Chinon Encampment – Early Dawn
The sky had yet to fully brighten. Faint light of dawn blurred behind thick gray clouds, veiled by a cold mist that cloaked the entire camp. From afar, the sharp blaring of brass horns cut through the fog like blades, shattering the silence of early morning.
Inside a small tent, a messy black-haired head poked out from the edge of the canvas.
Zoth crawled out like a cat torn from its dreams, squinting at the dim light, yawning wide as if to swallow the sky.
"Ai~… So noisy this early in the morning…"
He stood amidst the mist, scratching his head, cloak slipping off one shoulder, collar wrinkled, face drowsy like someone still unsure if they were awake or dreaming.
The camp had already come alive.
Cavalry led horses stomping over dew-soaked ground.
Archers checked their bowstrings, sliding arrows into quivers.
Foot soldiers were packing up tents, shouts and hurried footsteps echoing in every direction.
The early wind swept through the camp, bringing with it the scent of horsehide, rusted steel, and the faint ash of last night's dying fires.
A young knight, reins in hand, called out urgently:
"We're preparing to strike Meung-sur-Loire!
Sir Zoth, you'd best get ready too!"
Zoth frowned, rubbing his forehead, then lazily waved a hand like swatting away a fly.
"Aiz… I wouldn't know anything about this battle.
If only I'd studied world history more seriously back then…"
He chuckled softly—a lazy smile tinged with faint sarcasm, as if even he wasn't quite sure what role he was playing in this twisted stream of history.
Without a trace of concern, Zoth began to pack.
As always: he casually opened a [Book Gates] portal and threw in all the trash and tattered tent pieces.
Where did it go? Who knows—he didn't care.
Could've landed on some poor soul's head in somewhere for all he knew.
Stretching his back, joints cracking, he stepped into the chaos with a nonchalance that felt almost offensive.
While others rushed around in a frenzy, Zoth strolled through the camp hands behind his back, like enjoying a spring walk in the park.
His wine-red cloak fluttered past sprinting soldiers, a stark, surreal splash of color—like blood spilled across a field of snow.
He made his way to the command tent, where a large table lay covered in maps, flags, and strategic pieces. Around it stood Jeanne, Gilles, and several commanders locked in heated debate, voices overlapping endlessly.
"What's the situation?" Zoth asked, his tone light, yet striking with uncanny timing that froze the room.
"Gilles... What's got you so worked up?"
Zoth tilted his head, smirking lazily, raising one hand in a half-hearted wave—though he stood only a few steps away.
Gilles turned, brows drawn so tight they nearly met. Arms crossed, eyes glaring at Zoth with open discontent.
"Worked up? Why don't you try listening to Jeanne's plan for once."
He jabbed a finger at the map and sighed, as though stress itself had taken physical form.
Zoth raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jeanne. She stood over the map, lips pressed tight, head lowered, listening intently to La Hire tracing lines along the Loire.
Her expression was so focused she didn't even notice Zoth's presence.
Firelight flickered across her pale cheekbones, casting shadows of resolve… and tension.
Zoth chuckled softly, though his eyes had grown sharp.
He approached, hands in pockets, a half-lazy, half-curious gleam in his gaze.
"Oh~ The Holy Maiden's laying out her battlefield already?
This should be fun."
Under the dim light of dawn, the thick canvas of the command tent held in the warm glow of a flickering hearth.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, old paper, and steel—a suffocating blend unique to places where life-and-death decisions are made.
Jeanne stood tall among the gathered commanders, hands braced on the edge of the table. Her face had hardened to the point of chill, eyes never leaving the map.
Opposite her, Duke John II of Alençon—an old war-seasoned general—furrowed his brow. His eyes brimming with doubt as his fingers tapped the hilt of his sword, like trying to restrain a growing frustration.
"Why aren't we attacking the satellite forts first?"
"Why charge directly at the main position…?"
Jeanne did not back down. Her voice rang out clear and steely:
"Instead of scattering our forces to take minor objectives—
Strike straight at the fortifications on Meung-sur-Loire.
We sever their reinforcements, and seize the balance of war."
A murmur rippled among the generals. They all knew—if this failed, the losses would be catastrophic.
The Duke stepped back half a pace, arms crossed, staring at her:
"But Jeanne... many knights will die if we do this.
Are you certain?"
His voice dropped, pressing the weight of consequence into the room.
Jeanne did not lower her gaze.
She drew in a breath and slowly nodded—without trembling, without evasion.
"Please, trust me, Your Grace…
The reason I summoned our cavalry here—
Was through divine instruction. A sign from God."
Silence gripped the tent. Some commanders glanced away, others frowned with barely hidden doubt.
