"Is this... England?"
Jeanne d'Arc had also been drawn into the nightmare of the young girls. Now, she was walking down a street filled with the stench of decaying organic matter.
This was the city where Jack the Ripper was born. The chilling fog that nearly froze one's bones, the gloomy and oppressive night—the Revelation had provided the answer not long ago.
Unconsciously, Jeanne had lost her armor and no longer carried the holy flag she always kept by her side. Yet, she felt no unease because of this and continued forward with unwavering confidence.
She had already grasped the nature of these illusions. As for how to escape—no, how to defeat the enemy—she had a plan.
The moment she entered the illusion, her sealed memories had awakened. Jeanne had confirmed that Jack the Ripper was the enemy who had repeatedly harassed them, and thus, she must be vanquished.
"Only by defeating her can we move forward."
The look in Jeanne's eyes after making this resolution radiated an intense willpower. It was as sharp as a blade and as unyielding as steel.
Like magnets drawn to each other, another girl with the same will, spirit, and demeanor crossed paths with Jeanne once more—
"You are... King Arthur!"
Upon spotting another target to defeat, Jeanne immediately assumed a guarded stance, watching as Artoria—who had been surveying her surroundings with disappointment—turned her attention toward her at the sound of her voice, her ahoge perking up in recognition.
"So it's you, Ruler. Do you intend to fight me when neither of us is armed?"
Hearing this, Jeanne realized that Artoria, too, had shed her armor and was now dressed in a fitted suit. Her breathtakingly androgynous beauty made it difficult to discern her gender at a glance.
Compared to Jeanne, who wore rough peasant clothes and looked every bit the country girl, Artoria in casual attire outshone her in both poise and elegance by miles.
Damn it, why do I feel like I've lost already? She's so regal...
Lost in her momentary dejection, Jeanne failed to notice Artoria's gaze. The King of Knights, now dressed in her attire from the Third Holy Grail War, stared fixedly at the mountainous terrain of Jeanne's chest before glancing down at her own flat plains, her eyes briefly reflecting existential despair.
Damn it, why won't mine grow at all? I remember the Maiden of Orléans is only nineteen...
Were it not for her liberated form freeing her from the curse of flatness, Artoria would have already been crushed into crouching in a corner, drawing circles in defeat.
In the awkward atmosphere where both felt they had "lost" to the other, Jeanne and Artoria silently envied each other for a while before finally resuming their conversation, their tones now lacking their earlier hostility.
"I bear no ill will, Jeanne. At least for now, we should cooperate."
"But you should at least tell me why Sakatsuki is with you. What exactly happened?"
"This is an environment formed from Jack the Ripper's resentment," Artoria replied, ignoring the question about Sakatsuki. "We need to purify the vengeful spirits of the children, and then..."
"Save/eliminate her."
The two golden-haired maidens voiced differing decisions, then exchanged glances and chuckled softly at the inexplicable harmony between them.
"Very well, we shall settle our dispute after encountering the real Jack the Ripper."
"Indeed. Until then, we must at least cleanse these vengeful spirits. You shall perform the purification, Maiden of Orleans. You may entrust your back to me."
"Yes, I trust you."
With these brief words, their alliance was formed. Jeanne d'Arc and Artoria halted their steps as countless children began emerging from alleys, streets, and doorways, their despairing eyes fixed upon the pair.
—Yet the Saint and the King of Knights met their gaze without fear, their eyes filled with a murderous intent no true hero would ever direct toward victims.
The children recoiled in surprise. Though their features differed, they shared an eerie uniformity—all filthy, their eyes radiating darkness.
"What's wrong? You who've taken the name Jack the Ripper, you who belong to no one—do you intend to flee now?"
"...Why...aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid? Why should we view you as terrifying? You're merely pitiful sacrifices," Artoria replied softly.
This was undeniably hell on earth. Each child embodied this truth. Any person, no matter how cold-hearted, thrust into this inferno would surely feel confusion, terror, and trembling. This was the inner world that formed Jack the Ripper's origin—a dark diorama where humanity's vilest aspects coalesced.
"Saint..."
"King of Knights..."
"Please save us poor, pitiful children. Save us, help us, reach out to us. We beg you, we beg you, we beg—"
The children swarming toward the King of Knights and the Maiden of Orleans pleaded with desperate expressions.
A saint would surely offer salvation. A holy king would surely grant deliverance. No—even an ordinary person with a conscience would feel compelled to act.
Yet the two figures at the center remained unmoved. Neither Artoria nor Jeanne showed the slightest hesitation, sympathy, or pity.
The Saint solemnly declared:
"That I cannot do. I can save lost children. Through prayer, I can purify souls clinging to this world. But Jack the Ripper is precisely whom I cannot save."
The King of Knights continued:
"You've all been absorbed into 'Her' legend. The murderer Jack the Ripper is now everyone and no one. Can you even remember your victims clearly? You knew neither their names nor faces—you killed only in your search for a mother."
Jack the Ripper killed at least five prostitutes.
Jack the Ripper removed their organs.
Jack the Ripper sent letters to newspapers.
Jack the Ripper was a doctor.
Jack the Ripper was royalty.
Jack the Ripper was an ordinary person you might pass on the street.
All of this was a lie, yet simultaneously the entire truth. With all the rumors and speculations now intertwined, grasping his or her true nature had become an unimaginably unreasonable challenge.
The Holy Grail must have attempted to summon every possible manifestation of "Jack the Ripper" in existence.
"That's right. You've already been assimilated by 'Jack the Ripper.' Therefore, the only option left is to defeat you—I cannot save you."
The Saint made this declaration, and the Holy King nodded in agreement. It was precisely because she understood this that she had joined forces with Jeanne d'Arc to help little Jack completely purge the lingering resentment before Avalon's power faded.
After exchanging a glance with Artoria, Jeanne closed her eyes, clasped her hands together, and began to pray.
"The Lord's grace is boundless, His mercy everlasting..."
[The withered, the decayed—I summon them all back.]
"No! That's not right! Why... why...?" Sensing the impending danger, the vengeful spirits grew restless. But before they could act, Artoria suddenly spoke:
"Tell me, do any of you have names?"
Her words struck like a blade of victory descending upon them, and the children froze. It was a forbidden topic—they had been aborted while still in the womb, never given names.
They had formed the existence of 'Jack the Ripper' as a collective, and this very existence was the reason little Jack could never grow.
"You dwell in a desolate wasteland, unaware of the path to survival."
[Entrust yourselves to me, learn from me, obey me.]
The Saint's prayer continued, and somewhere in the unseen distance, a priest's voice echoed in response. But then, a scream pierced the air—
"Stop... stop this, Ruler...!!"
An arrow shot through the sky. Artoria swiftly pulled Jeanne aside, narrowly avoiding the attack. On a rooftop not far away, Atalanta stood with her bow drawn, aiming directly at them. Her right hand was stained with a murky blackness—clearly, she had been possessed by an evil spirit.
"What are you doing, Archer of Red?" Artoria demanded.
"You're the ones who should answer that!" Atalanta leaped down, positioning herself protectively in front of the children.
"They're just children! Still children! These kids aren't even evil—they're victims! Pitiful souls crushed by the world's injustices!"
Her beastly ears trembled, her pupils shook, her arms quivered—every part of Atalanta's body betrayed her hysterical state of mind.
"Even so... why would you kill them?!"