**Point of View: Jeanne d'Arc**
The metallic screech of the guillotine echoed like an omen as Sanson dragged his weapon across the shattered pavement. His figure, shrouded in twisted shadows, seemed to dance with death itself. The battle had begun before Jeanne could even raise her standard.
"—Back, Marie!!" Jeanne shouted, blocking a downward slash with her holy spear. Sanson's strength was monstrous, beyond what any human—or even a Servant—should possess.
A choked laugh, barely human, bubbled from the Executioner's lips.
"The Grail has purified me. It has returned my purpose... The Dragon Witch gave meaning to my existence."
Georgios charged from the side, his spear wreathed in golden light. But even he was repelled by the tenebrous aura surrounding Sanson. Every blow they exchanged made the earth tremble, as if the world itself rejected this fight.
"Jeanne..." Georgios gasped as he retreated beside her. "We cannot win here. He is being sustained by something... impure. Something that corrupts even his soul."
"—Then we shall fight until we purify him!" the maiden cried, furious, her gaze fixed on the figure who was once a merciful doctor.
But then, she felt it. A wave of hostile presences, closing in like a swarm of hungry shadows. Spirits corrupted by the Holy Grail, drawn to the violence, to the echo of despair. The hill began to stain red.
"They're surrounding us!" Georgios warned.
"—Tsk! Cowards, all of you!" roared Marie, waving her fan in indignation. "Attacking with numbers! So lacking in style. In my time, a duel was respected!"
"We must retreat," murmured Jeanne, though her heart screamed the opposite.
"They will not let us flee," Georgios added gravely. "Not unless one of us stays behind to distract them."
Silence.
Marie lowered her fan. Her expression, until now one of feigned joy, became serene. Her smile... was sad. Almost maternal.
"Then leave him to me. He came for me, *non*? I shall become his star, his focus... his queen one last time."
"—No!" Jeanne exclaimed. "I will not sacrifice anyone. Not even for strategy!"
Marie approached her, and for a moment, the maiden noticed the fragility beneath the ornaments, the strength behind the coquetry. The queen took Jeanne's hands in hers.
"My dear Jeanne... you carry the hope of many. I carry only memories. If I can lighten your burden, even a little... then this monarchy was not in vain."
Jeanne trembled, tears threatening to cloud her vision.
"You don't have to do this... There is another way!"
But Georgios, with a firm voice, intervened.
"Sometimes, the noblest sacrifice is the one made with a smile. Let her go, Jeanne. Her heart has already chosen."
A few minutes later, in the crimson mist of the hill, Marie turned to them one last time. Her eyes shone with a brilliant light, as if the very sky was giving her its blessing.
"*Adieu*, my dears. Tell the world that the queen danced... to the very last beat."
And then, she turned.
Before her, Sanson was already waiting, his guillotine raised, trembling with pent-up anticipation.
"You came alone," he murmured.
"I did. Because I know there is still some humanity left in you, Charles-Henri. And because if I must die again... let it be with dignity."
He looked down for an instant.
"Do not give me hope, Marie. The last time you did... we lost our heads."
And the duel began.
From a distance, Jeanne forced herself to look forward. Every step she took, leaving the queen behind, weighed on her like a betrayal.
"I will remember her..." she murmured with a broken voice. "I will remember her laugh. Her courage. Her final curtsy."
Georgios walked beside her in silence, his expression grave but his gaze firm. He knew the struggle had only just begun.
The queen had offered her life.
Now, they had to ensure it was not in vain.
**Point of View: Narrator**
The battlefield had fallen silent.
The fog, stained by the blood of war, hung like a curtain over the improvised stage. Remnants of rubble and ash floated in the air, caressed by the wind as if the earth itself wanted to weep for what was about to occur.
Marie Antoinette knelt before the guillotine. Her royal dress, stained with dust and blood, still retained glimmers of its original splendor. Her breathing was serene, with no trace of fear in her sky-blue eyes.
Before her, Sanson adjusted the parts of the instrument with meticulous precision. His expression was that of a craftsman seeking perfection... but his hands trembled. This time, there was no crowd, no revolutionaries demanding justice. Only the two of them, wrapped in the echo of centuries.
"I will adjust it properly this time..." Sanson murmured to himself, more than to his victim. "No more mistakes. No more jagged cuts... Today, it will be a clean execution. Dignified."
