The walk to the castle plaza was a gauntlet of ash and silent tension. When we finally breached the city center, the "Dragon Witch" didn't disappoint with the theatrics.
She sat on a throne of jagged obsidian, legs crossed, chin resting on a gauntleted fist. Flanking her were the nightmares of France—Servants twisted by the Grail, their eyes glowing with the dull, red light of Madness Enhancement.
Vlad III stood like a jagged shadow, his spear dripping phantom blood. Carmilla ran a long fingernail over her lips, looking bored and sadistic. Chevalier d'Eon stood rigid, a beautiful doll broken into a killing machine.
And Saint Martha.
The Rider stepped forward, dragging her staff across the cobblestones with a screech of metal. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, her saintly demeanor replaced by the raw, violent aggression of a Berserk Rider.
She slammed her staff down, cracking the pavement. "You look soft. Squishy. I bet you pop like ripe fruit if I hit you hard enough. Why don't you save us the trouble and just die in the gutter?"
'God, she's annoying.'
I felt a vein twitch in my forehead. The fatigue, the wyverns, the yandere incident, the constant screaming—it all bubbled up. I looked at Jalter on her throne, looking down her nose at us like we were insects, basking in her manufactured tragedy.
'Screw it,' I thought,' the annoyed otaku will be taking the wheel for this fight'. If we're doing anime tropes, I'm taking the lead.
I stepped forward, past Ritsuka, past Mash. I didn't draw a weapon. I adjusted my glasses with my middle finger, pushing them up the bridge of my nose until they caught the light of the burning city, turning opaque.
I let my posture shift. I slumped my shoulders, put one hand in my pocket, and let out a long, theatrical sigh.
"Yare yare..." I muttered, pitching my voice low. "I expected a tragedy. Instead, I find a farce."
Martha bristled, growling low in her throat. "What did you say, four-eyes?"
"I wasn't talking to you, backup dancer," I said dismissively, waving a hand at her without looking. "I'm talking to the fake on the throne."
The silence in the plaza was endless. Jalter slowly sat up. Her golden eyes burned with a mixture of confusion and insult. "Fake?"
"Oh, you didn't know?" I chuckled—a dark, rasping sound I'd practiced in the mirror during my darker years. I walked closer, ignoring the killing intent radiating from five Servants.
"Look at you," I sneered, gesturing at her black armor, her pale skin, the fire. "So edgy. So full of hate. 'I am the vengeance of France! I am the darkness in the saint's heart!'"
I stopped, tilting my head, looking at her with absolute pity.
"How boring."
Jalter stood up, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword, knuckles white. "You dare—"
"You're not Jeanne d'Arc," I interrupted, my voice cutting through the smoky air like a scalpel.
"You're not even a corrupted version of her. You're a faker."
Ritsuka choked on air behind me. Emiya covered his mouth to hide a cough.
I took another step, pointing a finger directly at her face.
"Jeanne d'Arc died with a prayer on her lips. She didn't hate. She didn't curse. She accepted her end with grace you couldn't possibly simulate."
I leaned forward, dropping the act just enough to let the raw, brutal truth bleed through.
"You? You're just a wish. A dirty, selfish wish made by a man who couldn't handle grief."
Jalter froze. Her eyes widened, the flames around her flickering uncertainly.
"Gilles de Rais," I continued, twisting the knife. "That bug-eyed Caster. He didn't want the real Jeanne. He couldn't accept a saint who forgave her killers. He wanted a monster who would justify his own madness. He wanted a revenge fantasy to make himself feel better."
I spread my arms, channeling every ounce of Chuuni energy I had left, speaking to the heavens.
"You aren't a Dragon Witch. You aren't an Avenger. You're a walking, talking coping mechanism for a scumbag who cried into a cup because he wanted his 'dear saint' back, but darker."
I adjusted my glasses again, the light glinting off the lenses.
"You're nothing but a bad dream, Jalter. A delusion that hasn't realized it's time to wake up."
The temperature in the square dropped to absolute zero.
Jalter stood there, trembling. Her face wasn't smug anymore. It wasn't arrogant.
