"Where have you been, Dohnaseek? Don't tell me you were sulking around the residential district again."
Mittelt's voice rang out lazily, but there was steel beneath the sugar. She leaned against the worn, crumbling archway of the abandoned church like she owned it, the wind rustling through her golden hair.
Her eyes, sharp and vaguely amused, trailed the older fallen angel as he strode toward her. His wings, blackened and ragged at the edges, flickered once under the cloudy dusk light, casting distorted shadows on the cracked stone beneath him.
Dohnaseek's expression twisted into a scowl, the lines of resentment carved deep across his face.
"Tch. Spare me your attitude," he growled. "That bitch Raynare's been acting like some celestial monarch ever since she got appointed as team leader. Just because she's got a knack for manipulation, she thinks she outranks the rest of us. One pair of wings. That's all she's got. Same as us. What makes her so damn special?"
His voice was coarse, like gravel grinding beneath booted feet—spat with the venom of bruised pride and longstanding bitterness.
Mittelt offered a half-hearted shrug, barely blinking at his tantrum.
"Does it matter?" she said, voice light, almost sing-song. "If we manage to extract Twilight Healing from that sanctimonious little nun, maybe Azazel-sama will finally glance in our direction. A promotion would be a welcome change. I'm tired of groveling for scraps."
Dohnaseek's gaze narrowed, suspicion stirring behind his crimson irises.
"Wait—has the mission changed? I thought we were just assigned to monitor the girl."
Mittelt flicked a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression unreadable.
"Raynare says she got new orders. From above." A pause. "Or so she claims."
Dohnaseek let out a low grunt, a sound halfway between irritation and reluctant acceptance. He didn't trust Raynare. He never had. But she knew how to play the system, and in the hierarchy of fallen angels, cunning often outweighed clarity.
"Fine," he muttered. "Babysitting some church reject wasn't on my wish list anyway."
"Exactly," Mittelt agreed, her lips curling into a sly, feline smile. "And now, apparently, our darling Raynare wants to shift focus. She's got her eyes on the boy from Kuoh—the one with the Dragon-type Sacred Gear."
Dohnaseek's expression froze. For a flicker of a second, unease pierced through his scowl.
"…We're targeting a Sacred Gear holder now? Not capturing—killing?" His voice turned sharp, as if the word itself scratched his throat. "Does she even realize we're operating inside devil territory? Has Raynare completely lost her mind?"
Mittelt laughed softly, an airy, mirthless sound.
"She insists it's straight from the higher-ups. What can we do? We're not exactly in a position to question a field commander—especially one who's convinced she's heaven's gift to the Grigori."
Dohnaseek's eyes narrowed into slits.
"Which higher-ups? Weren't we dispatched under Azazel's direct command?"
At that, a third voice entered the fray.
Cool, elegant, and laced with unspoken contempt.
"It was Lord Kokabiel," Kalawarna said, emerging from the darkened hallway of the ruined church. Her wings were folded behind her with the quiet dignity of someone who knew her place—and despised it. "He claimed the order came from Lord Azazel himself. Of course, we have no way of verifying that. Lesser beings like us aren't afforded the luxury of knocking on the doors of the mighty."
Dohnaseek clicked his tongue, eyes darkening with a slow, building loathing.
"Kokabiel… That war-chasing lunatic." He crossed his arms with a heavy sigh. "Still, if it came from a Cadre, then we don't have much choice."
That was the reality of their world. Obedience wasn't a matter of loyalty—it was survival. Power dictated truth, and in a world ruled by angels and devils, those with lower ranks were nothing but pieces on a board they didn't control.
Their wings may have been black, but the chains binding them were white as judgment.
And yet, Dohnaseek never minded getting his hands dirty.
Especially if it involved spilling human blood.
"So," he asked, voice lowering to a hushed growl, "when does Raynare plan to act?"
Mittelt rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall, a note of dry exasperation in her voice.
"She said she's going to ask him out on a date this Thursday. Lure him out. Then kill him. Same day. Can you believe it?"
