Forest – French Army Encampment
The sky had yet to fully brighten. Dawn was barely a hazy glow beyond the treetops, veiled in thick morning mist like a gray-white curtain. The air was damp and cold, the ground still wet, and the tents soaked with dew.
Zoth shot up at the sounds of shouting, clanging steel, neighing horses, and boots stomping across the muddy earth.
Rubbing his eyes and with hair sticking out like a wild beast, he stumbled out of his tent — and ran straight into a scene of chaos.
Knights, archers, supply men… everyone was scrambling to break camp, tie up sacks, pack chests, and get ready to move out. No one had time to chat. Everyone was busy... trying to survive another day.
Zoth let out a long yawn, looked around for a few seconds… then rolled up his sleeves and joined in, as if he'd been doing this all his life.
He pulled tent stakes out of the ground like weeds, helped some younger soldiers fold up tarps, and even hauled a log as thick as a man's torso onto his shoulder to load onto a cart. At one point, he carried three tents at once, striding across the camp as stunned soldiers stared at him like he was some kind of monster.
One soldier whispered: "Is that guy… even human?"
Once everything was packed, Zoth dusted off his hands and headed for the mess area.
He grabbed a chunk of black bread — dry, lopsided, cracked like a honeycomb brick — and a cup of warm, tasteless water.
Zoth froze. He looked at the bread. Then at the water.
His brow furrowed, like he'd just been betrayed.
"…Huh? This is breakfast?"
Nearby, Gilles was tightening the straps of his armor. He glanced over, half-pitying, half-mocking — his voice dripping with sarcasm:
"That's all there is. This is the army, not a royal banquet."
Zoth looked at the bread like he couldn't decide whether to eat it… or use it as a weapon.
Eventually, he took a bite.
Crunch.
His jaw paused mid-chew.
"…Tastes like I'm chewing rocks…"
Gilles smirked.
"What, you expecting a battlefield buffet? Stop being dramatic, cold-blooded knight."
Zoth rolled his eyes, chewing as he mumbled:
"I should've backed out of this 'traveling together' deal last night…"
Gilles crossed his arms and leaned against a tent post, not taking his eyes off him:
"Too late to bail now, Demon Sword King. Eat up — we march soon. You better not faint from hunger."
Zoth was hunched over, gnawing at his dry, rock-hard bread. Crumbs scattered across the table like desert dust in the wind, when a familiar voice called out from behind:
"Good morning, Sir Zoth."
He looked up — Jeanne was walking toward him, having just finished cleaning the eastern part of the camp. Her hands were still smudged with mud, hair tousled slightly by the morning breeze, but her face remained serene, her smile as clear and fresh as a mountain spring.
Even covered in dirt, she somehow carried a strange, holy grace.
Zoth gave a faint smirk and nodded:
"Yeah. Morning, Jeanne d'Arc."
A gentle silence settled between them.
Zoth hesitated for a moment, then asked:
"We're… heading back to Chinon?"
"Yes, it's time to return." Jeanne nodded, her smile unwavering.
Then she tilted her head, giving him a curious look as if remembering something:
"By the way, Sir Zoth… you're not quite what the rumors say. People said you were fierce, cold, even terrifying — but in truth… you're kind of approachable. And gentle, too."
Zoth coughed, waving his hand like he was shooing a fly:
"Must be some glitch in the rumor mill…"
But inside, he was screaming:
"I'm supposed to be the antihero!!! Brutal! Cold-blooded! Overwhelmingly edgy! Do you not get it!?"
Still keeping his cool on the outside, he crossed his arms and adopted his best "wise mentor" tone:
"Don't go trusting others too easily. Especially in times of war — people's hearts change fast. Put your faith in the wrong person, and you're done for."
Jeanne blinked, looking a little puzzled. Then she smiled and gently shook her head:
"I… know exactly who I can trust."
She gripped the banner in her hand and looked up at him. The morning light spilled over her face — a soft, innocent smile, full of strength and conviction:
"And besides… I'm really strong, you know!"
Zoth froze.
He looked at her.
The sunlight caught in her eyes. That unguarded smile. That innocence mixed with courage — like an arrow piercing through the cold armor he'd wrapped around his heart.
Something inside him trembled.
His heartbeat skipped.
A voice screamed in his head:
"Damn it! What the hell kind of damage was that!? That was a critical hit! Is she using cheats!?"
Just then, Gilles appeared again, his steady footsteps landing heavily on the ground — his cold stare like a bucket of icy water thrown over the just-warmed air.
"Are you done? It's time to move out."
He led a horse up to Jeanne, holding out the reins — not a word wasted.
"Ah! Thank you, Gilles… You worked hard,"
Jeanne received the reins with both hands and a soft smile. Though her fingers were still dirt-stained, her gentle expression made it hard to look away.
Then she turned to Zoth, her eyes warm:
"Sir Zoth doesn't have a horse? Or… are you planning to walk?"