It was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated, homicidal humiliation.
"Kill him," she whispered.
Then she screamed it, her voice cracking, the fire around her exploding into a blackened inferno that scorched the very clouds.
"KILL HIM! TEAR HIM APART! I WANT HIM DEAD NOW!"
I didn't flinch. I didn't step back. I simply adjusted my stance, planting my feet firmly on the cracked cobblestones of Orleans. The
I took a deep breath, inhaling the ash and the mana, and let it out in a shout that tore the throat of the world.
"ZA WARUDO!"
BVVVVV-TICK!
The sound was a dubstep bass drop inside a cathedral. The color drained from the universe. The roaring black flames turned into jagged, grey sculptures of stillness. The screaming wind died. The wyverns in the sky hung suspended like marionettes with their strings cut.
Time had stopped.
"Eight seconds," I stated, my voice echoing in the dead silence.
I stepped forward. The golden light behind me ripped open, and she emerged. The World. My golden queen.
I pointed at the first target. Carmilla. The Blood Countess.
"One second has passed."
The World glided forward. She didn't punch; she thrust her open hand forward like a spear.
SH-CHUNK.
It was effortless. The World's armored hand punched clean through Carmilla's chest, right through the Spirit Core. The vampire didn't react—she was frozen in a sneer—but the hole was there, a perfect, golden donut of nothingness where her heart used to be.
"Two seconds."
Next target. Martha. The Dragon Rider.
The World spun, delivering a haymaker with enough force to shatter a tank. She aimed for Martha's midsection, intending to replicate the fatal blow.
CLANG.
The impact vibrated up my own arm. The World's fist stopped dead against Martha's abs. The Berserk Rider was dense— The World couldn't pierce her.
The World's teal eyes widened in silent offense beneath the brim of her hat. She pulled back and unleashed a flurry of twelve rapid-fire punches instead, turning Martha's frozen body into a pinball.
"Four seconds."
I turned my gaze to the throne. To Jalter.
We closed the distance in a heartbeat. She was stuck in a pose of pure rage, her mouth open in a scream that would never be heard.
I moved behind her. I turned my back to her.
I reached up to my neck. I adjusted my collar. I dug my fingers into my own shoulder muscles, hunching slightly, letting the shadows cling to my back.
It was the pose. The pose. Shadow Dio. Mysterious. Menacing. The ultimate flex.
I froze in position, waiting for the camera angle of the universe to appreciate the aesthetic.
"Five seconds..."
I waited for The World to fade menacingly into the background, completing the image.
But... she didn't fade.
Instead, I felt two heavy, armored arms wrap around my waist from behind. A solid, soft weight pressed against my back.
I stiffened. I looked down. Two golden hands were clasping my stomach. I looked over my shoulder.
The World wasn't posing menacingly. She was snuggling.
She had buried her face into the crook of my neck, the hard edge of her helmet-cap bumping against my ear. She was nuzzling me, her cheek rubbing against my skin.
The vibration of a happy, silent hum resonated through her chest and into my spine. She was treating the frozen time like a private date.
"Six seconds!"I hissed, my cool facade cracking. "What are you doing?! The aesthetic! We're doing the Shadow Dio! You're ruining the menacing aura!"
The World looked up. She didn't let go.
Instead, she blinked her teal eyes slowly, tilted her head so her blonde braids spilled over my shoulder, and squeezed my waist tighter, one hand drifting dangerously lower toward my belt.
"Stop that!"
I mentally shoved her. "Desummon! Go away! You're embarrassing me in front of the frozen French people!"
She gave a silent, physical pout—a heave of her shoulders that made her armor clink—and dissolved into golden motes.
I stood there, alone, back turned, face burning.
"Zero."
"Time resumes."
TOK.
The color rushed back.
SPLAT.
Carmilla didn't even scream. Blood exploded from her chest as reality caught up to the fact that she was missing a heart. She collapsed instantly, dissolving into gold dust.
CRACK-BOOM.