But Jeanne remained unmoved—like a statue weathering the storm.
In a shadowed corner where firelight couldn't reach, Zoth sat with his back against a wooden post, calmly flipping through the weighty pages of [Omni Force]—a book as heavy as the secrets buried within it.
Each page detailed the Battle of Meung-sur-Loire: formations, terrain, variables... and the bloody aftermath.
His eyes scanned the script with the cold precision of a knife cutting through history.
Though the Omni Force was only a pseudo-omniscient tome, revealing half-truths—
For him, it was enough.
Silence reigned. Only the whisper of turning pages and the steady rhythm of breath stirred the still air—
Like deep waters before a tempest.
Zoth frowned slightly.
"...A clean crush.
France wins—but only within an allowed margin."
He shut the book. The thump echoed like a seal being locked.
He stood, brushed his coat, and glanced lazily toward the tent's entrance, where dawn's faint light began to creep in.
Wind stirred the flap, bringing in the scent of damp earth and iron—
A vague whisper from a future in flux.
Zoth laid a hand on the book's cover, feeling raw energy swirl beneath his palm.
"If… even a single anomaly appears—
A rogue variable slips from history's stream…
If the butterfly flaps too far from war's path..."
He narrowed his eyes, his voice a chill murmur:
"...I'll crush this battle with my own hands—
Through [Omni Force]."
No hatred. No fury.
Only a cold promise—spoken like someone who saw the erasure of history no differently than flipping past a boring page.
---
After the Briefing
The commanders filed out, cloaks fluttering in the morning wind.
Hooves clattered across the ground as troops moved to rally.
The entire camp seemed to draw back like a tide before a storm surge.
As Zoth wandered through the compound, a sudden call rang out—
A cry to arms.
Ahead, in the open yard, Jeanne stood upon a wooden platform.
At last, morning light pierced the clouds, illuminating the banner she held high—
A white flag bearing the image of divinity, whipping fiercely in the wind.
She raised it, eyes blazing, golden hair flaring behind her, voice resounding like church bells in a sacred ceremony:
"My comrades!"
"Not for glory, nor for fame,
But today I call upon you to rise—
For justice, and the freedom of France!"
"Let our footsteps shatter their chains—
And this spear pierce the path to light!"
"Upon that bridge, it is not the English we face—
But the hope of an entire nation!"
"For France!!"
"FOR FRANCE!!" the knights thundered in unison,
Spears, swords, maces, shields—raised high like a steel tsunami crashing against the silver sky.
The roar shook the earth.
At the flank of the formation, Zoth winced slightly, covering his ears like a sulky child annoyed by the noise.
He shook his head, chuckling softly:
"Aiz… As expected from her—France's spiritual leader, huh~."
He eyed the burning fervor around him, then turned away, taking a few calm steps toward the shadows.
There was still much to plan for the battle ahead—
Especially if fate chose to bend the script.
---
Loiret Province – Meung-sur-Loire
Dawn had yet to break.
English guards at the bridge fortress and along the riverbanks were rotating shifts. A cold morning mist cloaked the Loire River. Dim torchlight flickered weakly in the wind, reflecting off armor slick with dew.
Suddenly—
[Fwt! Fwt! Fwt!]
A volley of arrows tore through the mist like a flock of black crows. Sharp thuds echoed, followed by screams and the sound of bodies collapsing.
"Ambush!!"
Before they could even identify the enemy, a massive force surged in from the west—an iron tide of warhorses, armor-clad shadows blanketing the earth, banners flapping violently. War drums thundered. Battle cries erupted like a storm.
"CHAAAAAAAAAARGE!!!"
Clashing steel. Spears piercing flesh. Screams of horses and men blended into a blood-soaked battlefield symphony.
Chaos engulfed the fortress.
Gunpowder smoke, shattered stone, oil stores erupting into flames—an apocalyptic mural painted across the breaking dawn. French warriors charged like beasts, trampling the remnants of English defense lines.
At the vanguard, Jeanne rode a white steed. Her banner flew high, firelight dancing off her armor like divine radiance in a sea of blood.
"My brave comrades!!"
"Push forward! For the hope of France – for freedom, for our people waiting behind us – break the chains, drive the invaders from our land!"
Her voice cut across the battlefield's howls and wails, like a divine summons.
Her banner rose—not just a signal, but a symbol. Blood-stained, but ever flying.
And when she charged up the fortress steps— The cavalry behind her followed like an unstoppable flood.
English soldiers screamed in panic. Defenses crumbled like rotted wood. The overwhelming force didn't come from numbers—it came from the unyielding will of the French, led by a saint who bore no blade, only a flag—yet made the battlefield bow.
