I'm Not A Master, I'm A Director
Chapter 385: Jeanne d'Arc — The Shattered Saint
Originally, following Higashide's version of Fate/Apocrypha, Shakespeare was supposed to depict Jeanne's falling-out with Charles VII.
But to Shinji, that part went a bit too far in demonizing Charles VII.
Even if that was likely the "official history" of the Nasuverse's Proper Human History, Shinji personally disliked the scene. It felt far too heavy with author bias and personal agenda.
On top of that, there were runtime limits for the movie.
So Shinji decisively skipped that entire segment and fast-forwarded straight to Jeanne's execution by fire.
For Jeanne, the sight of herself being bound to a stake and roasted in the Orleans style didn't come as much of a surprise.
If anything, not seeing such a scene from Shakespeare would have felt stranger to her.
Still, knowing it would happen didn't mean Jeanne wanted to relive her own death.
"Sigh..."
Jeanne let out a quiet breath and tilted her head toward the sky.
"Caster, it's useless. Even if you recreate this scene, it will only repeat exactly what happened in life. Your Noble Phantasm can't inflict physical pain, can it?"
By now, this was already the third act of the play. Jeanne had more or less figured out her opponent's methods.
Shakespeare's Noble Phantasm was terrifying, but in the end, it was still nothing more than a play.
And since it was a play, it was merely a performance upon a stage, incapable of causing true physical suffering.
"You're absolutely right, Jeanne."
Shakespeare, hiding in the shadows, shrugged and nodded.
"With my Noble Phantasm, I can't even make a single drop of your blood fall."
"Then what exactly is the purpose of this performance?"
"I'll tell you when we reach the finale."
Like any true performer, Shakespeare indulged in his malicious sense of drama, saving the punchline for the very end.
Snap
He lightly flicked his fingers, and flames suddenly surged up around Jeanne's feet.
"..."
Jeanne sighed again, looking almost weary. Watching flames while standing in fire was nothing new to her anymore.
But what Shakespeare wanted Jeanne to see had never been the flames themselves—it was the people surrounding the execution.
"Watch carefully! Those who mock you, those who pity you, those who hate you… their curses are songs from distant lands, their sorrow a mother's lullaby! This is the ending you ultimately received!"
"Though," he added lightly, "I imagine you foresaw it long ago, didn't you?"
Faced with Shakespeare's question, Jeanne nodded.
"Yes. I was prepared for such an ending."
"No regrets?"
"Of course not. I offered myself as a sacrifice and succeeded in saving my homeland."
"Not even a trace of regret? Even though no girl in history has been sung of more tragically than you?"
"Viewing something from the outside and experiencing it yourself are completely different. I've never thought my life was a bad one."
Jeanne held firmly to her answer.
This was her honest truth.
Perhaps her life had been short, her glory fleeting, her ending tragic beyond words.
Even so, she could still declare with confidence that her life had not been one of sorrow alone.
"Yes. It was a fate I could not escape, but it's one I never intended to escape."
Shakespeare stepped out from the flames, wearing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Then what explanation do you have for those whose lives were dragged down by your arrogance?"
"No explanation is necessary. Though I find it heartbreaking, to justify myself would be to insult their choices and their fates."
Jeanne's answer was flawless, unassailably so.
And yet—
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
This time, Shakespeare's smile lacked any trace of falsehood. He was genuinely delighted.
"Then let us proceed… to the next scene."
"The next scene?"
Jeanne was utterly confused.
Jeanne d'Arc's life should have ended at this very moment. There shouldn't be a next scene.
What she didn't realize was that this was Shakespeare's true, soul-piercing killing blow.
"Because what follows may be rather difficult to endure, please brace yourself!"
Thunk
The scenery changed.
A dim, stone-built chamber appeared before her.
This was the true hell.
At the center of the room stood an extravagantly luxurious bed.
On the table beside it were neatly arranged countless severed heads of children.
Some had already begun to rot, their facial features blurred beyond recognition, yet the despair frozen on their faces at the moment of death was identical.
On the floor, piled up like discarded trash, were innumerable bodies that had once belonged to them.
Of course, in order to pass censorship, Shinji had heavily "blacked out" the entire set.
Rather than showing things outright, he relied on fragmented details and heavy implication to suggest exactly what kind of place this was.
—For Shinji, this wasn't difficult at all.
Back during the Fate/Zero era, when filming Gilles de Rais's magecraft workshop, he'd already staged a very similar environment.
