Trail by the Forest's Edge – South of Reims – The Next Afternoon
After discovering that it was True Ether generated by the Omni Force that was corroding his humanity, Zoth stood completely frozen, as if struck by lightning. He didn't need anyone to explain—just look at the case of the Lion King. Artoria should have died after the final battle if Bedivere had returned Excalibur to the lake. But he hesitated. By the time the sword was returned, it was too late. She couldn't die, so she continued to live—not with the Holy Sword, but with the Holy Spear, Rhongomyniad.
Under the influence of Rhongomyniad and the True Ether flowing through it, Artoria gradually lost her humanity. Her reason eroded, her emotions crushed… until nothing remained except absolute righteousness—and she became Rhongomyniad, a divine entity, neither human nor king.
Zoth shivered. Cold sweat trickled down his temples and dripped off his chin. His eyes drifted, panic etched into his features.
No… I can't let that thing turn me into a broken puppet!
He yanked the Omni Force from his body. A faint flash of dim light flickered around his trembling hand. He let it hang at his side like an empty trinket, pretending nothing had happened.
Despite the inner turmoil, Zoth forced himself to walk on, glancing at the forest around him. The dense trees blocked the sunlight, with only thin shafts of light piercing through the leaves. Birdsong occasionally broke the silence—but not enough to dispel the uneasy feeling lurking nearby.
Yet peace never lasts long.
Younger suddenly called out behind him, "You! Kid! Can you stop following me? It's so annoying!"
Kayn stood calmly a few steps back, hands in his pockets, expression indifferent as if he hadn't heard the insult. A half-smile played on his lips, teasing yet lazy. He raised a hand, presenting his question like a self-evident fact:
"What choice do I have? You stripped me of all my jewels—where am I supposed to get the fare to go back to the Clock Tower?"
Zoth narrowed his eyes. The Caladbolg silently appeared in his hand, its blade flashing coldly for an instant.
"That it?"
"Yeah… So you actually gonna pay me—?"
"No." Zoth's rough laugh slanted across his face as if toying with Kayn's very survival. "But I can help you get back."
He stepped closer, his gaze glinting with hidden calculation. Then, almost in passing, he asked:
"What's your master's name?"
Kayn replied hesitantly, "Zelretch… or—"
"Quiet. Enough babbling." Zoth waved dismissively, interrupting with no courtesy. His words cut short, terse as chiseling off an unwanted note. "I know who he is."
Kayn arched an eyebrow, suspicion in his tone:
"So… why are you seeking him?"
Zoth didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, sunlight filtering through the leaves and casting a long shadow. His voice dropped, heavy with meaning:
"I need him to deal with the True Ether in me… whether he helps or not is another matter. But…"
He pulled out the Book Gates from his jacket, lightly tracing the spine as though opening a fateful chapter. The Wonder Rider Book glowed, and a vivid violet-red portal spiraled open—an immediate gateway to the Clock Tower.
Without warning, Zoth stepped through and lifted Kayn by his collar as effortlessly as picking up a kitten:
"Next time, remember to bring more jewels, okay?"
"W-wait—! You bastard—!"
With a hiss of surprise, Kayn was sucked into the vortex, disappearing as though he never existed.
Zoth casually dusted off his hand and sneezed in satisfaction:
"Ahh… finally some peace."
He whistled softly as he continued walking down the leaf-strewn trail. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wild grass. The sun hung low, bathing the forest in golden-orange twilight.
But clearly... the heavens have a deep-seated grudge against peace.
From behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps rang out—each thud hitting the earth like the beat of a war drum. Even the forest wind hesitated for a moment. The leaves seemed to pause midair.
Zoth immediately came to a halt. He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, eyes lowered like a man who'd just had his peaceful illusions slapped to bits.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
He turned around—and just as his instincts had warned—a mounted battalion was approaching. Their armor gleamed in the late-afternoon sun, hooves pounding the ground with murderous intent. At the head rode two all-too-familiar figures: Jeanne d'Arc, her white garb fluttering nobly in the breeze, and Gilles de Rais, clad in ominous black armor, eyes like a beast beneath his helm.