Meung-sur-Loire Front – Behind the Assault Line
Behind the cavalry, amid smoke and corpses, Zoth strolled forward with hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded with lazy indifference, watching the inferno ahead.
"Sigh… They're going at it real hard."
He exhaled, then reached out and pulled a pitch-black object from the void—[Seiken Sword Driver].
A wicked grin twisted his lips. The hunger for battle in him stirred like a beast clawing at its cage.
"Kinda makes me wanna… join the fun."
[Seiken Sword Driver.]
[Kaenken Rekka.]
Mechanical sounds whirred—a warning no one sane could heed.
Zoth pulled out a Wonder Ride Book, black and viridian. Its glow lit his twisted smile like a madman unchained.
Click.
The book opened—light spiraled into a rotating dragon sigil.
[Primitive Dragon!]
[Brave Dragon... Get!]
He slammed the book into the Driver—gears twisted like bones breaking and resetting. A low mechanical roar reverberated through the battlefield.
He bowed his head slightly, hand on the sword's hilt:
"Hen… shin."
[Rekka Battou!]
[Baki, Boki, Bone~!]
[Gaki, Goki, Bone~!]
[Primitive... Dragon!]
[BOOOOM!!]
A black-and-blue explosion tore reality apart at the battlefield's heart—
When the light faded, Zoth stood clad in pitch-black armor, inlaid with smoldering blue dragon scales. His chestplate clawed around the Wonder Ride Book like a beast gripping its heart. His breathing was a low growl—like a primal dragon awakening.
His helmet was sharp, sword-like horns raised high, eyes blazing blue—not with life, but with madness. Flame-like rage burned within.
The wind howled. Ash swirled. Soldiers—French and English alike—froze.
Something wrong had entered the battlefield.
Zoth lifted his head. His breath echoed cold through the helm. He chuckled:
"NOw~, THy JuDgMeNt hAs cOMe~"
Jeanne stood atop a low hill, the French banner whipping wildly in the wind. Screams, clashing steel, and the acrid stench of blood and powder choked the air.
Then—
A blue-black explosion behind them.
A shadow emerged, eyes glowing like unholy stars. The fire-blue armor walked, each step scorching the earth, leaving hellish trails in his wake.
Jeanne turned sharply. Her voice trembled:
"That… is… Sir Zoth…?"
Her fingers clenched the banner until they turned white. Her lips pressed tight.
She had seen comrades fall… faced the cruelty of English soldiers…
But never before had she feared someone fighting on her side.
Zoth—was no longer human.
He was war incarnate. A primal being, where death was instinct, and blood was purpose.
From the base of the hill, he looked up, his cold gaze locking onto Jeanne. He tilted his head—the crack of his neck echoed like splintering bones.
"HmpH… JeaNnE… WheRe sHoULd i sTriKe nExT~?"
His voice—broken, hoarse—roared like a beast freed from chains.
Two voices overlapped: one human, one not—a chilling sound that made even warhorses recoil in instinctive fear.
Jeanne reflexively stepped back, banner hand trembling.
Her eyes, wide in dread… narrowed with resolve.
She inhaled deeply, steadied her heartbeat, and spoke with regained authority:
"Please assist Sir La Hire's unit at the front, Sir Zoth… Be careful."
Zoth stood silent for a moment.
Then he bowed slightly—not a gesture of respect, but of a predator ready to pounce.
He shifted Rekka to his left hand—but instead of the hilt, he gripped the blade itself—his armored gauntlet squeezing the fiery sword that glowed with a wrathful dragon's fury.
"GoT iT… tHeN i'LL Be oFf."
[BOOM!!]
The earth split beneath him, a shockwave of debris spiraled outward—Zoth launched like a demon's bullet, crashing through French lines in his wake.
Some knights turned, only to catch a glimpse of a blue-black blur. Cloaks whipped, horses shrieked in panic.
He blazed through the battlefield—straight toward the fortress gates, leaving a scorched trench behind.
Then… he leapt.
Rekka reversed in his grasp, now raised high—blue-black light howled like a banshee.
"RAAAAAA!!"
[Swoosh— BOOM!!]
A blazing slash struck down.
The fortress wall shook.
An entire section of the gate was blown apart.
Stone shattered, smoke and flame erupting like a volcano.
A colossal opening ripped into the wall—a gateway to hell, carved by Zoth's own hand.
The French army hesitated for one heartbeat—then erupted in cheers, charging after him.
Jeanne gripped the banner tightly. The wind ripped through her hair, her eyes fixed on Zoth's retreating figure—like gazing at a god… or a monster clad in man's armor.
"…Sir Zoth… What in the world… are you?"
