"According to the soldiers' intel, the nearest French army contingent is at La Charité," Mash said. "But Senpai, what are we going to do with the French army?" she asked, confused.
"To find the Marshal, of course. What else?" Mo Wang replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm not going to use them as cannon fodder, am I?"
"You mean Gilles de Rais? Isn't he the main villain? Why would we look for him in the French army?" Shirou-Morgan asked, equally confused. What could the French army possibly have to do with Gilles?
"Are you guys idiots? Of course, it's because the Marshal of this era is still alive," Mo Wang said, having already read the script.
He knew that the Saber-class Marshal was not only alive and well but was also one of the main commanders leading the resistance against his future self and the Dragon Witch.
Although the Saber Marshal was only as strong as an ordinary three-star Servant—completely outmatched in this monster-infested singularity—he was one of the few competent military leaders left in France.
In a country that only seemed to fight when led by a woman or a short man, the fact that he had held out for half a year was quite impressive.
"You're not planning to find the Gilles de Rais of this era and make him kill his Caster-class future self, are you?" Archer asked, having already figured out what Mo Wang was planning.
He knew Mo Wang well enough to recognize his penchant for pitting a person's past and future selves against each other.
"Oh? You're getting smarter, Archer. Don't you think that would be an interesting script?"
"Interesting, my ass!" Archer knew Mo Wang was up to no good. That sadist would never do anything without a twisted motive.
If he hadn't already given up on killing his past self, he suspected Mo Wang would one day summon another version of him just to watch them fight to the death.
"So, Senpai, you want the French Marshal to fight his future self?" Mash asked, having managed to decipher Mo Wang's twisted logic.
"Of course. After all, who knows you better than yourself?" Mo Wang said. "But that's only half the reason. The other half is that I need some cannon fodder to deal with those wyverns."
"C-cannon fodder?" Jeanne stammered, a little embarrassed. Those French soldiers had once been her comrades.
"What else? The French army is so weak, they're barely even cannon fodder," Mo Wang said, completely ignoring the strange looks he was getting from Charlemagne and Jeanne. "As the saying goes, no one can conquer Paris before the French surrender. Don't you know how weak your army is?"
Just the mention of the French army brought a flood of French jokes to Mo Wang's mind. The French are invincible because no one can defeat a single French soldier before they surrender.
If the Guinness World Records had a challenge for the fastest time to get 100,000 people to raise their hands at once, the French army would hold the record.
Although most of these jokes originated from World War II and were made by the British, the fact remained that after Napoleon's death, the quality of French military leadership had declined steadily.
Even in modern times, France's military record was less than stellar.
They had a knack for losing, even to that one relative they were always at odds with. If France had shown some backbone just once, French-bashing wouldn't have become a global pastime.
Although Jeanne and Charlemagne were angry at his words, they couldn't refute them.
"But... even so, we can't just use them as cannon fodder, can we?" Jeanne pleaded.
"Relax, young lady. Even among cannon fodder, there are different grades," Mo Wang said, patting her on the back. "As Mo Wang's cannon fodder, they'll be a little more high-class. You can rest assured."
"Is that really something I can rest assured about?" Jeanne had a bad feeling about this. It felt like she had just jumped into a bottomless pit. She didn't know what Mo Wang was planning, but she had no choice but to follow him.
...
Meanwhile, at La Charité.
The commanding general stared in despair at the burning city. It was clear that they were finished.
"Why... why must we suffer such a terrible fate!" he cried.
A dragon of unimaginable size was breathing fire upon the city. Wyverns circled overhead, like the minions of a demon, swooping down to attack the people below. And the saint who had once been the hero of France was watching the destruction with a chilling, maniacal laugh.
"Marshal, we have to retreat! We're no match for that witch!" a soldier urged the Saber-class Marshal.
As the current commander of the French army, the Saber Marshal had tried to confront the Dragon Witch head-on in this city. But he had gravely miscalculated.
The vengeful Jeanne was no longer something a mortal could fight. And the dragon she rode was a creature of myth.
