This Is My Holy Grail War [152]

Within the silent obsidian hall, Jeanne had dismissed all the homunculi. She had no need for their service, nor could they aid her in battle. Since that was the case, she could not bear to see them die in vain—even if they had no souls.

Her crimson lips parted slightly as she prayed in the sacred sanctuary, her soft voice intertwining with the warm glow of the light filtering through the stone chamber. On the stained-glass window, the suffering Christ gazed solemnly upon the events unfolding below.

The Lord was watching. Jeanne's revelation made her keenly aware of that truth.

"O Holy One, please forgive their sins." This land had suffered too much misfortune—she wished for salvation, even for those who sought to destroy it.

A distant hymn seemed to echo in her ears, pulling her back into the solemn past.

Then, the sound of stone doors creaking open shattered the tranquility. The rhythmic clatter of armored boots striking the floor echoed crisply through the chamber.

Jeanne’s focus snapped back to reality. She saw the Black Faction’s rebellious swordswoman stepping forward.

To this day, Jeanne still did not know Saber’s true name. Her unique ability as Ruler was ineffective against her.

And in their confrontation earlier, Jeanne—never particularly skilled in debate—had been completely outmatched.

The Black Faction’s Saber had concealed her name, using a Noble Phantasm to obscure her identity. Jeanne had her suspicions, but there were too many possibilities.

“You're too cunning. I can’t argue against you.” With that resigned admission, Jeanne resolved to put words aside—she would fight.

Saber was gravely wounded, yet she refused to listen, refusing to heed any warnings. Even as she bled, she climbed the steps toward the altar.

The Holy Grail War had only just begun, and the Grail had yet to activate. Even so, Jeanne would not stand aside. The Greater Grail could never fall into Amakusa’s hands. Humanity could not forsake its emotions.

There was no choice but to fight.

It was almost effortless—waiting in position, Jeanne struck down the wounded Saber. But the balance of power shifted in an instant.

Suddenly, a surge of immense magical energy erupted from within Saber’s body. The power of a Command Spell flooded her, restoring her strength in an instant.

The blood-soaked swordswoman glared at her with burning eyes.

The next moment, the glinting silver blade cleaved through the still air of the grand hall. The howling wind was like the whisper of death itself.

The shining sword was a cold, merciless scythe. In that sudden burst of blinding light, it was as if the gates of hell had been thrown open.

Jeanne had never anticipated that Saber could be this terrifying.

A raging storm ripped apart the air. The shrill whistle of wind filled her ears, the very atmosphere wailing in agony.

Clang—!

Flag and sword collided with a deafening roar. Silver light streaked through the air as Jeanne swung her flag in rapid defense, parrying blow after blow. But each strike grew fiercer than the last.

Amidst the blinding flurry of sword and steel, Jeanne felt as if Saber could see right through her every move.

She knew nothing of swordsmanship, yet this was the most suffocating battle she had ever experienced.

Whether advancing or retreating, she felt as though an invisible hand had closed around her throat—there was no opening to counterattack.

The surging magical energy distorted the air, carving trenches into the ground and leaving deep cracks in the stone walls. The relentless strikes of Saber’s silver blade blurred into an illusionary mirage.

Forced to retreat, Jeanne bought herself precious seconds with space. But now, she had nowhere left to run.

Cornered.

At last, she understood—Saber’s strength was overwhelming. She could not win.

She had no choice. Jeanne invoked her authority.

"By the name of my Command Spell—stand down, Saber."

A faint light flickered over the hidden Command Spell on her back.

Saber froze in place.

Her body trembled. Her foot moved forward—only to falter and step back instead. Jeanne saw the way Saber clenched her teeth in fury, frustration and defiance radiating from her very being.

"By the name of my Command Spell—advance, Saber!"

Before Saber’s retreating foot could touch the ground, it shifted forward once more.

"By the name of my Command Spe—"

"By the name of my Command Spell—"

Their voices overlapped.

Jeanne had two Command Spells for each Servant. But with every spell she used, another was used to counteract it.

Following the sound of the second voice, Jeanne turned her gaze toward the entrance.

