Chinon – The Castle
The entire plaza froze for a moment.
All eyes were drawn to the knight walking behind the army — clad in shimmering black, gold, and blue armor, gleaming like moonlight against a starlit sky. Each step echoed steadily against the stone floor, while the golden-black longsword in his hand spun lazily, as if he were simply strolling rather than marching to war.
Whispers rippled through the crowd, growing louder and more anxious. The people teetered between awe and alarm, uncertain whether to be amazed… or afraid.
Jeanne stepped forward, gripping her banner tightly, her eyes barely masking her confusion.
"Sir Zoth… that… what is that?"
Zoth tilted his head, glancing down at himself—the golden and blue-black armor of Kamen Rider Espada glinting under the sun, casting reflections on the ancient castle walls like Eastern moonlight.
"This?" he replied nonchalantly, tapping the Wonder Ride Book on his Driver. "It's my power."
"Power?" Jeanne echoed softly, the word slipping out in reflexive disbelief.
Zoth gave a slight nod, calmly sliding the Ikazuchi blade back into the Driver. Folding his arms, he smirked with a laid-back tone, as if explaining something obvious:
"I take stories, knowledge… then fuse them with Sacred Swords and Drivers. That's how unique powers are born—each from a different tale."
"It's like… telling the story so often that I become its main character."
Jeanne stood still, silent for a few moments.
"…Ah… I see… kind of," she muttered with an awkward nod, her expression trying to keep up despite her eyes still swimming in confusion over the absurd explanation.
Zoth raised an eyebrow, as if about to say more—then paused. His gaze shifted toward the towering castle ahead.
"Eh, we'll save the deep, emotional talk for later. Let's head inside… Don't want to keep the big guy waiting. Might get scolded."
He grinned, motioned for Jeanne to follow, then spun on his heel and dashed off like a gust of wind—his steps light, yet powerful enough to send the tassets of his armor billowing dramatically behind him.
Jeanne remained still for a moment, watching his silhouette fade. Her lips curled slightly, eyes flickering with an emotion hard to name—part weariness, part bewilderment, and entirely, unmistakably human curiosity.
"…Ah! I get it now!"
She gripped her banner tighter and immediately gave chase. Her armored skirt fluttered with each step, catching the blaze of the setting sun across the distant horizon.
---
Inside Chinon Castle.
Zoth strolled leisurely behind Jeanne d'Arc and Gilles de Rais, his steps unhurried. He whistled softly, hands laced behind his head like he was taking a stroll through the park—certainly not the royal halls of a French stronghold. His helmet tilted slightly upward, and from behind the visor, his eyes wandered—from the finely carved pillars to the crystal chandeliers hanging high above, twinkling like fallen stars.
"Whew~... Sure is fancy in here,"
he remarked, voice laced with half-hearted sarcasm. His gaze stayed fixed on the shimmering ceiling.
"Yes, Prince Charles' castle is quite magnificent," Jeanne replied gently, her voice as clear as a morning breeze, still carrying her usual grace.
"Nobles and royalty often adorn their castles in splendor," Gilles added in his steady, serious tone. "It is a symbol of pride. They want their status to be known—through extravagance."
Zoth gave a small nod, feigning agreement. But behind the helmet, his smile slowly faded. The sharp brown-black eyes beneath the visor now glinted with disdain—prideful and cold.
"I know, Baron Gilles... And that very 'prideful splendor' is the reason why the common people writhe in mud and hunger."
His voice dropped, steely and bitter. A dry, cynical laugh escaped him—mad and mocking:
"Hahaha~... Back in Tours, the way those nobles taxed the people... just looking at it made me want to flip tables. That night, I burned down a few of their mansions. Called it 'house cleaning'—clearing the trash."
Gilles narrowed his eyes at Zoth, but said nothing. His gaze grew heavier, as though weighing something far deeper beneath the surface.
Jeanne, however, flinched slightly. She paused mid-step before speaking, her tone firm, yet still wrapped in her characteristic gentleness:
"You don't need to resort to violence like that… Yes, there are those who deserve contempt, but Prince Charles is not like them. He is devoted and just. Please, trust him, Sir Zoth."
Zoth glanced sideways at her, his stern eyes barely hiding the skepticism within.
"Well then, let's see for ourselves..."
He shrugged, voice still calm, but his gaze sliced through the air like a thin blade behind a polite mask.
"Let's see just how 'good' this prince really is."
He offered a faint smile—one that wasn't quite mocking, nor trusting. Just… a quiet warning, drifting like a whisper through the air.
---
Chinon Castle – Inner Hall.
They arrived before a large wooden door inlaid with faded silver fleur-de-lis motifs. Gilles stepped forward and pushed it open.