A bark of dark laughter escaped Dohnaseek, sharp and joyless.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he sneered, wings rustling with mirthless delight. "From angels to assassins with dating strategies. Heaven would weep."
--+--
"Ugh, I'm bored as hell. Again. Would God smite someone for saying 'hell'? Wait, He made hell… so maybe not?"
Jeanne blinked slowly, her gaze flat as she stared at the blackboard like it had personally offended her. Two more full days until the weekend. Forty-eight hours. Almost three thousand minutes. And every second was stretching like stale taffy in this glorified daycare for hormonal teenagers.
Her long lashes fluttered as she exhaled, the kind of sigh only someone who once led divine armies could manage.
So this was high school, huh?
Honestly, Jeanne wasn't even sure why she was here. The Saint Jeanne part of her—the remnants of the original, pious maiden—had been downright giddy about attending school. Something about youthful camaraderie and pure experiences. Jeanne herself had romanticized the whole "school life in an anime world" thing. Sakura petals, desk-side windows, stolen glances with mysterious transfer students.
But now? Now it was all just—
"Hey, can you pass the eraser?"
Jeanne handed it over with the grace of a celestial being, smile soft, posture immaculate.
Internally: Kill me.
She quickly realized the obvious flaw in her plan. Anime school life was fun because it was fictional. She had forgotten that in real life, nothing ever happened on time. In fact, it rarely happened at all.
And to make matters worse, Saint Jeanne had never even learned to read—unless you counted writing her own name. So here she was, stuck in math class, understanding only about 15% of what was happening, relying entirely on Metatron's encyclopedic knowledge to fake competence.
Jeanne resisted the urge to scream into her desk.
The only thing class offered was the aesthetic—a backdrop of youthful chatter, scraped chairs, and occasional dramatic window staring. The rest? Utterly, soul-crushingly boring.
Naturally, Jeanne escaped into her thoughts.
The devils probably had no idea how strong she was. How could they? She had God's pen in her back pocket—the Quill of Enoch, capable of rewriting divine laws like she was editing fanfiction.
So really, what was stopping her from just… saving people?
Fixing canon. Preventing all those miserable fates. Getting a bunch of cute little sisters to dote on.
It was a flawless plan.
Except for one tiny problem.
'Crap. I don't know jack about this world.'
Sure, she knew the major plot beats. But connections? Politics? The delicate balance of power? No clue.
She didn't want to assassinate someone important and accidentally start a celestial war. And she definitely wasn't the type to kill just for convenience.
Better to make them forget than to just eviscerate them from existence.
She was not Jeanne Alter. Thank you very much.
Still, time was ticking.
Dohnaseek was already grumbling about Raynare being a pain, and Asia Argento was supposed to arrive next week.
Which brought her to the big question.
Should she save Asia?
At first, Jeanne had brushed off the idea as a nuisance. Another variable she didn't need to deal with. But now, with time to spare and a power in her hands that could casually reshape the narrative of the world, the question had begun to itch at the edge of her thoughts.
It sounded easy, too easy. A simple adjustment. Prevent Asia from ever meeting Issei, then nudge reality with the Words of God—maybe sprinkle in a little holy suggestion to keep the Fallen Angels from even noticing her.
Clean. Elegant.
Simple.
Or at least, it seemed that way.
Until the next irritating thread unraveled.
What about Issei's Sacred Gear?
If Jeanne interfered too soon, wouldn't that risk stalling his awakening? Wasn't his growth dependent on Asia's capture—her suffering, her near-death moment triggering the dormant potential in him?
Her fingers tapped lightly against her thigh, the rhythm steady, thoughtful. Her expression remained placid, like a saint lost in prayer. But beneath the surface, her mind twisted itself into a web of paradoxes and permutations. Cause and effect danced in circles, tangled with regret, potential, and a mounting indifference she didn't want to admit.
Worst case?
She'd just overwrite it.
If push came to shove, she could simply command Ddraig's evolution with her divine authority.
"Hey, Ddraig, surprise! You've been promoted by divine bureaucracy. Now log in and stop whining."
What would the dragon even do? Growl at her? Protest?