How to present a scene like this without crossing the R-rating line was something Shinji handled with professional precision.
That said, passing censorship was one thing.
The audience's emotional response was another.
"——!!"
Li Ri'ang immediately burst out with a national-level curse.
Having been tempered by classic Showa-era Tsuburaya horror films, his tolerance was already quite high, but even so, the scene left him deeply uncomfortable.
Honestly, when you thought about Gilles de Rais's crimes against humanity, any normal person not feeling sick would be the strange one.
And it wasn't just Li Ri'ang.
Several Japanese viewers, including Shibamatsu, were also visibly unsettled.
"Damn, this again?" Shibamatsu frowned in disgust.
"I thought Shinji wasn't going to mess with cult-film elements in this movie. So this is where he was waiting for us?"
"Ugh, my least favorite part of FZ was anything involving that Caster," Fujita groaned.
"Why is this stuff here too?"
Hearing the complaints, Shibamatsu let out a cold chuckle.
"With Jeanne involved, wasn't it inevitable that this freak would show up?"
"Sure, it's disgusting, but seriously, why does Shinji enjoy this kind of thing so much?"
"Because it should be disgusting."
Kuonji Alice, the undisputed leader of Shinji's fan club, gently tapped the armrest.
"What Sir Matou detests most are magi who pursue magecraft to the point of becoming inhuman. In my opinion, these twisted habits deserve to be portrayed again and again, it keeps people alert."
Fujita leaned in and whispered cautiously, "So, boss… you'd like to see more scenes like this?"
Alice hesitated for a few seconds.
"…If possible, I'd prefer they not be this direct."
Compared to the Asian audience's discomfort, Western viewers were clearly more resilient.
They were furious at Gilles de Rais's atrocities, but not to the point of physical revulsion like Li Ri'ang and the others.
After all, when it came to extreme content, Shinji was still mild compared to the most brutal Western cult films.
Movies overflowing with slaughter, gore, and deranged serial killers—rituals involving live sacrifices, black-mass-style ceremonies—those were everywhere.
So even though Gilles de Rais's room was eerie and sinister, it still hadn't reached the limits of Western viewers' tolerance.
"Sigh… Shinji always makes his sets feel so real," Kayneth remarked.
"This is probably his bad taste showing."
"Gilles de Rais's 'workshop' has already become psychological trauma for plenty of people."
"I think scenes like this might end up being a signature of Shinji's films," Waver added dryly.
"I just hope nothing like this ever shows up at the Clock Tower."
Kayneth nodded slowly.
"I feel the same way."
◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
On the giant screen, Jeanne clenched her fists.
She had never seen this hell with her own eyes, but through Laeticia's knowledge, she understood exactly where they were.
"This place… is Château de Tiffauges, isn't it?"
"Correct," Shakespeare replied lightly.
"The stronghold of that Hell Baron, Gilles de Rais."
"..."
Gilles de Rais.
A Baron of France.
Jeanne's former comrade.
Once her devoted follower.
Unable to accept Jeanne's death, he fell into darkness and began to immerse himself in black magic.
A serial killer who tortured and brutally murdered hundreds of young boys.
Jeanne had known of these events before, but she had never truly confronted them.
Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Jeanne's mind had unconsciously sealed away this part of the truth, refusing to actively recall it.
And now, Shakespeare tore open her most fragile wound in the most direct, most brutal way possible, laying it bare before her eyes, dripping with blood.
"Gilles…"
Jeanne stared stiffly at the corpses scattered throughout the room.
What frightened her was not the bodies themselves.
Corpses were an everyday sight on the battlefield, she was no sheltered girl who would freeze at the mere sight of death.
What truly terrified her was what these bodies represented.
These children were different from soldiers who died in war.
They were innocent in the truest sense, dragged into this lightless room and killed because of their connection to her.
And more than that—
They were children of France.
The very people Jeanne had marched to war to protect.
Yet all of them were dead.
"Because of me…"
Knowledge stored in the mind and witnessing something firsthand were two entirely different things.
Standing at the site of the slaughter, Jeanne's heart wavered violently.
She could no longer maintain the unshakable faith and resolve she had upheld until now.
If all her struggle and sacrifice had been for the sake of her nation and her people, then why had these boys, who had done nothing wrong, been dragged into her fate?
Just as if to stab her already-fractured defenses one last time—
Creak. Creak.
The wooden door slowly opened.
A man stepped inside.
His cheeks were gaunt.