The inside was a stark contrast to the outer grandeur. Instead of lavish décor, there were messy stacks of documents, maps unfurled across the table, and the heavy scent of ink and candle wax clinging thick in the air—an invisible pressure that weighed on the chest.
A gaunt man with a slight hunch, disheveled hair, and deep, sleepless eye bags rose abruptly from behind his desk.
"Ah… Baron, you've arrived?"
"Your Highness, you… don't look well," Gilles replied, stepping closer, a hint of concern flickering in his gaze.
Charles let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose, voice hoarse and worn:
"I'm utterly exhausted… The damned English grow more shameless by the day. After looting our peasants, now they're cutting off supply routes. Today I had to allocate 20% of the royal granary just to stave off famine… What do they think, that the French can live on air!?"
Behind them, Zoth leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes half-lidded as he studied Charles like weighing a subject of interest. Then, a lopsided grin tugged at his lips.
Prince Charles turned toward the unfamiliar figure clad in peculiar armor.
"And this is…?" he asked, tone edged with caution.
"Me?" Zoth rested his chin on one hand, smiling as if telling a joke over wine.
"Just a commoner with a passion for destruction. Don't let the blinding gold armor fool you."
Jeanne stepped forward, her voice clear and calm like a morning breeze:
"Your Highness, this is Zoth Vari-El. Locals have begun calling him… the Demon Sword King."
Zoth waved a hand dismissively and stepped forward, his movements fluid with a flair that felt both theatrical and mocking. He bowed in an exaggerated arc, raising one hand as if tipping an invisible hat like an opera actor at curtain call:
"To you, the morning breeze of Chinon—I offer my humblest greetings, Prince Charles."
The three others fell completely silent.
The air thickened, like someone had pulled a heavy curtain between them. Gilles let out a quiet sigh, the sound of surrender. Jeanne offered only a faint smile—part exasperation, part… reluctant admiration.
Charles coughed lightly twice, perhaps from surprise—or perhaps from sheer uncertainty on how to respond.
"Ahem… Thank you, Sir Zoth. Though… really, no need for such formalities."
"Oh?" Zoth chuckled softly, flicking his hand as if brushing off a role.
"Forgive me. Got a little too… enthusiastic with the greeting."
Prince Charles turned to Jeanne, his voice slowing, softening by a fraction:
"Jeanne d'Arc, would you please show Sir Zoth around the castle for me? I wish to speak with Baron Gilles in private… there are matters we must decide."
"Understood, Your Highness." Jeanne gave a respectful nod, then turned to Zoth, her expression relaxing again.
"Come. I'll give you a proper tour of Chinon."
Zoth stretched with a lazy groan, hands behind his head once more, his voice dragging as if halfway through a yawn:
"Ai~ Sure, why not. I'm curious if the royal capital has anything more amusing than those burning mansions."
He strolled off after Jeanne, the clinking of his armor echoing lightly as he passed through the door—leaving behind a heavy room and two nobles about to enter a conversation that would almost certainly not be pleasant.
---
Chinon – Central District
The afternoon sunlight spilled across the cobbled streets, bathing the town in a golden hue. Every corner still held traces of history and the lingering breath of war—cracks spidering across brick walls, aged wooden shutters, the distant ringing of bells... It all felt like a story whispered from a bygone age.
Zoth walked alongside Jeanne d'Arc. His usual lazy demeanor was now tempered into something quieter, almost solemn. Jeanne steadily narrated as they passed each location: the old quarter, moss-covered stone statues, the bustling trading market, the church with its silver dome—like a devoted guide, her voice rose and fell gently, sometimes tinged with sorrow that seemed to blend into the scenes around them.
"This used to be the execution square…" Jeanne stopped, gazing out at the open plaza where a few children now played without a care.
"But now, every evening, people gather here… to pray for peace."
Zoth said nothing. He only nodded faintly. No smirk, no sarcasm. Just a stillness in his eyes, deep and calm like a windless lake… as he watched her.
Something—whatever it was—stirred gently inside him.
And then, as they passed by a tailor's shop, Zoth's eyes suddenly lit up—like a stray cat spotting a grilled salmon.
"…Ah!?"
"Sir Zoth, wait—!!"
Before Jeanne could catch his sleeve or raise her voice to stop him, he had already vanished inside the shop in a blur of motion. A short while later—
Click! — The door swung open. Zoth stepped out.
Gone was the glaring gold-and-navy armor, the attention-grabbing eyesore of a walking weapon. In its place was an entirely new look: a fitted white shirt, a flowing wine-red overcoat, black trousers, and glossy leather boots. White gloves on his hands, a jet-black sword-shaped earring on one ear. His hair slicked back into a sharp side-part, revealing sharply defined features bathed in the soft amber glow of sunset…
He looked… unreasonably attractive for a man who was, quite frankly, half insane.