Please.
Sacred Gears belonged to God's domain.
And Jeanne, current wielder of His most unreasonably overpowered editing tool, was the intern with full admin access.
If she wanted to reprogram a dragon, she could. No questions asked.
Problem solved.
...Or not.
Because just as she began to convince herself, another thought crept in—quieter, but far more insidious.
Was she stealing Asia's happiness?
Because canon Asia—yes, the one who was kidnapped, tortured, and ultimately saved—had ended up smiling. Genuinely. Surrounded by friends. Given purpose, affection, a place to belong. Jeanne remembered it. Clear as a still pool.
So if she swooped in too early, rewrote Asia's fate before she ever got there...
Was that truly saving her?
Or robbing her of the one timeline where she found something worth living for?
This. This was the curse of being genre-aware.
Knowing the future always sounded powerful. Clever. But in truth? It turned every decision into a gamble with fate, every small change like pulling a thread from a tapestry too delicate to repair.
But Jeanne wasn't trying to force anything. That wasn't her goal.
She was giving Asia something the story had never allowed her.
A choice.
If Asia still fell for Issei and chose to become a devil despite Jeanne's meddling, then fine. So be it. At least she would have arrived there with agency, not as a sacrifice offered on the altar of plot progression.
And if she said no?
Then Jeanne gained something precious.
A sweet, soft-spoken little sister.
A win, no matter the path.
Same age? Jeanne scoffed inwardly. In this world, age was a social construct, and she had long since aged out of caring. The soul behind her eyes belonged to a war-weary college student. Saint Jeanne had died at nineteen. And Metatron—the throne that guided her now—didn't even operate on a human timescale. Angels weren't born, they were thought into existence. When Heaven needed a Voice, it made one.
Besides, Jeanne couldn't care less about Rias's engagement melodrama.
That entire mess was Rias's own fault for sitting on her hands for years, praying to Lucifer that someone strong enough would just drop from the sky and beat Riser for her.
Hello? If the piece was stronger than you, Rias, how were you planning to reincarnate them? With divine hope and a miracle coupon?
Didn't they lose that Rating Game anyway?
The only reason they clawed back anything was because Issei slapped on some holy gear and managed to break through with a Balance Breaker he pulled straight from divine desperation. Sirzechs literally had to step in and say, "Go fight for your woman," like this was a shounen dating sim.
Then created a bet that was so heavily skewed in Issei's favor it wasn't even funny.
And Sirzechs?
Jeanne rolled her eyes.
All about neutrality, hands-off, nothing-he-could-do-about-it—until suddenly, surprise! Big brother of the year, pulling strings from the shadows just enough to tip the scales without technically interfering.
Typical devil royalty nonsense.
Jeanne sighed. Again.
This world was exhausting.
And unfortunately for it, she was very well-rested.
So. Asia was arriving next week.
Which meant one thing.
Issei Hyoudou was about to die.
Or rather, fake-die, as the narrative liked to phrase it.
Should Jeanne save him?
…
No. Absolutely not.
Call it petty. Call it bias. She didn't care. Rias already had her eyes on him—because of his Sacred Gear, not his charm—and while she might not have realized it was the Boosted Gear, it didn't matter. Even if Raynare hadn't gotten to him, Issei would've sold his soul the moment a pretty girl batted her eyelashes in his direction.
That kind of man? Jeanne had no desire to play guardian angel.
She wasn't here to break up a destined love triangle between a pervert and two manipulative factions.
At most, she'd intervene just before Issei's second death—shake the Gear out of hibernation, maybe whisper a few divine lines to Ddraig—and walk away like nothing happened.
A miracle. Singular. Transactional.
Sorry-not-sorry, Issei. This was the toll fee for Jeanne's new little sister.
As for future candidates—those unfortunate, fated girls spiraling toward despair—Jeanne already had something in mind.
She reached inward, toward one of her more... theatrical blessings.
At the End of the Pure and Clear Prayers.