Amakusa Shirou Tokisada strode calmly into the obsidian-built church, raising his hand. The faint marks of three Command Spells were still visible on his skin.

Ruler—Amakusa Shirou Tokisada.

Their Command Spells had canceled each other out. He could no longer assist Saber, but Amakusa himself was not to be ignored.

This man, who controlled the majority of the Red Faction’s forces, was no ordinary Master—he was a Servant in a human body. His combat ability rivaled that of any knight.

Jeanne had already struggled to hold her own against Saber alone. Against both of them, she stood no chance.

The uninjured Black Saber stood poised, sword gleaming with lethal intent. Jeanne suddenly realized—she was at a disadvantage.

The power of the Command Spell still surged within Saber’s body.

Jeanne had only a fleeting moment before the swordswoman fully recovered.

She turned her spear toward Amakusa.

Now in danger, Jeanne took the initiative to break the stalemate. Though her Command Spells had been neutralized, the chaotic magical energy inside Saber granted her an instant’s opening.

She lunged forward.

But before she could strike—

A red-haired Servant stepped between them.

Red Caster—William Shakespeare.

He spoke no words of warning. He did not raise his voice.

He merely opened his brown leather-bound book.

Pages fluttered under his fingertips. A knowing smile played on his lips as he spoke:

"The stage is set! Let the thunderous applause begin!"

A Noble Phantasm.

The very ground seemed to shift.

The grand sanctuary was gone.

The world had changed.

Now, she stood on a burning plain.

Terrifying flames engulfed everything in sight.

Screams of anguish filled the air.

Jeanne remained frozen, overwhelmed by the cries of suffering.

Elderly, wounded soldiers, women, and children—helpless, unarmed civilians huddled together, their backs to a wall of raging fire.

The flames devoured the land, leaving nothing but smoldering ash and thick, suffocating smoke.

The searing heat and the roaring fire scorched Jeanne’s heart.

Above, the cold moonlight shone down like a cruel, indifferent gaze.

A ruined wasteland.

Endless cries of despair. Towering flames reaching the heavens.

War.

A terrifying war.

The flames of the Hundred Years’ War had been reignited.

This was her home.

This was the home she had once loved.

And now, it had become a sea of fire.

This small village in France was steeped in sorrow.

The sound of crying pierced Jeanne’s heart like a dagger. She turned toward the source of the voice and saw a young boy wailing beside the bodies of his parents.

He was barely ten years old.

His father and mother were gone. He kept shaking his mother’s body, but no matter how desperately he called, she did not respond. His sobs grew louder, tears streaming down his small face, falling like broken pearls.

He turned to his father, crying out in agony, “Papa, wake up! Please, wake up!”

A father was the pillar of a family, the one who shielded his child under a sky of endless blue. But now, he lay there—cold, unmoving.

Fear, confusion, and grief twisted together into a chaotic storm of emotion.

"Saintess, his family perished in the flames of war. Lord Amakusa seeks to use the Holy Grail to save all who suffer as he does. Why do you stand in his way?"

The voice snapped Jeanne out of her daze.

She turned abruptly—and found herself facing Gilles de Rais.

He was clad in heavy full-body armor, the kind worn only on the battlefield. The metal was covered in scratches, and a frail, battle-worn horse stood beside him. Behind him, the injured huddled together, the scent of blood and the heat of the raging fires assaulting Jeanne’s senses.

“Please, Saintess!” The boy, as if grasping at his last thread of hope, cried out with all his might. “Save my father! Save my mother!”

"I beg you!"

His small hands were stained with soot, his skin marred with burns from the fire.

Jeanne saw the desperation in his tear-streaked face. She knelt down, gently placing a hand on his head. “If they are revived, you will forget your love for them.”

The boy bit his lip. He did not understand her words. All he knew was that his parents were gone—and the person before him had the power to bring them back.

“I don’t care!” he sobbed. “Please, save my mama! Save my papa!”

His grief knew no end.

"Saintess," Gilles interjected, "Would you truly rather witness this suffering?"

Jeanne did not answer.

