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

In 1430, tension hung heavy over Poitou. English forces, having crossed the Channel and landed at La Rochelle on France's western coast, had entrenched themselves under the command of the Duke of Bedford.

Jeanne and Vic's army had likewise crossed the Loire, and now the two sides faced off across the sweeping plains of western France.

A force of under 20,000 was about to confront an enemy several times its size.

Both nations had staked everything on this battle.

This war would decide not just the next ten years—but the fate of each nation for a century to come.

—"Turning Points of the Hundred Years' War: The Battle of Poitou"

...

[Though you successfully rescued the Dauphin Charles…]

[You, Jeanne, and the ministers within Chinon all know: if the English entrenched in Poitou are not driven out, you will forever be attacked from both front and rear.]

[And so, after a few days' rest outside Chinon,]

[Your army once again marches west.]

[You and Jeanne lead three hundred templar knights, advancing swiftly at the forefront.]

"That's the English encampment?"

Beyond the Loire tributary supporting Chinon, after marching a hundred miles, flags of various colors flapped in the sea wind under the golden afternoon sun. Smoke curled around their sprawling encampments, stretching for miles.

The English had built interlocking camps in a staggered formation. Attack one, and another would immediately reinforce it—creating an unbreakable defense. Each camp was fortified with checkpoints and traps. Impenetrable.

Lucan, at the vanguard, scanning from horseback, murmured, "This Duke of Bedford… clearly a master of orthodox warfare."

No trickery, no ambushes—only steady advances and solid defense.

Lucan had seen many commanders while fighting across northern France, but none compared to this.

Jeanne replied, "The Lord's glory shines here. We shall shatter our enemies face-to-face. Glory will return to France!"

"The Lord's glory… huh."

Lucan offered no opinion. He looked again—and realized Jeanne was right.

There were no weaknesses.

Victory would only come from a head-on breakthrough.

But that was not his specialty.

Large-scale command, whether on the front lines or in reserve, wasn't his domain.

And so he said, "It's up to you now, Jeanne."

"Leave it to me. We'll win—together." Her expression was resolute, her previous emotional haze entirely gone.

Lucan smiled. "Your victory."

"Vic's victory too!" she added, beaming.

He paused.

Then she added, "And when we win, I'll give you a gift."

She spurred her horse, raising the fleur-de-lis banner high. Three hundred templars followed with lances raised, thick magical armor shimmering over their steel.

Behind them came heavy cavalry, then light horsemen on the flanks, then infantry and archers, then cannons mounted on wagons.

If the Duke of Bedford's camp was an open bag, waiting for prey to enter before snapping shut—

Then this French army was a blade.

Even iron sacks would be cut apart.

BOOM—

On the endless plain, war began.

Lucan remained behind, replaying Jeanne's radiant smile and her final words.

In a film, this would be a terrifying flag.

But he trusted her, trusted her luck, trusted the templars he'd trained himself.

He stayed. He didn't charge.

There was no need for words.

Just as in Orleans, Jeanne knew—Lucan's battlefield was not the same.

He had already sensed it.

[You parted from the army, as if from the battlefield itself, and walked toward the rear of the English encampment.]

[Chaos and bloodshed swept past you.]

[None saw you.]

[As if you walked not upon the earth, but through another corner of heaven and earth.]

...

At the highest point of the docks, the battle visible from afar—

"I must go to war. I can't continue hosting you, Your Eminence."

The towering Duke of Bedford stood and bowed respectfully to a figure even taller, seated beside the main table of an open-air banquet.

"Go, Duke."

The figure waved lazily, wine glass in hand. "I await your victorious return."

"I will not disappoint you."

The Duke smiled and left.

Only that inhumanly tall figure remained, watching the sea, the wind—and the battle.

"Gunpowder, dirt, bloodshed—how ugly this world is."

A cold smile.

"True killing never spills blood… like what comes next, between you and me, right?"

"You regressive Toval… traitor to monarchs."

"Vic Toval."

The figure looked toward the one emerging through the smoke on the battlefield, ascending the high tower.

Black academic robes. Deep, shadowed eyes.

—Vic Toval.

[Your senses were as sharp as ever.]

[You arrived at your battlefield.]

[And faced the strongest enemy of this simulation so far.]

[The foreign Mage King.]

"'Lion' Edmond Tremberio. I've long awaited our meeting."

...

The secular war burned hot. The hidden war burned cold.

The newly risen Mage King Edmond Tremberio had arrived.

And so began his first—and final—confrontation with the uncrowned master of France, Vic Toval.

—Excerpt from the "Genealogy of Mage Kings," Clock Tower Archives, Department of Heritage