Fafnir, the dwarf from Norse mythology who had turned into a dragon to guard his treasure, only to be slain by Siegfried. Though his backstory was simple, he was a true, pure-blooded dragon, far larger and more powerful than the wyverns.
He could breathe poison gas and possessed a true draconic aura. The Servants might be mere constructs of magical energy, but this dragon was real. Most Servants couldn't even scratch it, let alone these ordinary soldiers.
"Jeanne... have you truly betrayed this country?" Gilles murmured, his eyes fixed on the young woman on the dragon's head. As a Saber-class Servant, he was well aware of what his future self would become.
But he had never imagined that Jeanne, the one and only light in his life, would become like this and seek to destroy France. The sight was more devastating to him than the burning city.
"Marshal!" the soldiers urged. If they didn't leave now, they would all be wiped out.
"Wait! Please, there are still people who haven't evacuated," the Saber Marshal pleaded. He drew his sword and charged at a nearby wyvern.
His steps were heavy but determined, his figure a lonely silhouette in the burning city. The screeches of wyverns filled the air, and the sky was choked with fire and smoke.
Civilians fled in terror, their screams and cries a symphony of hell.
"Quick! This way! Don't stop!" the Saber Marshal shouted, pointing his sword towards an alley that had not yet been engulfed in flames. His voice was hoarse but powerful, a lone pillar of strength in the midst of despair.
But the wyverns were too fast. Several of them swooped down, their claws and teeth bared. The Saber Marshal's eyes narrowed. He shot forward like an arrow.
"Get—back!" he roared, his sword flashing in a silver arc as he cleanly decapitated one of the beasts. It fell to the ground with a thud.
Without pausing, he spun and impaled another wyvern through the belly. Hot dragon blood splattered on his armor, sizzling, but he paid it no mind, turning to face a third.
"Go! Don't look back!" he yelled at the civilians.
But there were too many wyverns. He was gradually being overwhelmed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat streamed down his face, but he refused to back down.
"Not enough... still not enough!" he gritted his teeth, cleaving another wyvern in two.
But another one attacked him from behind, its claws tearing through his shoulder plate. He grunted in pain but quickly regained his footing. He had to keep fighting.
"For France..." he muttered, his eyes filled with a new resolve.
Just then, a massive wyvern dove towards a group of civilians who had not yet escaped. The Saber Marshal's pupils contracted. He launched himself forward like a cannonball, his sword aimed at the wyvern's wing.
"Stop—!" he roared, his voice filled with rage and determination.
The wyvern's wing was severed, and it crashed to the ground. But the effort had drained the last of the Saber Marshal's strength. He fell to one knee, panting heavily.
"Marshal!" the soldiers cried out, but they were held back by other wyverns.
The Saber Marshal looked up at the circling horde, a bitter smile on his lips. He knew he couldn't last much longer. But still, he did not give up.
"Just... one more..." he gasped, struggling to his feet. His arm trembled, and his vision began to blur. He was too weak.
Just as he was about to give in to despair, a familiar voice called out from behind him. "Gilles, you've done well."
He turned, and his eyes widened. A young woman in white armor stood before him, a banner in her hand, her gaze gentle but firm.
"Jeanne..." he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Leave the rest to me," she said with a small smile, raising her banner. A brilliant light erupted from it, shielding the battlefield and blocking the wyverns' attacks.
"What?!" The French soldiers stared in disbelief. Even Jalter, on Fafnir's head, was stunned.
"What the hell?!" she muttered, her brain short-circuiting. Was she hallucinating? Why had another version of herself suddenly appeared?
"Jeanne, is that really you? Am... am I dreaming?" Saber Gilles stammered, wondering if this was just a dying illusion.
"Calm down, Marshal. This is the real Saint Jeanne," a voice said. "You're not dead yet, so stop hallucinating."
Before Jeanne could say anything, a group of people he didn't recognize appeared beside her.
The Marshal was completely bewildered. Where in the world did all these people come from?