"So?" he beamed, adjusting his gloves with a flick of flair, eyes sparkling like a kid waiting to be graded at a costume contest.
"Do I look good or do I look good?!"
Jeanne gave a soft, awkward smile—but her wide eyes betrayed a trace of surprise.
"You… look very fitting, Sir Zoth. Like… someone who just stepped out of a painting."
"I knew it~!" Zoth grinned from ear to ear, puffing out his chest with all the pride of a child who just won first place in a school play.
He rolled up his old outfit and tossed it away like a shed skin—discarding a past no longer needed—then casually resumed walking beside Jeanne.
The sunset dyed the western sky crimson, church bells rang in the distance, and the streets began to light up one by one. The two of them faded into the flow of people in the town square, stepping together through the softest light of a day drawing to a close.
…If one were to call this a date, really, who could argue?
---
Chinon Military Camp – Late Afternoon
By the time they returned to the camp, the atmosphere had shifted. The sunset filtered through torn canvas sheets, casting twisted, distorted shadows across the ground. The clamor of soldiers training had mostly faded, replaced by a creeping silence—like the stillness before a storm.
Inside the command tent, Gilles de Rais sat motionless at a wooden table. A sheet of paper trembled lightly in his hand, brows tightly furrowed as though he'd just read a death sentence. His usually composed face had darkened, shadowed by something grimmer than ink.
"Gilles, what happened?" Zoth asked, stepping inside and immediately sensing the heaviness in the air.
Gilles looked up, his voice dropping like lead:
"News from Prince Charles… Our military rations are being cut. A large portion is being redirected to the civilians—the harvest this year was a disaster. They're starving out there…"
Zoth remained silent for a few moments. Then his eyes narrowed—gone was the casual glint, replaced by a chill as sharp as a freshly unsheathed blade.
"…Is that so."
A thin smile slowly spread across his lips.
"In that case, I'll get us more supplies… my way."
Gilles snapped his head up, startled.
"You have a plan? Don't tell me you're thinking of… raiding them?"
Zoth shrugged, as if it were the most mundane idea in the world.
"'Raiding' sounds so crude. I prefer to call it… psychological warfare."
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a bloodstained whisper:
"I'm going to mix the English rations."
"…Mix?" Gilles frowned, clearly either confused—or unwilling to understand.
"Hehehe~" Zoth rubbed his hands together, his smile blooming like a poisonous flower on the battlefield.
"Mix—as in, literally. I'll swap out their supplies, plunder their storage. And if the timing's right… torch the whole camp. The English lose their food, descend into panic. We eat. The people live."
Jeanne, who had stood silently this whole time, finally spoke up. Her voice was soft, but laced with concern—and something like quiet sorrow.
"This isn't right… That plan is reckless. And to burn their camp? That's… far too cruel, Sir Zoth."
Zoth turned to her. One hand gently rested on her shoulder. His eyes… sharpened.
"Jeanne. This is war."
His voice was low, rough—like cold-forged steel.
"There's no room for mercy. No time for hesitation. If I don't strike first… someone else will."
A breeze drifted through the tent, rustling the maps on the table like shivering leaves.
His voice sank deeper, quieter… like wind across a dead desert:
"On the battlefield, there are only two choices—Kill… or be killed."
With that, Zoth drew out his [Book Gates] and snapped it open. Zzzak! — A violet-blue light flared up, wrapping around him before he vanished from the French camp entirely.
Leaving behind a heavy silence… and two soldiers still weighed down by doubt.
---
Caen – English Military Camp
A spiraling space gate tore open the stillness of night.
Zoth stepped out from the [Book Gates].
The cold night wind whipped through his black hair and crimson wine-red coat, making him look like a blood-stained phantom born straight from hell. Silent, unmoving, he stood there—back straight like an unsheathed blade—his eyes like tempered steel sweeping across the slumbering English camp.
"It ends here… maa~" he whispered with a dry, brittle chuckle that echoed like a death knell.
"So… let's play a little."
He raised his hand.
Caladbolg manifested—his sacred sword of calamity, its radiance blazing as though it could set the very night sky ablaze. Raising it high above his head, he shouted, laughter unraveling into madness:
"God Sword Crowd: Caladbolg!!"
[BOOM!]
A massive crimson gate burst open in midair, glowing like a portal to hell itself.
From within poured a battalion of golden mecha—King of Solomon units—divine mechanical warriors clad in regal gold, shining like the sun… yet instead of bringing salvation, they heralded absolute annihilation.
"W-what the hell is that!?" a guard screamed in terror.
