As the journey went on peacefully, Jeanne suddenly sensed the approach of a Servant. Her expression, once serene, hardened into seriousness.
She imdiately recalled Arthur’s warning.
"Stop the car," she ordered firmly, her voice laced with urgency. "We’ll get off here."
The driver widened his eyes in surprise.
"Huh? But this place is so remote... I can’t just leave the two of you here."
"It’s fine," Jeanne replied without hesitation. "We’ll stay."
Arthur simply cast a calm glance and, without a word, leapt from the carriage. Jeanne followed with equal resolve.
The instant her feet touched the ground, the transformation began. Light reflected off her body as her ordinary attire vanished, replaced by gleaming silver armor.
Her chest and waist were shielded by engraved plates reinforced at the edges. tallic pauldrons hung from her shoulders, connected to sleeves of deep violet fabric—wide and puffed at the top, yet snug at the wrists, molding perfectly to her arms.
Beneath the armor, her outfit ford a short, split skirt that allowed for free movent. Long stockings of the sa violet hue covered her legs up to her thighs, and upon her feet shone ornate tal boots, their tips reinforced with embossed designs.
Upon her head rested a delicate circlet, or perhaps a tiara, shaped to guard her forehead without concealing her features. Her blonde hair, tied into a long side braid, swayed gently in the wind, lending her an almost sacred majesty.
And finally, within her firm grasp appeared her most iconic symbol: a massive white banner, adorned with golden patterns and floral motifs, mounted upon the shaft of a long spear.
Arthur walked at her side, speaking as he observed their surroundings.
"They were cautious... they raised a barrier here. I can’t sense even the presence of insects."
Jeanne turned to him, surprised.
"You noticed too?"
"You underestimate , Jeanne," Arthur answered with a faint smile. "I can even tell you exactly who has co to us."
"Who is it?"
Before the answer ca, a clear voice rang out from above, firm as steel.
"So, you’re the Ruler?"
Jeanne raised her eyes. Atop a tallic structure stood the figure of a young man who seed like a vision from ancient scriptures.
His long, white hair, almost translucent, fell in disarray as if reflecting moonlight. His gaze, however, was rciless: sharp, cold, and cutting as a blade. Embedded in his chest shone a crimson jewel, radiating a sinister yet srizing light.
What stood out most, however, was the golden armor encasing his body. It did not seem worn, but fused with his very flesh, as though part of his being. Every detail glead with divine splendor, but taken together they evoked not beauty—rather ferocity, like the scorching presence of an unrelenting sun.
Jeanne narrowed her eyes, instantly recognizing the figure before her. Her voice rang solemn, heavy with respect and tension:
"You are the Red Lancer... Karna, son of the Sun God, Surya."
---
Karna. The Son of the Sun God. The golden, invulnerable hero whose legend is written in the Mahabharata.
His origin was marked by both glory and tragedy. Born of Kunti, daughter of a human king, and the sun god Surya, he was destined for greatness and sorrow alike. Kunti, betrothed to King Pandu of the Kuru dynasty, possessed a peculiar gift: a mantra that could summon any god and conceive a child with them.
Pandu bore a cruel curse. Unable to sire children, his wives were forced to turn to other ans to secure an heir. Even before her marriage, driven by curiosity and the desire to test her gift, Kunti invoked Surya. From the union of mortal and divine was born Karna.
Yet the young mother was seized with fear and uncertainty. Unsure if the god would acknowledge the child, Kunti raised desperate prayers:
"If this child is truly yours, Surya, then prove it. Give him a sign, an undeniable mark of his divine origin."
Moved by her plea, Surya answered. Thus Karna was born bathed in supernatural radiance, bearing the living proof of his lineage: golden armor fused to his skin, luminous as the sun itself, granting him invulnerability. From the cradle, Karna’s destiny was sealed—he was to be a hero of unmatched greatness, and of profound sorrow.
"I am Jeanne d’Arc, the judge of this Holy Grail War," Jeanne declared, her voice ringing firm like a sacred bell. Her eyes glead with severity. "Do you understand the consequences of attacking ?"
Karna regarded her without flinching. His expression was calm, but in his eyes burned the resolve of one who would never waver from his chosen path.
"It is unwise to ask what you already know," he said, his tone steady, solemn, almost detached. "Consider my presence here a declaration of war."
Though she had known this confrontation was inevitable, Jeanne felt a pang of dismay. The weight of the mont pressed upon her shoulders.