His eyes glittered with brilliant madness.
Despair and hatred clung to his entire being like a miasma.
The moment Jeanne recognized who it was, shock flooded her face.
Gone was the gallant Baron of the past.
Standing before her now was the monster known as Bluebeard—
Gilles de Rais.
"Oh my, if it isn't Jeanne," Gilles greeted her lightly, almost cheerfully.
"What brings you to such a delightful place?"
He cradled something carefully in both hands, as if cherishing it—a bundle wrapped in cloth, soaked and darkened with dried blood.
Jeanne didn't know what lay inside.
But instinct alone was enough to make her recoil.
Refusing to be dragged further along by Shakespeare's script, Jeanne shouted out:
"This is enough! End this scene right now! I know that because of my death, Gilles committed unforgivable sins, but I—"
"—Jeanne," Gilles de Rais interrupted her.
With a smile overflowing with madness, he spoke gently.
"It's been a long time. There's something I want you to see."
The cloth was slowly peeled back.
"Stop, Gilles…" Jeanne whispered hoarsely, her mouth falling open.
She didn't know exactly what was inside, but she knew, with terrifying certainty, that it was one of Gilles's "works."
"Please take a look, Jeanne!" he said proudly.
"This is one of my finest creations!"
Resting quietly beneath the unwrapped cloth were heads—
Not Sieg's, of course—but Astolfo's, Mordred's, and Sisigou's.
"How—!?"
Jeanne's pupils shrank violently.
She had never imagined that comrades she had parted with mere moments ago would reappear like this.
"This is an illusion," Jeanne bit her lip hard.
"Just another trick of yours, Caster. I won't fall for it."
"Is that so?"
Shakespeare's tone lifted slightly.
He was clearly delighted by the panic and helplessness filling Jeanne's heart.
"I said—no, wait…"
Jeanne tried to refute him with reason, but the moment she activated her senses as a Ruler—
She felt it.
Astolfo's presence was gone.
So was Mordred's.
"How could this be… Astolfo and Mordred… are dead?"
They had all understood the risks the moment they set foot in this castle.
They had been prepared for this outcome.
And yet, when reality struck, Jeanne still couldn't accept it.
This was supposed to be a stage play.
Their deaths should have been nothing more than theatrical acting.
So why—
"Facts don't lie," Shakespeare said gleefully.
"As a Ruler, you should be well aware of my Noble Phantasm's nature. If that's the case, then you should also know whether your perception is wrong… or not."
"..."
Jeanne couldn't answer.
She knew Shakespeare was telling the truth.
Which meant her own perception was also real—the magical signatures of Saber and Rider had vanished completely. They had been erased from the world.
And if their Servants were gone, then the Master who fought alongside them—Kairi Sisigou—had likely met the same fate.
Their mission to save the world had failed. Completely.
"Just like always, Jeanne."
An unbearably cold, unbearably lonely voice echoed beside her.
It was Gilles de Rais—whispering.
Jeanne raised her head in a daze, only to be struck by yet another shock.
"Gilles…?"
The madness was gone from his eyes.
He wore no grotesque, flamboyant robes—only steel armor, dignified and imposing.
That figure was unmistakably Gilles of old—Gilles de Rais as he once was.
And yet, the icy chill in his gaze filled Jeanne with an indescribable unease.
"You failed again, Jeanne," he said quietly.
"Despite being a saint, you saved nothing."
"T-That's not true," Jeanne trembled.
"I protected France—"
"—Did you really?"
Gilles asked calmly, spreading his arms as though embracing the hellish stage around them.
"Did you truly protect France?"
"..."
Jeanne had no answer.
It was true, through her efforts, France had endured its darkest days.
Even accounting for the innocent boys Gilles had murdered, Jeanne believed that far more people had lived because of her than would have without her.
But life was never a simple matter of addition and subtraction. Nor could it be measured by numbers alone.
To those boys who had died so horribly, she, the so-called Saint, had not protected them.
She had dragged them into an endless hell.
"And it's not just the innocent victims."
Gilles spoke gently and delivered words more cruel than any scream.
"Those who followed you never found happiness either. We who marched behind you. The soldiers who charged beneath your banner. The participants of this Holy Grail War who fought alongside you."
"They all trusted you without question. They believed you were a Saint who would bring them victory."
"And yet, you betrayed that trust."
"Our alliance collapsed because of you. Soldiers died on the battlefield because of you. And those three died here—meaninglessly—because of you."