"Monsters!? Are they… real monsters!?"
"RUN!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!"
Screams. Panic. The blaring of alarm horns. But it was all meaningless.
The mechanical cavalry rained down like a divine flood, trampling tents, crushing watchtowers.
Arrows, ballistae, swords, gunfire—none of it made a dent in the radiant armor of the Caladbolg Legion.
Blood spattered, bodies were hurled into the air, and amidst the flames and chaos, screams turned to sobs, then to silence.
In the heart of that manmade hell, Zoth walked slowly.
Expressionless.
No anger. No pity.
Only the sound of his soft, childish giggle—like a child playing in a graveyard.
He strode directly toward the supply depot, gave it a quick glance.
Without hesitation, he waved his hand.
Sacks of rice, crates of salted meat, loaves of bread—all vanished into thin air, swallowed whole by spatial magic.
Like a heist… premeditated to perfection.
With the task done, he turned away.
Behind him, the camp burned—a furnace of souls lit bright crimson.
He placed a hand over his chest, faking a solemn sigh as though mourning the dead.
But when he looked up, with the fire dancing across his twisted face—
Only a grotesque, bone-deep smile remained.
"Maa~ Truly a pitiful bunch, you are…
As a Knight of Compassion, I'm honestly… heartbroken~"
There was no need for further words.
The [Book Gates] opened once more.
And as Caen's camp collapsed behind him—drowned in smoke, blood, fire, and wailing—
Zoth stepped through the gate…
…and vanished, as if he had never existed.
---
Chinon Camp – The Return
The night wind gently swept across the camp, carrying with it the scent of campfire and ash.
It was well past midnight, yet glowing embers still flickered faintly in makeshift stoves. The air was hushed, broken only by the distant chirp of insects from the sparse forest beyond.
[Pop!]
A flash of violet-blue light tore through the stillness.
Zoth emerged midair from the spatial gate—like a wraith slashing through the veil of night.
In his left hand: sacks of food, bulging and heavy.
His right hand still reeked of smoke and soot. His crimson wine-colored coat was torn at the hem, ash clung to his shoulders, hair, and face in tiny specks like silent testimony of ruin.
He dropped three sacks onto the ground with a dull thud, sending dust flying and soiling the boots of nearby soldiers.
"This much... enough?"
He grinned—light and casual, like someone just back from the market...
Even though the faint smell of blood still clung to his sleeves.
Gilles, who was writing at a stone field desk, dropped his pen with a clack, jolted as if stabbed from behind.
Jeanne had just stepped out from the medical tent, her face still lit faintly by the firelight, and froze in place, as if bound by the weight of the question.
"T-This much… Sir Zoth!? You… how did you even…?"
She stammered, eyes wide, taking a step forward on instinct.
"D-Don't tell me… you raided a civilian village!?"
She gripped her flagstaff tightly—her knuckles went white. Her face twisted, caught between shock and something close to horror.
Zoth lazily waved her off, shoulders slouched.
His gaze was relaxed—but somewhere deep in those eyes, something… inhuman flickered.
"Village?
Didn't touch one.
I just… 'borrowed' from the English camp."
"…You raided the English army camp?" Jeanne gasped, her voice flat from disbelief.
Zoth nodded, offering a faint, indifferent smile.
It wasn't smug. It wasn't proud.
Just cold.
The kind of cold from someone who had long crossed the line of morality.
"Yeah.
Wiped out a bunch of them.
One less headache.
And hey—free dinner."
The firelight danced across his face, casting jagged shadows over his nose and cheekbones—
Making that faint smile look like it had been carved from ice.
Jeanne stared at him, her eyes a swirling mix of anger, grief, and helplessness.
But then… she lowered her gaze.
She exhaled softly, as if breathing out an entire philosophy.
"…I don't agree with your methods.
But if it's to save the people…
I won't turn away."
Her voice was quiet.
But each word fell heavy—like stones into a still lake.
Jeanne turned, walking slowly back toward the medical tent. Her cloak fluttered faintly in the night wind, the flickering campfire casting long shadows across her profile—quiet and weary.
Gilles said nothing.
He simply pulled the food sacks closer, his gaze dimming, as if not wanting to think too much more.
Zoth remained where he stood—alone amidst soldiers erupting in cheers of relief.
The wind passed again, lifting a few black flakes of ash still clinging to the hem of his coat.
He lowered his head, eyes falling.
"So naive, Jeanne…
If you still believe everyone's good—
you'll end up with a knife in your back."
His voice was soft. Almost like he was talking to himself.
Zoth chuckled quietly, turned on his heel, and walked off.
With a lazy stretch and a long yawn, he headed back to his tent—
as if the world hadn't just burned behind him.