"What advantage do you gain from attacking ?" she pressed, probing his intent.
"I do not know," Karna answered bluntly, his honesty as sharp as a blade. "It was my Master’s command. And as a Servant, I must obey."
As his words faded, he raised his hand. The air trembled, crimson flas gathering in his palm. Before their astonished eyes, a divine weapon began to take form: a colossal spear.
Arthur, still standing nearby, narrowed his eyes as he recognized the manifestation.
"So... that is Vasavi Shakti..." he murmured.
The sacred spear, bestowed upon Karna by Indra himself, the thunder god. A divine gift capable of rending the heavens and reducing armies to ash. Its appearance was magnificent, almost unreal. The blade, over a ter long, was far too massive for any human to wield. Every detail seed a masterpiece, as though sculpted by the gods’ own hands.
For a fleeting mont, Arthur felt a nearly irresistible urge to draw that weapon into his own treasury, the Gate of Babylon. Even with his vast collection, he had never possessed its equal. It was a relic beyond compare.
But he quickly suppressed the impulse.
"Who are you?" Karna suddenly asked, sensing another gaze upon him. Only then did he notice Jeanne was not alone.
"I am a Servant of the Black Faction," Arthur replied with disdain, his tone dripping with boredom.
Karna raised an eyebrow. "So the Black Faction has also made the Ruler its target?"
Arthur smiled faintly. "My encounter with her is nothing but coincidence."
"I see. But that changes nothing. I shall eliminate you both, here and now."
A barely perceptible smirk curved Arthur’s lips.
"Fufufu... I admit, you are confident, Red Lancer."
"That is the least expected of a Servant," Karna answered calmly, pride glinting in his eyes.
The clash seed inevitable, until a voice cut through the tension:
"Now! Strike him, Saber!"
Suddenly, a man with long white hair burst forth, clad in shining armor and wielding a radiant sword. He charged Karna, who rely lifted his spear to parry the blow.
"You must be the Black Saber," Karna remarked coolly, unfazed.
Monts later, another figure revealed himself—the Master of the Black Saber.
"That was close, Ruler," he said, panting.
Jeanne fixed him with a stern gaze.
"You are the Master of the Black Saber, aren’t you?"
"Exactly." The man wore a smug grin. "My na is Gordes Musik Yggdmilenia. And now..."
He raised his arm, pointing directly at Karna.
"Red Lancer! We have witnessed your attempt to murder the Ruler. To attack the Heroic Spirit presiding over the Holy Grail War is the gravest violation of all."
Karna remained serene, his gaze unchanged. "I cannot deny it. But since another Black Faction Servant has appeared, I have no choice but to eliminate all three."
"What?!" Gordes roared, incredulous. "You don’t stand a chance! Ruler and my Saber will finish you!"
"Wrong," Jeanne’s voice cut sharply through the air.
All eyes turned to her.
"If you intend to fight, do not expect my interference. Rest assured, I have no intention of involving myself."
"What?!" Gordes cried out, stunned.
"Lancer’s attack on is an isolated act," she explained. "The battle between him and the Black Saber is a separate matter. As Ruler, my duty is to ensure the rules are upheld, not to take sides."
Before Gordes could retort, a voice dripping with sarcasm echoed.
"If you think your foolish words could sway the Maiden of Orléans, you are more of a fool than I imagined."
Gordes spun around, startled. "The Maiden of Orléans...?"
There, seated casually on the ground with legs crossed, was a man with golden hair and crimson eyes.
"Who are you? And since when have you been here?!" Gordes shouted.
Arthur lifted his eyes lazily, his tone brimming with contempt. "It’s rude to demand soone’s na without introducing yourself first."
"You...!" Gordes clenched his fists in rage.
Arthur cut him off coldly. "Your opinion ans nothing to . I’ve been here since the beginning—you were simply too blind to notice."
"You bastard!" Gordes bellowed.
Arthur’s gaze sharpened, and his words fell like blades: "Silence, filthy mongrel."
A heavy silence fell.
"I am a Servant of the Black Faction," Arthur added, unhurriedly.
A flash of satisfaction crossed Gordes’ face. "Perfect! Then help Saber defeat the Red Lancer!"
Arthur let out a low, almost lazy chuckle. "I refuse."
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain , try to throw those pathetic power stones at . Let’s see if even your insolence can amuse a king."
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