She looked around—only to find the gazes of the surrounding villagers fixed upon her. Their expressions were filled with anger.

“The love a child has for their parents is the most precious thing in this world,” Jeanne said softly. “It must never be erased.”

She met the boy’s eyes, her tone gentle yet firm.

“Think of it another way,” she continued. “If you lost all emotion, then when your parents died—you would simply watch with indifference.”

The pure, untainted love of a child was something that could not be faked. It was this very love, this bond between parents and child, that Jeanne sought to protect.

Whether it was affection, devotion, compassion, or even selfless love—all of it was the essence of human emotion.

“That’s why you love your parents,” she explained. “That’s why you must hold on to that love.”

She knew she could not convince them all.

“And that is why I reject Amakusa’s wish. I cannot bear to see you lose the love you have for them.”

The crowd’s anger boiled over.

They lashed out at Jeanne with fury—just as they had during her trial, when they condemned her as a witch.

They hated her.

And yet, they did not realize that their very ability to hate was something she was fighting to protect.

If Amakusa’s Third Magic was realized, all of them would lose these emotions forever.

The boy clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth pierced his lip, drawing blood.

In an instant, his sorrow twisted into rage.

And before Jeanne could react—

He pulled out a dagger.

A glimmering blade, sharp and cold.

Driven by the pain of rejection, he gathered all his strength and lunged at her.

The dagger plunged into Jeanne’s body.

Blood spilled forth.

But Jeanne did not flinch.

She did not even blink.

Instead, she endured the pain with a gentle smile.

“It is precisely because I wish to protect your love for your parents,” she murmured, “that I cannot allow it to be erased.”

She softly wiped away the boy’s tears.

And just like that—

The illusion faded into nothingness.

Only Gilles de Rais remained, lingering as if he were still part of this world.

He gazed at her with tear-filled eyes, his expression twisted in anguish.

“Is this love,” he asked, his voice trembling, “truly worth protecting?”

“Of course.”

Jeanne smiled radiantly.

“Just like the love you hold for your hunting hounds.”

She looked him in the eyes.

“If their souls were altered by the Third Magic, they would still recognize their master’s scent… but you would never again feel the warmth of caring for them.”

The world shifted once more.

The burning battlefield vanished.

Jeanne was back in the grand stone sanctuary.

And at that moment—she finally understood something.

She turned to Saber and spoke with newfound clarity.

“You were right.”

The image of the innocent child still lingered in her mind.

“I entered this Holy Grail War with personal intent.”

She had a wish, after all.

“I want to protect the most sincere, untainted smiles of humanity,” she said. “That love must never be lost.”

She took a deep breath, then declared:

“Even if it costs me my life—I will never let you take the Holy Grail!”

Her voice rang out, resolute and unwavering.

But in her heart, she knew she was no match for Saber.

And now, there was also Caster and Amakusa.

Three Servants.

As a Ruler without Command Spells, she had no chance of victory.

She had to act decisively—before the Holy Grail fell into their hands.

She turned to Gilles and, with complete composure, handed him her flag.

“Take this.”

“Wait—” His eyes widened. “You’re not planning to—”

“That’s right.”

She nodded firmly.

Then, she drew her sword.

But instead of gripping the hilt—

She grasped the blade.

The Black Faction’s Saber lunged forward, her blade aimed directly at Jeanne.

At that moment, the Marshal gripping the holy flag stepped forth. As the knight who swore to protect the saint, he stood against her attacker without hesitation or regret.

"Swordswoman of the Black Faction! I am Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, of Burgundy! I stand before you in battle—!"

The holy banner rose, forming an impenetrable barrier.

Tears welled in Gilles’ eyes—because Jeanne had spoken the name of her Noble Phantasm.

A voice sharper than any sword pierced straight into his heart.

"[O Lord, I entrust my body to You]!"

Her hands grasped the blade, and crimson flames ignited.

Holy fire engulfed Jeanne’s body.

---

T/N: WOOOOOOOOOOOOAHT

This is a fan translation of 这是我的圣杯之战 by 向希望祈祷. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!