The staircase seemed to stretch endlessly before Jeanne. Each step echoed beneath her firm stride, reverberating like distant drums announcing an inevitable fate. The air grew heavier with every ascent, as though the very Fortress itself recognized the presence of the Maiden of Orléans and bowed silently before her unwavering resolve.
Although the Red Faction had kept the identity of the Servant she was about to face a secret, Arthur had already revealed his true name.
William Shakespeare.
In terms of fame, few modern Heroic Spirits could compare. Even Jeanne—venerated as a symbol of faith and courage—did not possess the same universal renown as the man whose name had echoed through centuries as humanity's greatest playwright.
But on the battlefield, fame was not the same as power.
Jeanne understood that all too well.
No matter how much she respected Shakespeare's unmatched gift as a writer, she knew that, in direct combat, the playwright was at a severe disadvantage.
He was not a warrior.
He was a storyteller.
And yet, the Red Faction truly believed he could stop her.
"Perhaps… because of his Noble Phantasm," Jeanne murmured, adjusting her breathing as she climbed another flight of stairs. Her gaze was steady, but within her mind, countless strategies formed and dissolved in seconds as she continued her ascent.
Writer-type Heroic Spirits were, by nature, unpredictable. Their Noble Phantasms rarely possessed destructive force; instead, they shaped reality according to the stories they told.
Shakespeare, in particular, was dangerous for that very reason.
If her suspicions were correct, William Shakespeare could breathe life into his creations. Heroes, monsters, entire tragedies—anything could be made real through his words.
And if that were the case, the number of potential foes he could summon was virtually limitless.
There was, however, an even more terrifying possibility: that his Noble Phantasm could directly tamper with the flow of events—bending time, distorting space, and twisting the very fabric of reality itself.
Those were the most dangerous of all—the kind Jeanne truly feared.
Summoning imaginary beings was certainly formidable, but it was still something tangible.
No matter how powerful an illusion might be, it could still be defeated.
Jeanne clenched her fist, the metallic echo of her gauntlet reverberating through the silent corridor.
If Shakespeare truly possessed a power like that, then this battle would be anything but simple.
Her brow furrowed in concentration.
And then, a tall door materialized before her.
Without hesitation, Jeanne pushed it open.
The hinges groaned like the tearing of a veil—then, light enveloped her completely.
---
"Where… am I?"
When she opened her eyes, Jeanne found herself standing in a vast, seemingly infinite expanse. The floor beneath her was made of white marble. At the center of that surreal world stood something colossal—the Greater Grail, resplendent and glowing, resting like the beating heart of that domain.
She could sense the presence of a Heroic Spirit nearby.
But it wasn't Shirou Amakusa—Jeanne knew that, as he wasn't a typical Servant, she couldn't perceive him in the same way as others. Still, she could feel his influence lingering nearby.
"Show yourself, Caster…" she called solemnly.
"Hahahaha!"
The laughter that answered her was melodic and theatrical, echoing across invisible walls like the delighted chuckle of an actor basking in his grand entrance.
Then, from between veils of light and shadow, William Shakespeare emerged.
"Caster… Shakespeare," Jeanne said, immediately recognizing him.
"Thou art correct, my noble maiden!" he proclaimed, arms spread wide as if greeting an audience at the close of a play. "Thine eyes do not deceive thee—for I am William Shakespeare! Poet, playwright, and chronicler of the human soul!"
With an exaggerated flourish, he bowed deeply, as though the marble floor were the stage of a grand theater and Jeanne his only audience.
"Surely thou art aware," he continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "of my unmatched prowess—not with the sword, but with words! For my art is the power to transform the ordinary… into the eternal!"
Jeanne regarded him silently. His flamboyant demeanor bordered on childish, yet the danger hidden behind that smile was undeniable.
She took a steady breath.
"You will not defeat me, Shakespeare," she declared calmly. "I suggest you surrender before you're forced to regret it."
He laughed—a bright, exuberant sound, like an actor thrilled by the perfect cue.
"Surrender? Oh, sweet saint, thou dost wound me!" he exclaimed, pulling a large, ornate book from within his cloak. "For now, the curtain rises, and the true performance begins!"
His voice rolled like thunder across an empty theater.
"Then let the show commence! Extinguish thy cigars and take thy seats! Photography is forbidden! The world itself is a stage, the curtain has risen! Loud applause, if you please!"
"First Folio!"
"—What!?"
Jeanne barely had time to react.
A familiar scent filled her senses—the fragrance of fresh green grass, carried by a gentle countryside breeze.
Her eyes widened as realization dawned.
"This… this is my homeland…" she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest.
The cold iron gloves she had worn were gone.
In their place were calloused, scarred hands—the hands of a farm girl who had spent her youth working the fields with her family.
Her armor and sacred banner had vanished as well.
Now, she wore a simple linen dress, like the ones from her childhood.
Jeanne closed her eyes, feeling the warm wind caress her face.
For a fleeting moment, she almost believed the illusion.
But then, the weight of reality returned—like a distant church bell calling her back to reason.
"I see…" she murmured, gazing up at the beautiful twilight sky above. "So this is your Noble Phantasm, Caster…"
She clenched her fists, resolve burning in her eyes.
"You can try to trap me within my own memories… but that won't change the outcome."
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."