Chapter 52: La Pucelle
Although she had not sustained fatal injuries, the lightning bombardment from this Authority caused Jeanne an unbelievable amount of trouble.
"This... this is impossible...!"
Even though Jeanne continued to hold her holy spear high—the A-rank barrier Noble Phantasm Luminosité Eternelle, which rendered her invulnerable until the Noble Phantasm itself was completely shattered—she was still left in disbelief by the lightning that had just fallen.
Damage accumulates; until her Noble Phantasm was entirely broken, she would not suffer any substantive physical harm. However, that stinging pain and paralysis had genuinely caused a flicker of panic to rise within her. It was like having an invulnerability cheat active, only to have an opponent's attack stack a mountain of debuffs on you anyway. Even if there is zero damage, it still feels frustrating and stifling.
"The power of Zeus...? Just where do you come from...?"
The sound of thunder gradually faded. Jeanne warily retreated several steps, moving away from the collapsed road surface. Standing there made her nothing more than a stationary target. She glanced at Luminosité Eternelle in her hand; white steam was rising from the tip of the spear, and the shaft showed numerous signs of wear and tear.
This was the indicator that the Noble Phantasm was being depleted. It signaled that after perhaps one or two more lightning strikes of that magnitude, the weapon in her hand would utterly vanish. Inevitably, a trace of anxiety welled up in Jeanne's heart.
"What you saw just now was Zeus's lightning, though there was also a portion of Melqart's power fused within," Shirou said leisurely. "Zeus of Greek mythology, Melqart of Canaanite mythology... but I suppose a country Saint like yourself would be more familiar with the Greek myths, wouldn't you?"
The red-haired boy maintained a relaxed attitude from start to finish. His nonchalant tone made Jeanne's brow furrow slightly.
'He hasn't even used his full strength yet...'
The real battle hadn't even begun, yet a third of her Luminosité Eternelle had already been consumed. This was not a good sign. If she didn't use her final trump card, she might actually lose—Jeanne realized this clearly.
"I know little of the pagan myths you speak of. I have only ever received the teachings of the Lord." Jeanne shook her head gently.
"If that's the case, then why were you sent to the stake?" Shirou asked suddenly. "The people you protected, the armies you led—not a single person stood up for you at that time. They watched as you were tied to the stake, watched the executioner light the torch, and watched
as you were engulfed and charred by the flames. Not one person stopped that tragedy from beginning to end. Even so, do you still believe your so-called 'Lord' truly exists?"
To Shirou's somewhat aggressive questioning, Jeanne's answer was firm.
"Yes."
Jeanne planted her spear, the holy flag of the iris fluttering in the wind. "Hatred only breeds more hatred; evil only brings distortion and slaughter. I will not resent anyone. That was my destiny."
The breeze stirred the girl's blonde hair. Shirou had already dispelled the heavy storm, but scattered, fine droplets of rain still tapped against her face. Her expression did not waver in the slightest. Perhaps Jeanne was merely a village girl who understood the Bible but was illiterate; perhaps in history, she was just a girl not yet twenty years old—but the nobility of her heart was something most people could never hope to reach.
This was why people hated and envied her, unreservedly venting the purest malice upon a kind soul.
At this moment, the red-haired boy smiled. The Saint saw that the man's smile was laced with many emotions: curiosity, regret, playfulness, excitement... it was incredibly complex.
"Interesting... You truly are a Saint, Jeanne!"
The words were clearly praise, but to Jeanne's ears, they sounded full of mockery.
"Hmph, do not think you can change my will!" Jeanne said coldly. Even with a noble personality, a Saint can still get angry when her faith is so belittled.
Jeanne set down her holy spear and drew her sword. This silver sword, gifted to her at the Church of St. Catherine, looked beautiful under the moonlight—elegant yet dangerous. Then, Jeanne used the blade to cut her own palm, paying no mind to the seeping blood. She knelt devoutly, pressing her hands together and closing her eyes in a posture of prayer.
To someone unfamiliar with the power of her final Noble Phantasm, such a beautiful posture might suggest surrender or martyrdom. In reality, it was anything but. At this moment, she was manifesting her ultimate Noble Phantasm: La Pucelle!
"The heavens declare the glory of the Lord; the skies proclaim the work of His hands."
...Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge.
They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them.
The warmth of light spreads across the earth, reaching the ends of the world.
It rises at one end of the heavens and makes its circuit to the other.
My end is here, my fate is here, my life is here.
My life is as nothing, wandering like a shadow.
My bow cannot be relied upon, nor can my sword save me.
I offer the only thing I have left, that I may guard His footsteps...
...O Lord, I entrust this body into Your hands—"
As Jeanne devoutly chanted the incantation, a miracle occurred. It was undeniably a supreme Thaumaturgy equivalent to True Magic. Watching the Saint kneeling on the ground, appearing as though she were reaching out to touch God Himself, Caren couldn't help but whisper:
"So that... is a Saint..."
"Could it be a Reality Marble!?" Saber exclaimed in surprise, looking at Jeanne who was now shrouded in golden radiance.
"No, it's a Conceptual Weapon. A suicide-type Noble Phantasm that crystallizes her internal landscape to meet the enemy," Shirou said calmly, watching Jeanne bathed in the holy glow as he identified the Noble Phantasm she was currently using.
Flowers of flame manifested from the hilt of the sword she held. These were the very flames that had taken the life of Jeanne d'Arc. The people of judgment believed this fire was punishment for a witch; Jeanne believed this fire was her final salvation. To the Saint Jeanne d'Arc, it was her first and last weapon.
Its name is La Pucelle—a suicide-type Noble Phantasm born from the crystallization of that past scene that makes anyone who thinks of the Saint weep. Jeanne did not grip the hilt; she grasped the blade itself, pointing the tip toward Shirou.
"—L'espoir vient après le désespoir (Hope shall surely follow despair)!!!"
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