Zoth scoffed and lazily raised a hand in mock greeting, as if spotting an old friend in a village market.
"Hoho~ Familiar faces. Didn't think we'd reunite this soon."
Gilles narrowed his eyes. That voice—just hearing it was like a slap to his pride. He stomped a boot down and stepped forward, drawing his sword with a sharp metallic hiss. The blade caught the sunlight as he leveled it straight at Zoth, his glare like a spear aimed at the heart.
"That voice… You're the one who massacred the English knights!"
Zoth looked at him like he was watching a street performance—mildly amused at best. He stretched, letting out a loud, obnoxious yawn, then raised both hands above his head in an exaggerated "Don't shoot, I'm innocent" gesture. His tone was nothing but lazy sarcasm.
"Now, now. I was just dealing with some invaders, that's all… Didn't lay a finger on any civilians or innocents, right?"
As he spoke, he started gesturing with his hands, lazily drawing circles in the air like a bored teacher lecturing a rowdy student on morals. The sheer nonchalance was borderline infuriating.
Jeanne calmly stepped forward, emerging from behind Gilles's shadow. Her hair swayed gently with each measured step. Gilles started to raise a hand to stop her, but she gently placed a hand on his shoulder. A simple shake of her head—but it was enough to still him. Though his eyes still blazed like sharpened steel, he begrudgingly slid his blade back into its sheath. Both of his hands clenched tightly, metal groaning under the strain.
Zoth gave a slight nod, as if silently acknowledging some unspoken ritual. He drew Caladbolg, gave it a light spin, and then drove it into the ground before him. The sound rang out through the stillness of the forest. He crouched down, elbows resting on his knees—like a man waiting for an interview.
"So… what is it you want to ask, Lady Jeanne?"
She gazed at him without a hint of expression. Her voice, light as a spring breeze, carried a weight that made no one dare take it lightly.
"No need to call me Lady. Just 'Jeanne' is fine."
"Fair enough..." Zoth shrugged. "Jeanne, then. You came all this way to pass judgment?"
Jeanne shook her head softly. It was a small motion—but carried the weight of mountains. Her gaze bore no hatred, only… something closer to sorrow.
"Not judgment. I just want to understand… why you were so cruel. Those knights… they were people too. Enemies, yes—but the way you slaughtered them was beyond brutal."
Zoth looked at her.
For a fleeting moment, his face went completely blank. His eyes emptied, like all emotion had been drained from him.
Then—his lips twisted. A crooked, shadowy smile slithered across his face like darkness creeping out from a deep pit.
"They deserved it."
With a clean motion, he yanked Caladbolg free from the earth. The blade shrieked against the stone and grit, red dust clinging to its edge. Zoth flicked his wrist, and the debris scattered like dried blood and cold ash.
"You think I went berserk just because they were English?" he growled, his voice slicing the air. His eyes briefly flashed red, burning with a fury long buried.
"They kidnapped women. Slaughtered children. Burned down entire villages and laughed as people screamed for mercy.
Jeanne…"
His tone dropped—low and arid, yet piercing like a knife straight to the heart.
"You're telling me I should spare monsters like that?"
Jeanne froze. The forest wind picked up, tugging at her clothes, but she remained still.
Those words… she had heard them before. Seen them before. Villages turned to ash. Children cradling their mothers' corpses in silence. Black soot blanketing once-golden fields.
These were not just stories.
She lowered her head. Her chest tightened.
"…I understand the rage in your heart." Her voice trembled faintly, as her hands gripped the shaft of her flag so hard her knuckles went white.
"But that's exactly why… we mustn't let hatred lead us into the abyss."
Zoth scoffed, his grin as cold as steel plunged into ice water.
"The abyss, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"I chose to fall into it… a long time ago."