It sounded like the title of an opera. Overwritten. Melodramatic. But the ability was potent—a more potent Revelation enhanced with divine clairvoyance. Sometimes it gave her fragments of the future, like brief visions lit by holy starlight. Enough to sense danger. Enough to decide who deserved saving.
And if, one day, she happened to see another girl—adorable, broken, maybe sobbing alone in a corner of the world—Jeanne would descend like divine wrath with perfect timing, rescue her mid-collapse, and rewrite her ending.
Well, Jeanne didn't really like such white knight stories, but sometimes such things were necessary to save them.
Then afterward?
They could all nap together. Quiet. Content.
One couch. One kotatsu. One weird, silent dragon. A few orphaned girls too tired to cry anymore.
The world didn't need saving.
But Jeanne would save them, one at a time.
The school bell rang.
Finally.
Jeanne rose from her seat with the effortless grace of one blessed by Heaven. She packed her things in a series of elegant motions, politely declining karaoke invites with the kind of gentle smile that said, I'm too ethereal for this mortal realm.
Stepping outside, she caught a glimpse of her.
Raynare. Decked out in whatever bargain bin cosplay passed for human clothing these days.
Jeanne couldn't even remember her fake name. Was it Yuma? Yura? Yoko? Meh. Didn't matter.
She walked past her with all the divine subtlety of a saint hiding a nuclear weapon under her school uniform.
Dinner tonight was already planned.
Yesterday, she'd successfully recreated a Japanese homestyle meal: miso soup, grilled salmon, tamagoyaki, and perfectly steamed rice.
Ophis had even said it was good.
Then again, Ophis would probably say a microwaved fish stick was good, as long as Jeanne made it.
Tonight's challenge?
Omurice.
Eggs, ketchup rice, and culinary glory.
The cookbook she'd found online was surprisingly detailed, much better than the random recipes she searched online. And if there was one thing Jeanne refused to lose at, it was being a top-tier domestic goddess.
--+--
The walk home should have been uneventful. In theory.
But Jeanne's thoughts begged to differ.
Raynare. Raynare... Her name echoed like a chant through Jeanne's mind as she walked, her eyes flickering sideways toward the faux-brunette girl striding in the opposite direction. Why can't I remember her alias? Was it Yuna? Yuki? Yukiko-tan? A groan tightened in her throat. Why do all Japanese names sound like members of some overly cheerful idol group?
A quiet breath escaped from her nose. Outwardly, Jeanne remained immaculate—a vision of elegance sculpted by divine favor.
Chin lifted just so, eyes lowered with appropriate modesty, lips barely curved in a serene, almost holy expression.
To the world, she looked like a saint descended from stained-glass windows, gracing the mundane with her otherworldly presence.
Inside?
Utter disorder.
I really need to start writing this stuff down before my original memories give up. Saint-class memory only works on scripture, martyrdom dates, and holy feast days—not undercover aliases for fallen angels pretending to be transfer students.
She weaved around a pack of noisy girls with the practiced ease of someone guided not by reflex but divine intuition. Her steps were graceful, but her mind had already abandoned the school grounds entirely, whisked away by the promise of sizzling oil and umami-rich broth.
Omurice tonight, she thought, nearly salivating. Please, just let me get the ketchup rice right this time. Yesterday's salmon was almost divine, and the tamagoyaki didn't collapse like a heretic under inquisition. Honestly, I'm a domestic miracle worker. Martha would weep tears of joy—if she even existed in this world.
A subtle warmth bloomed in her chest at the thought of Ophis—her quiet, ever-expressionless housemate—sampling her cooking and uttering that single, holy syllable: "Good."
Just one word. One blessed syllable.
And yet it had felt like she'd been crowned victor in the Holy Grail War.
It didn't matter that Ophis said it to nearly everything Jeanne served her. It still counted.
She skipped half a step, her gait lightening, the memory buoying her like wings of stained glass.
She's too cute for her own good, Jeanne mused, cheeks flushing in spite of herself. Just a strange, homeless dragon girl who wandered into my life like a stray summoned by the smell of food.
Then she faltered.
Wait... do dragons even need homes?
