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

[At this moment, looking at the girl before you, you suddenly understood what it felt like for someone to be moved by your own past actions.]

[Though you've never severed the worldly emotions you were meant to possess—you have affection, joy, resentment, and hatred—what you've experienced until now has mostly been a slow and natural flow of feeling, a gentle stream that arrived with time.]

[But this—]

[Was different.]

[It was a face-to-face encounter with burning, unrestrained intensity.]

[Faced with the girl's oath, and her words which, while subtle, were unmistakably clear, you couldn't help but feel the reversal of heaven and earth—but neither did you shy away from the surge of powerful emotion within yourself in that moment. You simply smiled—and gently embraced the fervent Jeanne—the saint named Jeanne d'Arc.]

[You knew she was a girl of devout faith.]

[Yet this faith had now placed you above all else.]

[Even if that wasn't a contradiction in itself,]

[You still had to respond.]

[A lifetime of simulation deserved a lifetime of emotion.]

[And in your arms, the girl's cheeks flushed, yet she did not pull away.]

[You would face life and death together. Share joy and hardship together.]

[Such was your bond.]

...

[This decisive war was at last completely over.]

[Both on the mundane and Mystery fronts.]

[Jeanne's army had successfully captured England's uncrowned "Regent," the Duke of Bedford. France's military leaders now planned to use him as a bargaining chip for massive concessions from the English.]

[You had taken the Mage King's mystic crest. If you wished, you too could use it as leverage to gain immense benefit from the English side of the Mystery.]

[You all returned to the Château de Chinon, where the Crown Princess resided.]

[You were received in full ceremonial splendor.]

[You and Jeanne remained inseparable. Always side by side.]

[You returned bearing victory, completely stabilizing France's rear lines.]

[And soon, you would march north once more—]

[To bring an end to a war that had smoldered for over a century.]

...

After the Battle of Poitou, England's occupying forces on French soil had dwindled to fewer than twenty thousand. From a wartime peak of nearly one hundred thousand to just two, the drastic reversal shocked all the onlookers across the European continent.

Henceforth, the names of Jeanne d'Arc, the Holy Maiden, and Vic Toval, the Victor, began to spread beyond France's borders.

People said:

They were messengers of the Lord on Earth.

The miracles they performed were the will of the Lord itself.

—Deborah A. Fraioli, "Jeanne and Vic: On the Hundred Years' War"

...

[Together, you led the army northward once more.]

[Your reputation with Jeanne within the military—and throughout France—had become unmatched.]

[Some even began comparing you two to Clovis I, the ancient king who led the Franks in throwing off Rome's rule and founding an independent Gaul.]

[An undeniable overstep.]

[You'd heard murmurs of dissent already forming in the new royal court assembled by the Crown Princess.]

[But you and Jeanne did not care.]

[Nor did you suggest, as history had recorded, that Jeanne escort the Crown Princess to Reims Cathedral—the traditional site of coronation for French monarchs—for a formal coronation.]

[France no longer needed such symbolic gestures to rally support.]

[External enemies were already doomed—it was internal unrest you now sensed.]

[The result of human greed.]

[Originally, Jeanne d'Arc perished because of it.]

[But this time, things would be different.]

[After that winter, you turned twenty-six. Jeanne entered her nineteenth year—youthful and strong.]

[With the early spring, your advance was unstoppable. You soon reached the region of Reims.]

[Now, only a few miles remained to the Reims Cathedral.]

...

The grand dome of Reims Cathedral loomed tall, like a solemn sword piercing the heavens. Carvings of divine angels were etched between its walls, shaping an atmosphere of sacred majesty. Echoes of the great bells resonated through its ancient halls. The ascending stairway resembled a giant crawling toward the statue of the Virgin Mary cradling her child, standing atop the highest altar.

Kneeling in humility before it, cloaked in purple, was an aged priest. His beard was thick and venerable, and his long robe flowed with authority.

This was the heart of the French national church. According to legend, Clovis I—the sainted king who founded Gaul's Frankish line—was baptized here. Every French king after him had likewise been crowned at the hands of Reims' archbishop.

To the people of France, Reims Cathedral held equal—if not greater—symbolic power than even the Notre-Dame of Paris.

Even after the Avignon Schism and the long Hundred Years' War split France's church into three factions—the Roman Papacy, the pro-English camp, and the French National Church—Reims remained the spiritual and political anchor of the latter. It was the linchpin all others sought to control.

The English king, dreaming of claiming France's throne, needed Reims' archbishop to crown him.

Rome, wishing to regain dominion over France's churches, needed Reims' full support.

But Reims had never wavered.

It remained steadfast—supporting the people of France, resisting foreign domination.

Even when Reims was occupied during the war, the cathedral never submitted.

Its archbishop, Chârtres, was seen as a living saint by countless French faithful.

So it was in the past. So it remained now.

Even now, in his eighties—his exact age forgotten—he continued to kneel daily in prayer beneath the Virgin's gaze.

After a moment, he rose and turned.

"You are certainly persistent."

A hoarse, serpent-like voice slithered from the shadows behind him, beyond the reach of light.

"It's been, what... one hundred twenty years now?"

Chârtres paused mid-step, but didn't turn.

"One hundred twenty-three springs, summers, autumns, and winters," the old man answered, voice worn yet steady.

"Hah... one hundred twenty-three years. For a mere human to live this long... that's no small feat."

The voice approached with a whispering hiss, and a shadowy figure slowly emerged from the darkness into the slanted light spilling through the cathedral's arches.

"Still clinging to your ideals?"

"Having held on this long, why stop now?" the old man replied calmly. "When something becomes habit, it ceases to be painful."

"And besides, I've seen the dawn break, haven't I?"

"Dawn... you see them as your light?" the shadow's owner licked his lips. "Is that why you intercepted every envoy Rome sent?"

"I merely did what I could."

Archbishop Chârtres shook his head. "Each man walks his own path. Rome's path isn't necessarily the only true one."

"France must have her own road."

There was no mention of scripture.

But his words embodied its essence.

"So you really do seek independence..." the snake-like man hissed.

The old priest nodded lightly. "It never occurred to me before. But now that there's hope—why not try?"

"Men change with the world around them."

He let his hands fall loosely to his sides.

"Seeking your own truth, are you...? True, the Church may not be the only way. But it is strong—and strength silences all truths but its own. That is why I've come."

His voice was easy, but laced with chilling confidence.

"You stopped the legates—but you cannot stop me."

"I hadn't expected you to come—but you're right. You cannot be stopped," Chârtres admitted. "But even you won't act."

"Or else you wouldn't have taken that path all those years ago."

"You wouldn't have chosen the road of eternal rebirth after the Millennium Castle Incident."

"Michael Roa Valdamjong... no—perhaps it is more proper to call you the 'Serpent in the Shadows,' this era's reincarnation of Akasha."

"But no matter what—Ancient prophecies have now come to pass."

"Neither you nor I can stop it."

...

The old man descended the stairs, fading slowly.

Leaving behind only the serpent's figure, eyes gleaming red in the cathedral's gloom.