He stepped forward—his gait heavy, but devoid of hostility. Just a few more paces and they would be face to face. Jeanne lifted her head. She did not back away.
Zoth met her gaze—no longer the stare of a warrior. But the hollow look of someone who had lost too much.
"You have your path, Jeanne…" he said quietly, his voice calm like the eye of a storm.
"…and I have mine."
In that moment, Jeanne saw it—beneath the fire in his eyes was not just fury. There was pain. Despair.
And a hollow, gaping void—like his soul had shattered long ago, and only the shell remained.
She clutched her banner tightly against her chest, as if anchoring her ideals to her heart.
She looked up. Her voice no longer trembled.
"Then I'll prove it to you."
A faint light passed through her eyes.
"I'll pull you out of that abyss."
Zoth froze—as if someone had just punched the air out of his lungs. He stared at Jeanne, eyes narrowing like he was trying to pierce through a mirage.
…Then suddenly, he laughed.
A dry, raspy laugh—tinged with disbelief. It wasn't mockery. Nor was it joy.
It was the sound of someone who had just heard something… impossible.
"You?" he repeated, jabbing a finger toward her.
"You really think you can do that?"
Jeanne didn't flinch. Her eyes gleamed—not with judgment, but with a flame that burned as steady as holy fire.
"As a servant of the Lord…" she declared, voice firm like a vow,
"…and as the master of my own will—I will save the soul that's drowning in darkness."
Zoth said nothing. His gaze flickered—like ripples across still water disturbed by a sudden breeze.
Then—calm again.
He stared at her a while longer. Then—he held out his hand.
The motion was casual, almost mocking—but beneath it… was a blade testing the heart.
"Ay yo~" he drawled, lips curling into an unreadable grin.
"Let's see what you've got, then."
Jeanne didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, smiled softly, and took his hand.
Two hands—one stained with blood, the other as white as her sacred banner—clasped in the silence of the wild forest.
The world held its breath, as if waiting to see what came next.
---
French Military Encampment – First Night of Redemption
That night, the band of knights set up camp beneath the long shadows of towering cypress trees at the forest's edge. The breeze carried the scent of night grass and the soft crackle of charcoal from the fire pits.
Jeanne stood before the gathered camp, her voice calm as always:
"This is an independent warrior. He will be joining the French army from today."
She didn't need to wait long. Gilles de Rais stepped forward, his voice laced with steel and distrust:
"He's a killer. A butcher."
His finger pointed straight at Zoth.
"I won't share a camp with someone like that!"
Zoth stood silently, eyes half-amused, half-disinterested. He didn't even bother defending himself.
Jeanne, unfazed, spoke as though she had expected this reaction:
"And that's exactly why… he needs to be redeemed."
Gilles stared at her, eyes locked in tense silence. Then, with a cold snort, he turned on his heel—cloak whipping through the air like a blade—and walked off without another word.
Later that evening, a small "feast" was held — calling it that was generous. Just some hard bread, cheap wine, and the tired laughter of soldiers relieved to see another day. But to Zoth, something felt… off.
No one glared at him.
No one whispered.
No one kept their distance.
He wasn't disarmed.
He wasn't isolated.
He even got his own share of food.
A soldier clapped him on the back and handed him a cup of wine, grinning ear to ear:
"If you're Jeanne's man, then you're a good man! Drink up, brother!"
Zoth stared at the wine… then at the soldier — half suspicious, half… annoyed.
"What the hell's wrong with these people?" he muttered.
But he drank anyway.
Night fell. The camp dimmed, glowing faintly with firelight and the hum of crickets.
Zoth had barely started dozing off when someone yanked him upright by the shoulder… and dragged him to the center of the camp.
In front of him, Jeanne sat primly with a Bible in hand, eyes glowing like she was about to deliver a sermon.
"Time for the first reading," she said, smiling as gently as the night wind.
Zoth blinked, sitting down cross-legged in front of her:
"Wait, wait. Your version of 'redemption' is... Bible study!?"