The thought came and went, dismissed with a shrug. It didn't matter. Ophis looked like a girl, nibbled like a bird, and watched Jeanne like she'd etched the Sistine Chapel in egg yolk and miso paste. That was all the context Jeanne needed.
It wasn't like the girl offered anything in return—not a tragic origin story, not some edgy "I lost my clan" lamentation, not even a hint that she might secretly be some celestial concept in disguise. No, Ophis simply appeared in front of her one day, like a ghost that floated into Jeanne's life at precisely the right—and most inconvenient—moments.
"Maybe she's like a divine watchdog," Jeanne muttered aloud, before correcting herself. "Wait—dragon. Divine guardian dragon."
Still, it didn't explain those moments when Ophis stared at her like Jeanne was crafted from stardust and crystallized mana.
Jeanne exhaled, long and slow.
"She's just obsessed with me because I feed her. Maybe also because of the Dragon Witch thing," she declared, in the tone of someone very confident and also very wrong.
But even if it was all one-sided and strange, it was nice.
Cozy, even.
Two lonely existences tangled together in a quiet, shared rhythm.
She reached her apartment at last, the keys jingling softly as she turned the lock. A familiar warmth awaited her—but not the warmth of dashi, or grilled salmon, or even a decent miso soup.
No.
It was the acrid, unmistakable scent of smoke.
Jeanne's smile withered.
No.
No.
No.
She bolted inside, dropped her bag with a divine thud, and skid into the kitchen like a knight arriving at a battlefield too late—
Only to find Ophis crouched in front of the stove, her face as blank as ever, staring at what could only be described as a burnt sacrificial offering in a frying pan.
"…You tried to cook?" Jeanne whispered, her voice trembling at the edge of disbelief.
"I wanted to help," Ophis replied in her usual deadpan monotone, not even blinking as the blackened pan continued to emit wisps of culinary despair.
Jeanne stared.
At the pan.
At Ophis.
Back to the pan.
So this is what happens when a dragon with no kitchen experience wields the sacred flame.
With a sigh heavy enough to shake the heavens, Jeanne swept her hair behind her ears—like a war-weary housewife in a long-running slice-of-life series—and gently took the pan from Ophis's hands, handling it with the reverence due to a cursed relic.
"…Let me take care of dinner," she said softly, bending down to eye level, her voice lined with patience and affection.
Ophis blinked once. Then, to Jeanne's growing confusion, leaned forward ever so slightly to Jeanne's face, close enough to touch noses and murmured, "Okay."
A single word.
But too close.
Far too close.
Why is she suddenly this close? Jeanne's heart skipped, then stumbled. She turned away hastily, cheeks burning with a heat she adamantly blamed on the flaming kitchen disaster rather than anything remotely emotional.
Yes. That was it. Just body heat. From the egg massacre.
Nothing else.
I'm not blushing. I'm not. It's smoke. Just kitchen heat. That's a child. A childlike dragon. Am I going to jail?
She clutched the pan tighter.
This house needed holy water. Or a fire extinguisher. Maybe both.
--+--
A/N: ANOTHER SHORT CHAPTER also THANK YOU for all the powerstones, I wonder how the story's ranking is so high like there isn't even double digit chapters yet. Like im number 25.
How crazy is that?
I did say that Jeanne is lazy. Yes, jeanne is lazy, but sometimes when synchronization happens, she gets motivation. Like mentioned earlier, Saint Jeanne wants little sisters or just be an older sister in general.
Asia is prime little sister material.
And to the people who say "This man does not want to change canon that much."
And to those people, like bro. If Jeanne does change canon, she'll get attention. Like what the hell. She doesn't know characters like Ingvild or Valerie cause she hasn't read or seen that far. She'll just assume their connections and deal with it.
Also, turns out Ingvild only woke up a few months after the terrorist attack at the truce area.
So right now she's still sleeping at the Leviathan clan in the underworld right now.
Also, do you think Jeanne could wake Ingvild up or nah?
I bet on yes.
Also, some recommendtions for possible younger siblings are always welcome! Whether they fall in love... who else but the author knows?