Marie watched him with tenderness.
"Do you truly believe that will bring you peace?"
Sanson paused. For an instant, the silence became unbearable.
"You don't understand what it means to fail... over and over," he replied with a hollow voice. "You don't understand the burden of an imperfect death. She deserved better... and I could not give it to her."
"And do you think perfecting my execution will redeem you?" Marie asked softly, without judgment, only with compassion. "Will that turn your guilt into glory?"
Sanson did not respond. He only lowered the latch. The mechanism creaked, obeying his trembling hands. He secured the queen's arms, without violence, almost with reverence.
"Your crime was to be born in gold. Mine... was to serve a monster disguised as justice."
Marie tilted her head slightly, her hair brushing the cold metal. She did not tremble. She did not plead.
"I pity you, Sanson. Not for what you have done... but for what you still refuse to forgive in yourself."
The executioner's eyes narrowed. For a moment, he seemed like a lost child behind a mask of steel.
"Close your eyes, please."
"No." Marie smiled. "I want to see the sky one last time."
The blade fell.
A dry thud. A flash of light.
And then... nothing.
Only golden motes, fading into the air. The queen's body turned to shimmer, into a whisper returning to the Throne of Heroes. There were no screams. No pain. Only the echo of a dignity that even death could not steal.
Sanson fell to his knees beside the guillotine. His breathing was irregular. He stared at his hands, expecting to feel relief.
But it did not come.
There was no redemption. No peace. Only a deeper, darker void.
Perfection brought no salvation. Only emptiness.
"Why...?" he whispered. "Why... does it still hurt?"
And the silence enveloped the field once more. Only the wind remained... and a guillotine that had no purpose left.
**The Camp**
The improvised camp crackled with the sound of a modest campfire. Under a moonless, cloudy sky, the stars seemed hidden, as if they too were in mourning. The sparks danced in silence, unable to fill the void that grew more palpable with each passing minute of absence.
Leonel sharpened his sword with slow movements. Not out of necessity, but to have something to do with his hands. Something to keep him focused, away from the growing anxiety they all shared.
"It's been too many hours," murmured Mozart, seated on a rock, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. "I don't like this silence... nor the rhythm of this wait."
Leonel did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on his sword's blade, but his thoughts were far away. He knew what was going to happen. He had known since Jeanne left with Georgios and Marie. And yet, with all his being, he wished to be wrong. That something, anything, had changed the course of events.
A magical tremor crossed the air, and everyone stood up instantly.
Two figures emerged from the trees. Georgios, visibly wounded, his shield bearing fresh battle marks; and behind him, Jeanne, walking slowly, her standard partially rolled up, as if she lacked the strength to raise it.
But they did not come alone.
Or rather... they came incomplete.
"And Marie?" asked Mozart, rising abruptly. His voice had a sharp, urgent, fearful note.
No one answered immediately.
Georgios halted, lowering his head.
Jeanne took a few more seconds. She walked to the fire's edge, and only then did she speak, her voice broken.
"Marie... stayed behind. Sanson appeared. It was an ambush. He attacked immediately."
Georgios continued, his voice grave and serene, yet pained:
"She... protected us. She knew we couldn't win, the three of us. She forced us to retreat. There was no way to save her. We tried. By God, we tried."
Mozart collapsed back onto the rock, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. He stared at the ground, his fingers trembling.
"That fool... always smiling..." he murmured. "And yet, the only one with the courage to stay."
Jeanne nodded, holding back tears.
"She died as she lived: with dignity. With joy. Singing until the very end."
A sepulchral silence settled among them. Not even Spartacus uttered a word. Only the crackling of the firewood broke the stillness.
Leonel closed his eyes.
He had seen it before. On that cold screen, accompanied by sad music and scripted words. But this was not a game now. It was not an event. It was a life. A comrade. A friend.
And she had died so the others could go on.
He clenched his fists.
"...Understood." His voice cut through the silence with contained strength. "Then, we cannot allow her sacrifice to have been in vain."
They all looked at him. Jeanne did so with reddened eyes, as if seeking support. Mozart looked up, surprised by the steel in his words.
"We will move forward," Leonel added. "For her. We cannot stop now."
The fire illuminated his face. Determined. Sad. Human.
And at that moment, without revealing it, without confessing what he knew... Leonel shouldered the weight of both worlds: the game he had experienced and the history he was now building.