---
After the Battle of Meung-sur-Loire – Dusk by the Loire River
The battle at Meung-sur-Loire's bridge lasted only a single day.
But it struck a fatal blow to the English forces—severing their mobility along the entire Loire River front.
As the bloodstained dust began to settle, the French flag fluttered defiantly atop the riverside fortress that had long guarded the bridge at Meung-sur-Loire.
Scattered units of cavalry, archers, and support troops hurriedly established a new defensive line under the command of the Duke of Alençon—determined to block any southern retreat by the enemy.
As for Zoth...
He sat alone by the banks of the Loire, where the sunset shimmered on the water's surface like a golden mirror.
One arm braced behind his back, his gaze fell on the gently flowing current, still and silent.
The breeze tousled his ashen-brown hair, yet Zoth only chuckled softly—a laugh pulled from somewhere deep within.
Because now, he had reached a conclusion of his own.
No matter how many sacred swords he wielded, no matter which [Wonder Ride Books] he summoned—what powered them was not the Rider Power System from the Kamen Rider series.
Not safety-locked modules of science and tech.
But something cruder. Something primal.
Something far more dangerous—
[True Ether.]
An energy like the blood of the world itself, but also a poison to those who defy its laws.
It gave him power—but at the cost of his reason, his soul, and his very humanity.
Zoth sighed. His tired eyes drooped shut.
He could feel it—a part of him was starting to crack.
Then a voice drifted gently from behind.
It was soft, trembling ever so slightly—but filled with sincerity:
"Sir Zoth... Are you all right?"
He didn't need to look. That voice, that scent of fabric and flag, those light, deliberate footsteps—it could only be Jeanne.
She approached, still clutching her banner tightly to her chest, her eyes soft with quiet concern.
"May I sit with you?" she asked, tilting her head, her smile as gentle as morning mist.
Zoth let out a dry chuckle—half amused, half worn down.
"Be my guest. It's not like this land belongs to me... Sit if you want."
Jeanne sighed and shook her head—already used to his thorny replies.
She sat beside him, not too close, yet close enough to feel each other's breathing.
Before them, the Loire remained still—mirroring the orange sky and the distant red glows of dying fires scattered across the battlefield.
They stayed silent for a while...
Then Jeanne turned to him—her gaze thoughtful, and worried.
"Sir Zoth... You're afraid of something, aren't you?"
Zoth flinched slightly, his brow furrowing. He looked at her—surprised, guarded.
"How'd you figure that out?"
Jeanne clutched her flag tighter to her chest, her eyes locking onto his—deep and unwavering, like a calm winter sky:
"Why? …I may not understand why you fight with such savagery… but I can see it."
She lowered her head, fingers gently stroking the shaft of her banner.
"You're afraid... of yourself."
That single sentence pierced right through Zoth's hardened exterior.
The corner of his eye twitched. His throat went dry.
He looked at her as if wanting to lash out—but no words came.
Moments passed. Then he let out a strained, bitter laugh.
"When did you notice?"
Jeanne hugged her knees to her chest, her gaze steady.
"Just now... when you looked at the river—with that look of helplessness."
"As if you were thinking:
'Is there any way... to stop myself from becoming a monster?'"
Zoth winced, growling under his breath—trying to shake off the strange, growing emotion inside.
Then, he dropped flat onto the grass, arms folded behind his head.
"Why the hell do you care about me? We're nothing to each other."
Jeanne looked at him—not with anger, nor sadness. Just a soft smile, and eyes heavy with quiet resolve.
"No, Sir Zoth... Do you remember what I once told you? That...
'I will save you from the mire of madness.'"
The sunset bathed her face in holy light—her features radiant with an almost divine purity.
A breeze played with her golden hair, wrapping it around her shoulders like a faint halo.
Zoth stared at her.
For the first time, his eyes held no scorn, no mockery.
He looked at her as if trying to read her soul—and he saw…
This wasn't shallow pity.
This was devotion.
A belief—that he could still be saved.
Zoth sighed, shaking his head in defeat.
"Aiz... There's no winning with you... Saint girl."
He sat up, brushing the grass off his coat, then turned to her with a half-sardonic, half-resigned smile.
And held out his hand:
"Zoth Vari-El, madman... trying real hard to play the part of a 'champion of justice'."
Jeanne looked at him for a moment—then laughed softly.
Her laughter rang like silver chimes, gentle enough to calm the wind.
"Jeanne d'Arc, a simple peasant girl... trying to save this land called France."
Two hands—two worlds, two fates.
And in that moment, they met above a bloodstained river glowing in the sunset.
For Jeanne—the light of God could redeem anyone.
But for Zoth—
The only truth he still believed in was:
"Violence is salvation."