Raising his voice, Gilles declared:
"Jeanne, you were never a Saint. That title was nothing more than vanity you used to satisfy yourself."
"The so-called Saint of Orléans was nothing but an uneducated country girl."
"No—that's not—I…"
The moment Jeanne tried to refute him, her throat seized up.
No words came out.
She often joked about being a simple village girl, but how could she truly not care about what she had accomplished?
Of course she knew this Gilles was not the friend she once knew.
He's not even the madman recorded in history.
This is just a mask worn by Caster, she told herself. There's no reason to panic.
"Huh…?"
Something tugged at her leg.
Jeanne slowly looked down and saw a boy drenched in blood, clutching her.
"Saint… please… save me…"
"You—!"
Instinctively, Jeanne tried to pull her leg free.
But more bodies began to move.
The corpses in the room stirred one after another, crawling toward her.
"Saint…"
"Why did you abandon us?"
"We just wanted to live…"
"What did we do wrong?"
...
"No! That's not true—I didn't!"
Thump
Thump
It felt as though her entire body had turned into a single pounding heartbeat.
Facing the boy directly shattered Jeanne's heart completely.
If one were to borrow a term from Evangelion, Jeanne was clearly being mentally contaminated by Shakespeare's Noble Phantasm.
At that moment, Astolfo's head—casually tossed aside by Gilles—spoke.
"Jeanne… you… could have… saved… us…"
"I'm sorry, I—"
Her apology earned no response.
Astolfo's lifeless eyes simply stared at her.
"Why… didn't you do it?"
"I tried… I really did… I'm—"
"Congratulations, Jeanne."
"Congratulations, Saint."
Gilles applauded.
Shakespeare applauded as well.
The two of them mocked her in unison, their voices dripping with ridicule.
"O Saint who bears the faith and hope of countless people, all you ever do is disappoint those who trust you."
"Fortunately, this should be your final failure. From here on out, you won't even be given the chance to fail again."
Jeanne showed no reaction to Shakespeare's taunts.
She merely accepted their applause in a daze and slowly collapsed to the ground.
Shakespeare's Noble Phantasm was never just about recreating scenes or dredging up dark chapters of the past.
Its true value lay in what came after the target's heart was broken.
Once the enemy's resolve shattered and their spirit wavered, they would be afflicted with the negative status [Lost Soul].
If it's translated into FGO mechanics, it would mean the Heroic Spirit would receive a permanent Stun debuff.
And worse still, this effect did not fade with time.
The only way to recover was for the victim to personally overcome their psychological trauma.
At this rate, Jeanne would probably stay shut down all the way until the Holy Grail War ended.
◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
"Master."
Outside the movie screen, watching her supposedly invincible self collapse, Jeanne didn't look very happy.
"…Am I really that fragile?"
"You know the script already, don't you?" Shinji replied casually.
"You get back up in the end. Don't keep such a stiff face. Come on, smile."
"Like hell I will."
Jeanne jabbed Shinji lightly with her elbow.
Then, as if something suddenly occurred to her, her face flushed red.
"By the way, Master… you did modify that British sourpuss's Noble Phantasm effect, didn't you?"
"If I actually fought him for real, it wouldn't be this bad, right?"
There was a reason Jeanne asked.
Being broken down by nothing more than a few illusions—
She really couldn't swallow that.
'You should be grateful. In the original story, you got driven completely insane by a fake head from your boyfriend.'
To be fair, Jeanne's love-brained characterization in the original Fate/Apocrypha was undeniably damaging to her image.
But in this particular scene, having a love-struck Jeanne be mentally broken actually felt more realistic.
After all, in Shakespeare's earlier plays, Jeanne remained cold and unmoved throughout.
Yet the moment it came to Sieg, she completely lost it.
Which was exactly why Gilles de Rais questioned her—If you're truly a Saint of boundless love, treating everyone equally, why were you indifferent to everyone else's death, but utterly shattered by just one Sieg?
Here I am, a Baron of France, sending you so many pure young boys to serve you in the afterlife, grinding away as your top donor for ages—
And this so-called Saint won't even grant me a chance for an offline meet-up?
<+>
Tn: I updated the story once every 2 days, but if you want to see more chapter of this story ahead of time, please go to my Patreon.
Latest Chapter: Chapter 429: Another Poor Kid Who Gets Sold and Still Says Thanks[1]
Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/155854306?collection=31097[2]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/posts/155854306?collection=31097
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/155854306?collection=31097