"Exactly." Jeanne answered without missing a beat.
"The soul must also be nourished."
Zoth groaned, thudding the back of his head against a support pole. He closed his eyes in disbelief.
"…I officially regret shaking your hand now."
From the far shadows, Gilles stood leaning against a post, his gaze sharp and unwavering, never once leaving Zoth.
His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword.
He didn't trust Jeanne.
He didn't trust the word "redemption."
And above all, he didn't trust the man who had once painted the battlefield red with bodies.
If he betrays us…
I will be the first to strike him down.
---
Late Night in Camp
The sky was as dark as spilled ink, with only a few feeble stars flickering weakly in the cold heavens. Inside the camp, the main bonfire still blazed bright, casting its warm orange glow onto tired yet radiant faces.
The knights had gathered around the fire—some plucking strings, others whistling on makeshift flutes. A few rowdy ones even began dancing, wine sloshing from their mugs, laughter rising above the whisper of the wind.
They laughed as if there were no tomorrow.
And perhaps… there truly wasn't.
Zoth had been dragged into the circle as well. He had no idea how much he'd drunk—all he knew was his face burned red, eyes half-lidded, and he was grinning like a fool. The man who had once massacred an entire English cavalry unit now clung to a beer keg like it was his first love, swaying drunkenly in the middle of the drunkards' ring.
One by one, the soldiers dropped—heads resting on crates, backs leaning on each other, mouths still mumbling half-finished verses.
Until finally… only Zoth remained.
Sitting there like a lone king on a crumbling throne, a goblet in hand, humming nonsense under his breath.
Jeanne appeared.
Her shadow stretched long in the firelight.
Hands on her hips, brows furrowed slightly like a young mother catching her child sneaking wine:
"That's enough. How much have you had?"
Zoth turned toward her, squinting like he'd just spotted a goddess in the middle of a war camp:
"Just one more~" he pleaded, hugging his cup like she might steal it.
"Still plenty of wine… You just don't know where to look…"
Jeanne sighed softly and snatched the cup from his hand:
"You've got the whole camp passed out drunk!
We're marching tomorrow, remember?"
Zoth blinked, his head swaying:
"Marching where…?"
"Chinon. Crown Prince Charles wants to meet you."
Jeanne replied, her voice light… yet unable to hide her excitement.
Zoth froze.
"Meet me? Does he even know who I am?"
"Mmm~" Jeanne rested her elbows on her knees, leaning in close.
"He calls you… The Demon Sword King. Pretty cool, huh~?"
Zoth stiffened.
His cup halted midair.
His face turned to stone.
His mouth opened… but no words came.
"Demon… what?" he hissed through his teeth.
"Sword King…?"
"Yup. The people started calling you that weeks ago," Jeanne giggled.
"They even say you're a divine envoy sent down to destroy the invaders."
Zoth looked at her.
Then down at the now-empty cup in his hand.
Then…
He collapsed face-first onto the table.
"I refuse to accept a nickname that reeks of… chuunibyou."
Jeanne burst into laughter.
She tried to hold it back—but failed completely.
She leaned down, gently patting his shoulder:
"Get some sleep. We've got a royal meeting tomorrow, Demon Sword King~"
Zoth groaned like a man thoroughly humiliated, dragging his drunken body toward the tents—staggering like he might tip over at any moment.
Jeanne remained behind, eyes following his swaying back until he vanished between the rows of canvas shelters.
She didn't quite understand.
Most people would be proud to be cheered by the masses.
Would wear a grand title with honor.
But he…
He frowned, as if the name were a stain.
Outwardly, he was rough, wild, and sharp as stone.
But inside… was a soul with no place to rest.
A man walking the line between man and monster.
Jeanne tightened her grip on the Bible in her hand, her eyes dropping slightly…
Then, she smiled softly and turned back toward her tent.
Carrying with her a quiet hope—
That someday...
He would understand the true meaning
Of the light she had devoted her life to.