Martha was launched backward like she'd been hit by a train, crashing through a stone wall and disappearing under a pile of rubble.
Jalter blinked. She looked at her fallen Servants. She looked at the devastation.
Then she looked at me.
I was standing exactly where she had been looking, but my back was turned. The lighting in the square seemed to dim around me, casting my face in heavy shadow. I stood motionless, radiating an aura of terrifying nonchalance.
"It seems..." I intoned, pitching my voice to that perfect, deep register, "...an enemy Stand user is nearby."
Jalter blinked, blood dripping from her lip where the air pressure had shifted."What...?"
She tried to stand, rage flooding back into her eyes. "You... you insect! What did you do?!" She raised her hand, black fire gathering. "I'll kill you! I'll—"
"ZA WARUDO!"
BVVVVV-TICK!
The grey world descended again. The fire died. Jalter froze, mid-scream.
"Two seconds," I muttered, dropping the pose instantly.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Alright. Let's try this again. Properly."
I raised my hand. "The World!"
She materialized instantly. But she didn't look menacing.
She was floating in the air on her knees. Her hands were clasped together in front of her chest. Her head was bowed, the golden hat nearly sliding off her blonde hair.
She looked up at me. Her teal eyes were swimming with tears. Her lower lip was trembling. She looked exactly like a certain useless water goddess begging for debt forgiveness, perfectly rendered in high-definition Stand armor.
She reached out grabby hands, making silent, pathetic wailing motions. Hug me.
Love me. Why are you mean?
I stared at the manifestation of my soul. I stared at the ultimate power of time. It was crying because I didn't let it cuddle me during a boss fight.
"Listen to me," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "If you focus—if you stop crying and actually hit her, really, really fast—I will praise you. I will call you a good girl. I will headpat you for an hour. I'll even let you hold my hand while we walk through the castle-"
The crying stopped instantly.
The tears evaporated.
The World stood up. She adjusted her golden hat.
The change was visceral. It was like the animation budget just quadrupled. The air around her darkened with menacing kanji. Her outlines became thicker, sharper—heavy, dramatic shading appeared on her armor, cross-hatching the curves of her muscles. The soft, curvy lines of the airhead vanished, replaced by the jagged, hyper-masculine geometry of JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 3 art style.
She cracked her knuckles. The sound was like a gunshot.
She looked at Jalter. Her eyes weren't weepy anymore. They were cold. They were killers. She flashed me a silent, terrifying grin that promised violence in exchange for headpats.
She opened her mouth in a silent roar.
"MUDA!"
She launched herself forward.
It wasn't a rush. It was a massacre.
In the remaining three seconds of stopped time, The World moved so fast she became a solid wall of gold.
"MUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDAMUDA!"
Fists rained down like hail.
Threehundredhits.
Three hundred impacts delivered with the force of a hydraulic press, targeted at every non-lethal pressure point on Jalter's body. Armor dented. Bone bruised. The air around Jalter became superheated from the friction of the punches.
I watched, adjusting my glasses. Where is this competence when we're walking in the woods? Why is she only this cool when I bribe her with affection?
"Time..."
The World finished her combo with a spinning uppercut that nearly broke the sound barrier, then struck a pose—finger pointing to the sky, hip cocked—before vanishing into my soul with a smug, expectant hum.
"...Resumes."
Jalter didn't fly this time. She was simply drilled into the earth. A crater the size of a car exploded into the cobblestones beneath her. Dust and debris shot fifty feet into the air.
The remaining enemy Servants—Vlad and D'Eon—froze, staring at the cloud of dust.
When it settled, Jalter was lying in the center of the crater. Her armor was shattered in a dozen places. Her face was a mask of bruises. She was twitching, trying to push herself up, groaning in agony.
She cracked one eye open.
She looked for me.
I was standing at the edge of the crater. My back was turned. I was looking over my shoulder, the shadows clinging to my face, my finger pointing at the empty air where she used to be.
The pose. The perfect, unbroken Shadow Dio pose.
"Im... possible..." Jalter wheezed. "How...?"
She slammed her fist into the dirt, forcing herself up through sheer, hateful willpower.
