Crown Princess" had only recently been established as heir at the time, having fled Paris after its fall and set up a provisional court in Bourges. As part of a court reformation, scholars were summoned from across the land. Even then, Lucan had been shocked by the princess's true gender—though she dressed in male attire, it didn't fool his eyes.

That initial shock gave way to understanding. This world, named for the Moon, held endless parallel histories. It wasn't strange for such differences to arise.

And Charles VII's history was telling.

As a member of the royal family, Charles wasn't the youngest sibling. Even after the deaths of all her brothers and sisters, Charles VI delayed naming her heir. Only when the English resumed their war did he appoint her as the court captain, and a year later, as dauphin and defender of Paris.

Delaying the heir's recognition despite looming disaster made sense—if the dauphin were a woman.

If not for England's renewed aggression, Charles VII may never have been legitimized. Though Europe had seen powerful queens, in times of war, a man always commanded more loyalty.

Lucan remembered well how the young "dauphine" had once appeared in disguise, concealing her identity to survive.

Back then, he'd lectured her.

He had truly earned the title of teacher.

And now, seeing her in a graceful gown, Lucan showed no hesitation. He bowed slightly and said calmly, "Greetings, Your Highness Charles."

"Mm?"

Standing before the throne, the girl narrowed her eyes playfully. "Teacher, have you forgotten? I told you not to call me that."

"You should use my real name—Charlotte de France."

"Oh? So Her Highness still remembers our conversations."

Lucan straightened, voice sharp: "Then you must also remember what I told you. France is surrounded by enemies and plagued by unrest. You must remain vigilant."

"Dressed like this, in an unfortified plain like Chinon, you're inviting disaster. If either Jeanne or I had ill intent, you'd never make it out of this palace."

His tone turned severe.

The once-smiling dauphine froze, quickly lowering her head. "I just… haven't seen you in so long… I wanted to show you how I've grown…"

"You're the only one who ever saw through my disguise!"

Charlotte's voice was sincere, but she clearly wilted under Lucan's stern presence.

Lucan glanced at her graceful figure beneath the gown. He had to admit—she had grown.

Compared to the awkward youth beneath boyish clothes, she had truly blossomed.

He nodded.

"Yes. I can see that you've grown," he said.

"Hehe, I knew you'd agree…" Charlotte smiled brightly again.

Lucan continued: "If by growth, you mean lounging in Chinon while the frontlines burn, waiting to be surrounded until your soldiers must rush back to save you—"

"..."

Charlotte's smile collapsed.

"Still," Lucan added lazily, "you do have a keen eye."

He referred, of course, to her complete trust in the young, nameless village girl standing by Lucan's side.

"Now, Your Highness, go change back into your male disguise. We need to convene the royal council."

"We have much to discuss."

The princess beamed again and hurried off to change.

Lucan let out a long breath.

A strange exhaustion came over him.

He had been deliberately pressuring her—to see if he still held the same place in her heart as when they were young, to rebuild the impression she once had of him.

Though history records Charles VII as deeply trusting of Jeanne, Lucan sought more than trust.

Manipulation had its place.

And beside him, Jeanne seemed to stir for the first time.

She glanced sidelong at Lucan, her expression a mix of joy and… gloom.

A moment of contradiction.

Jeanne had witnessed the entire scene, and now, finally shaken from the truth about the "dauphin," she felt confused.

She should be happy.

Happy that Charlotte trusted her and trusted Vic Toval, her ally, her friend.

Happy that their efforts would now be supported.

But instead—

She felt… unhappy?

She thought of the gift Lucan had given her—a view of the city bursting in firelight like a shower of stars.

Her emotions now were so different from then.

What was happening to her?

A girl of the battlefield, untouched by worldly things, Jeanne didn't understand.

She only felt a deep, burning desire to… say something.

...

[You noticed Jeanne's gloom.]

[You had sensed her change of heart long ago—since the fall of Orléans, during the march back to Chinon, she had often stared blankly at you.]

[Blankly during marches, during conversation, even while reading.]

[You suspected your gift that night might have been too much.]

[But even so, for the sake of your goal, you wouldn't take it back.]

[You let her feelings develop.]

[Neither rejecting nor confirming them.]

[Because this too is part of life—yours and hers.]

[Of course, you knew Jeanne was still Jeanne—the famed saint of France, blessed with overwhelming talent. She wouldn't be lost in emotions forever.]

[And sure enough, when the cross-dressing "Crown Prince" Charlotte returned to the throne, she was composed once more.]

[When the royal council began, and all court ministers gathered in Chinon, she spoke fluently and strategically.]

[You observed the whole time.]

[The 'Crown Prince' pledged full support.]

[She granted Jeanne the title of Marshal of All French Forces, liberator of the realm, giving her command over more than just the frontline army—bestowing the power to grant or strip noble titles.]

[She became the 'hand' of the Crown Prince in wartime.]

[Such power was never meant for Jeanne.]

[Clearly, this was for your sake.]

...

"Duke of Bedford, the army has now encamped across the plains of Poitou, with our backs to the port of La Rochelle—shall we mobilize the ships docked there?"

Meanwhile—

Far from Chinon, on a distant plain where another castle stood across from the dauphin's, flags fluttered above dense camps. Atop a high watchtower, a middle-aged man in armor surveyed the land with eyes as sharp as a hawk.

A subordinate at his side asked respectfully.

"Mobilize the ships?" the man repeated, glancing at him. "So you think I'm retreating, Lord Westerlo?"

"N-never, Your Grace," the man stammered, bowing deeply.

He knew well the weight his master carried—John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, Supreme Commander of English Forces, brother of the late King Henry V, and uncle to the current child-king Henry VI.

In truth, the boy-king made few decisions. This man, the regent, ruled in all but name.

It was he who commanded this sudden offensive, seizing the western harbor of La Rochelle and launching a strike on Chinon.

He had even come in person.

And yet, when Jeanne and Vic arrived, he pulled back his troops.

Many in the English army were stunned.

Whispers spread—had the great Duke of Bedford lost his nerve?

"Of course you all think that," the Duke said calmly. "But a battlefield is more than surprise tactics—it requires solid planning."

"Vic Toval disrupted our northern front with only 300 men. Jeanne conquered the Loire in mere months. These were unexpected moves."

"But this—this strike—they will not have expected."

Westerlo blinked, suddenly understanding.

"Exactly," said the Duke. "Vic's army is strong, but only 300. Jeanne may be gifted, but she's still green."

"Now I bring tens of thousands. No division of force. No opportunities."

"I force them into a head-on battle."

"They have their elites. But so do I."

Be they mundane warriors… Or supernatural elites— He lacked for nothing.

The Duke of Bedford was brimming with confidence.

Tens of thousands of troops— Arrayed like an open pouch.

just waiting for the enemy to walk right in.