Before Zoth could answer, she leaned slightly to one side of her saddle — as if ready to offer him a ride behind her.
But he immediately raised a hand in a sharp gesture:
"No need. I have my own mount."
His voice was low and firm — a declaration.
He reached inside his coat and pulled out a Wonder Ride Book. The metallic cover shimmered with cold, silvery light, etched in ancient runes. He opened it, and crimson light burst from the pages as if slicing through reality itself.
Then he threw it to the ground.
[BOOOOMMMMMM——!]
A deep thud echoed as the earth trembled slightly. From within the red glow, a red-and-gold motorcycle emerged — its armored frame gleaming, sharp lines like a living beast. The exhaust hissed out thick black smoke. Its headlights flared — blindingly white.
It stood there, like it had just clawed its way up from the pits of hell.
Jeanne froze.
Gilles frowned and instinctively stepped back.
"…What the hell is that?" he muttered.
Jeanne didn't even blink, her gaze fixed on the glowing hunk of metal. Tilting her head in confusion, she asked softly:
"This… this is…?"
Zoth brushed his nose with his finger. His coat fluttered lightly in the morning breeze as he replied, his voice full of barely restrained pride:
"A hell-tier mount. A widely used transport in the Death Zones."
"Hell…?" Jeanne echoed, eyes wide. She took a step closer, peering at it curiously — like she was seeing some unknown creature from another world.
[Tap—!]
She gently poked the bike's side with her flag — just a light touch.
"HEY!! Careful! That's the paint! Please show some mercy to my baby!!"
Zoth yelled, voice cracking with panic.
Jeanne jumped back, startled: "Eh? What did you say, Sir Zoth?"
Zoth froze. His face went stiff. A beat passed before he cleared his throat and quickly stepped in front of the bike like a mother shielding her child. One arm out, body turned protectively to block the front wheel:
"It's dangerous. Don't touch my mount again. Let's move — everyone's waiting."
His eyes were serious. His voice, firm.
Jeanne gave a soft chuckle and nodded, then returned to her horse. Gilles said nothing, but his gaze flicked between Zoth and the bike — full of suspicion.
As for Zoth…
He was still hugging the bike like it was made of gold.
He looked down at the tiny scratch on its side, his heart breaking.
Three long years riding a busted bike with a broken seat…
And now, he finally had a true hell-war steed to call his own.
How could he not feel pain watching it get scratched?
---
Chinon – Two Days Later, at the City Gates
From afar, beneath the pale morning sun, the people of Chinon could just make out a formation of French knights approaching — silver armor gleaming, flags fluttering proudly in the breeze.
Everything looked… appropriately solemn.
Until a bizarre sound tore through the air — like thunder cracking across a clear sky.
[VROOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM—!!!]
It wasn't hooves.
No. This was something mechanical. Ferocious.
Like a beast made of steel, tearing through space at breakneck speed.
"W-What the hell is that!?"
One of the gate guards blurted out, clutching his spear tightly, eyes glued to the dust storm forming on the road ahead.
At the head of the formation, surging past the ranks of knights, came a blur of silver and crimson with golden highlights — racing down the dirt road, its wheels leaving trails of smoke like the tail of a comet.
Zoth — seated atop his red-and-gold motorcycle like he was born for it — wore black sunglasses, hair flaring backward in the wind, face expressionless like this was his own personal Grand Prix.
He leaned into the turn, twisted the throttle, and carved a brutal S-shaped drift through the cloud of dust, tires screaming against the dirt in a glorious metallic screech.
The townspeople and soldiers stared, mouths agape. No one moved. No one breathed.
Zoth slammed the brakes. The motorbike skidded a few more meters along the cobbled street, screeching to a stylish halt.
He kicked the stand down and stepped off lazily, shoulders relaxed, casually gazing up at the towering stone walls of Chinon — ancient, moss-covered, with sharp turrets stabbing into the gloomy sky.
He scratched his chin and smirked:
"Well damn… this fortress is one hell of a big boy."
Muttering that half-hearted comment, he flicked his wrist. The motorcycle collapsed into red light, reverting back into the Wonder Ride Book, which he tucked away inside his coat.
Then he casually leaned back against the city wall, arms folded. The breeze tugged at his tattered black coat, making it flutter like a lone autumn leaf refusing to fall.
Up on the ramparts, a few guards had spotted him. Their expressions turned grim as they raised their spears, tips glinting in the fading afternoon light. Wariness — and confusion — filled their eyes.
No one dared make the first move, but the tension in the air strung tight like a drawn bow.
Zoth snorted. A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth as he side-eyed the guards — as if he were watching a pack of yapping puppies behind a fence.
The urge to mess with them bubbled up in his brain like a sugar-high demon:
"Oh man… should I spook these guys for fun?"
It wouldn't be the first time — the night guards at Tours had already been "test subjects" in his midnight rampages, where he'd transform into Kamen Rider Solomon and go full demon mode with Caladbolg in hand, chasing them like a bored kid with no TV or decent games.