"YOU!" she screamed, blood spraying from her mouth. "YOU MOCK ME! YOU DARE MOCK THE DRAGON WITCH?!"
She spun around, black mana exploding from her core, healing her wounds through sheer Avenger resentment. She looked for me, ready to unleash hell.
But I wasn't there.
"ZaWarudo." I had stopped time again.
And I had walked away.
I strolled casually into the shadows of the alleyway three streets over, hands in my pockets, leaving her screaming at a ghost.
Jalter blinked. The spot was empty.
"WHERE?!" she shrieked, spinning in circles, her voice breaking. "WHERE IS HE?!"
Her eyes, wild and bloodshot, landed on the group at the gate. On Ritsuka. On Mash. On the real Jeanne d'Arc.
"YOU!" Jalter roared, redirecting the ocean of her fury. "YOU HID HIM! YOU SENT HIM! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU!"
She charged them, abandoning strategy, abandoning sanity, a berserker made of fire and hate.
From the shadows of a crumbling archway, two hundred meters away, I watched.
I adjusted my glasses. My breathing was heavy.
The mana drain from three rapid time-stops and a high-speed combo was significant. I felt hollowed out, like a battery scraped clean.
"Good," I whispered. "Focus on them. They can take it."
I turned away from the square.
The sounds of battle erupted behind me—Siegfried engaging Fafnir, Mash blocking Jalter's strikes, Emiya raining arrows. They had the main fight handled. The script was back on track.
But my script had one more scene.
I walked deeper into the castle.
The air here was different. Outside, it smelled of smoke and ozone. Inside, in the dark stone corridors of the fortress, it smelled of something older. Something wet and coppery.
Rot. And old blood.
The castle wasn't just a fortress; it was a factory. A factory of misery.
I walked past cells. Some were empty. Some held the remains of French soldiers.
But as I went deeper, towards the throne room, towards the true source of the Singularity's corruption, the cells got smaller.
I stopped in front of one.
The bars were rusted. Inside, there was a small, tattered doll lying in the straw. A child's toy. Crude, handmade, stained with something dark.
I stared at it.
The Stand energy faded. The theatricality of the "Shadow Dio" persona evaporated. The humor of the "Aqua face" died in my throat.
The hollow feeling in my chest, the one I had been filling with jokes and poses and affection for Jack and my friends, suddenly expanded. It became a cavern.
Gilles de Rais.
I knew what he did. In the game, he was a cartoon villain. "COOOOL!" and bug-eyes. A meme.
But this wasn't a game. This was 1431. Or a twisted version of it.
And Gilles de Rais was a man who murdered children. Hundreds of them. He defiled them. He tortured them. He used their suffering as ink for his grimoires. He broke them until they stopped screaming, and then he broke them some more.
I thought of the Red Diary. I thought of the room in Daegu. I thought of the feeling of helpless paralysis, of being a toy for someone else's twisted needs. I thought of the silence that comes after the screaming stops, when you realize no one is coming.
I touched the cold iron of the cell door.
My hand wasn't shaking. It was perfectly, terrifyingly steady.
The comedy was gone. The JoJo references, the Smiling Friends bits, the yandere antics—they evaporated like mist in a furnace.
I looked at the doll. It was alone. Just like I had been.
"I see," I whispered. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Flat. Dead. "So that's what you are."
I started walking again. My footsteps were silent on the stone.
I didn't summon a Stand. I didn't check my mana.
I just clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white.
I wanted to find him. I wanted to find the Caster.
I didn't want to use magic. I didn't want to use a Golden Nail. I didn't want to stop time.
I wanted to use my hands.
I wanted to feel his throat crush under my fingers. I wanted to feel the life leave his eyes. I wanted to make him feel, for just one second, the absolute, crushing weight of the fear he had inflicted on those small, helpless things.
"Gilles...im going-"
The world flared once more...but it once aloof appearance had shifted into something less itself... her kind demeanor and eyes had changed from her usual teal to a burning desire to crush...it was a burning crimson.
"-To kill you"