A history where, even if you knew the ending... the losses hurt just the same.
**The Next Morning – Strategy Meeting**
The sun had barely begun to show on the horizon when the group gathered around a rudimentary map Leonel and Tezcatlipoca had drawn with stones, lines in the dirt, and magical notes floating in the air.
"We have to split up," Leonel began, his tone firm. "The Dragon Witch is not alone. We know she has several Servants under her influence, and the fortress is protected by dragons and magical defenses. A frontal assault without a plan would be suicide."
Tezcatlipoca, with a wave of his hand, projected spectral images of the enemies.
"Siegfried," said Leonel, looking at the knight. "You will face Fafnir. We know you can do it. You did it once before."
"I will," Siegried responded gravely. "I will not allow another dragon to destroy this world."
"Elizabeth Bathory," he continued, "you will set out to find... yourself, so to speak. That bloody version of you who serves the Witch. We know only you can face her on equal terms."
Elizabeth smiled with a dramatic flourish, though the weight of the impending duel was noticeable in her voice.
"I never thought I'd have to punish myself... But it will be an infernal concert, darling~!"
"Mash, Nero, and Jeanne," said Leonel, looking at the three of them, "you will be the spearhead. You will enter the fortress from the west flank. A direct entry. Create the necessary chaos to disorganize their lines."
"Gladly. The stage awaits me," Nero declared with her usual theatricality.
Jeanne only nodded calmly.
"Mozart and I will provide tactical support from the rear," said Leonel. "Tezcatlipoca will help us foresee enemy movements and bolster morale with his power. Kiyohime will protect me from any surprise attacks."
Kiyohime, who clung to Leonel's arm as if he were her Anchin, simply smiled sweetly... with a hint of menace.
"Anyone who dares touch my beloved... I shall turn to ashes."
"And Georgios," he concluded, "you will hold the southern front. Contain the lesser dragons so the rest can advance without being ambushed."
The saintly knight nodded solemnly.
"May the light guide me... and may Marie's sacrifice not have been in vain."
Leonel looked at his team. Broken, hurting, tired... but determined.
"Today... we end this story. For Marie. For humanity."
And so, as the sun bathed the world in a timid golden light, the heroes prepared for the final battle.
**Fortress of the Dragon Witch – Black Throne Room**
The fortress walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, breathing hatred, fire, and despair. The torches hanging along the hall burned with black flames, as if even the light was tainted by the Holy Grail's corruption.
There, seated on a throne forged from twisted steel and dragon bones, Jeanne d'Arc Alter clenched her teeth with barely contained fury. Her black armor gleamed under the profane flame, and her standard waved violently, as if responding to her emotional state.
"How is this possible!?" she spat, slamming a fist against one of the armrests, cracking the stone with her darkness-clad hand. "That fake version of me, that group of frauds... they keep advancing. They should have been annihilated by the dragons I sent. Damn it, even that imperial doll is still alive!"
"My lady," said a calm voice, though tinged with sickly devotion, "your flames do not die so easily... nor your will. Let the chaos run its course."
Gilles de Rais, in his Caster form, emerged from the shadows of the hall. His hunched body and crazed gaze seemed to belong to another world, but his tone, surprisingly serene, contrasted with his monstrous appearance. He walked toward the throne with a chained book in his arms and a smile that inspired no confidence.
"As long as we have the Grail," he continued, with reverence, "this land, these skies, and destiny itself are on our side. Let the heroes come. Let them fight. Let them suffer. Every drop of their despair feeds our purpose."
Jeanne Alter closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Her anger did not disappear, but the presence of the Grail—which floated suspended in a magical circle behind the throne—gave her a sense of absolute power. That corrupted chalice reminded her that she was the chosen one of darkness. The profaned saint. Vengeance incarnate.
"You are right, Gilles," she whispered in a low voice, a twisted smile forming on her face. "Let them come. We will crush them with fire and hatred. We will tear hope from them. And when that false me looks at me with her eyes of compassion... I will tear her apart."
Gilles bowed his head, satisfied.
"A scenario worthy of an eternal tragedy."
Jeanne Alter's somber laugh filled the hall as the Grail's energy vibrated in the air like a malignant heart beating stronger with each moment. The final battle was approaching... and the Dragon Witch waited, ready to engulf the world in flames.