But before he could act, the rhythmic sound of marching horses and armored boots echoed from behind. The French army had arrived, flags flapping, war cries ringing, and the clash of steel on steel blending into a proud, thunderous anthem.
Zoth sighed, shrugged.
"Tch. Lucky bastards."
He clicked his tongue, disappointed.
If not for the army showing up just now, those poor gatekeepers might've found themselves part of another nightly "training exercise."
He strolled casually toward the front of the army, where Gilles rode ahead on horseback — his posture noble, but his eyes seething with bitterness.
Zoth raised a hand in a lazy salute, smirk still playing on his lips like a permanent provocation.
"Oi~! Thought you guys were fast. What's with the Sunday stroll?"
Gilles clenched his jaw tight, eyes burning with the urge to incinerate Zoth on the spot.
But instead of retorting, he just scoffed, tilted his chin upward in disgust, and kept riding toward the gates of Chinon, the army following in orderly formation.
Zoth watched him go, shrugged, and grinned to himself. He blended into the marching crowd, boots clicking lazily on the cobbled street. As he walked, his eyes drifted over the red-tiled roofs, the narrow ancient alleyways — this entire city felt like a forgotten relic, frozen in time. His gaze shimmered with a kind of outsider curiosity — someone who didn't belong, but relished the novelty.
Then suddenly, he turned to Jeanne walking beside him. His voice came out low and soft, like a question whispered on the edge of a battlefield:
"Jeanne… do you think they see me as a demon?"
Jeanne stopped mid-step, eyes wide with surprise.
"Why would you ask that…?"
Zoth looked off toward the horizon, where black clouds began to gather. A faint smile played on his lips — almost like he was telling a joke only he understood.
"You once said the people call me a devil. I just sacrificed a few soldiers here and there... doesn't seem demon-worthy to me."
His smile turned sharp, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Jeanne — cold, calculating, terrifyingly aware.
"I won't deny it. What I did was cruel.
But war strips men of their conscience.
If I wasn't terrifying… how else would I make them afraid?"
Jeanne fell silent. The breeze tugged gently at her white cloak, brushing across her contemplative face and sorrowful eyes. After a moment, she drew a breath and spoke firmly, clutching her banner like it was the last thread tying her to faith itself.
"I understand. But your ways are still far too extreme.
Even so… I'll help you. I'll pull you back from that madness."
Zoth raised a brow, chuckled, and shook his head — part disbelief, part amusement.
Then, to completely derail the heavy mood, he suddenly asked:
"What's your favorite color?"
Jeanne blinked, caught off guard by the absurd turn. But then she smiled gently:
"I like gold.
Like starlight shining through a dark night."
Zoth nodded, mumbling to himself:
"Gold… starlight… night sky…
Huh. I figured you'd say white or something holy.
But fine, gold it is."
He took a few steps back, turned dramatically, and waved a hand with theatrical flair:
"Step back a bit. I'm about to... ahem, transform."
Jeanne raised an eyebrow, confused:
"Transform... what?"
Zoth chuckled, wagging a hand lazily as if brushing off the seriousness:
"Well duh, gotta look sharp for our royal meet-and-greet. Can't go meet the prince looking like a scrub."
[Seiken Swordriver!]
A cold mechanical voice rang out in the air. A glowing belt materialized on Zoth's waist.
[Gekkou Raimeiken Ikazuchi!]
A streak of lightning flashed as a jet-black and gold sword crackled into existence in his hand. Zoth flipped open a Wonder Ride Book with exaggerated flair, his voice deep and dramatic — like a narrator from an old epic.
[Arabiana Night!]
[A tale of sin and sorcery whispered across a thousand nights!]
Zoth struck a dramatic pose — at least he thought it was dramatic.
From everyone else's perspective...
"…Uh. Is… he performing? Like... a circus act?"
Zoth froze mid-pose, winced.
"Ugh. I'll practice solo next time…"
Then, with a booming voice:
"HENSHIN!!"
He drew his sword from the Driver. Behind him, a massive book sprang open in mid-air, glowing with spiraling light.
[Gekkou Ikazuchi Battou!]
[The moonlight cuts through the darkness—unveiling a story of a thousand and one nights!]
[Arabiana Night~!]
[Sparkle Night~!]
His armor emerged — sleek black laced with radiant gold and deep azure. It gleamed like moonlight over desert sands. Dragon claw motifs glowed on his chest, and his helmet was crowned by a crescent moon with fierce, pointed horns.
Zoth stepped forward, striking his signature pose:
"Kamen Rider Espada — Arrived."
...
Nobody spoke.
Nobody dared make a sound.
Everyone simply stared at him in dead silence — not with awe, not with fear…
…but with pity.
As if the man before them wasn't a legendary warrior —
…but a lunatic who had just escaped from a traveling circus.