The moment Fafnir heard Jeanne announce that she would finally have a chance to let loose and fight, the little creature—who usually seemed to care about absolutely nothing in the world besides eating and Jeanne—instantly unlocked a massive wave of enthusiasm.
It wasn't exactly surprising. No matter how absurdly silly, dazed, or adorable she appeared on the surface, she was, at her absolute core, a dragon! The blood coursing through her veins was the definition of raw, unchecked violence.
To Fafnir, learning the social customs of this world was something Jeanne deeply desired, so she threw herself into the process with absolute seriousness. She wanted to navigate daily life seamlessly, if only to keep her guardian from worrying and to guarantee her permanent place by Jeanne's side.
Yet, when pushed to her own devices, her most cherished and familiar method of problem-solving was to anchor everything to the terrifying physical power she took such immense pride in. She had been secretly aching for an opportunity to unleash her true martial output upon this landscape.
Jeanne was well aware of the volatile, destructive streak hiding beneath the young dragon's innocent exterior. Regrettably, up until now, she simply hadn't unearthed a suitable occasion to let the child vent her instincts; after all, she could hardly justify mounting a massive winged dragon to go around pillaging civilian strongholds on a whim.
But now that a perfect storm of conflict was brewing, Jeanne's thoughts pivoted instantly to Fafnir's hidden potential. Far from harboring any parental reluctance or anxiety about introducing a child to the grim realities of warfare, Jeanne felt an immediate surge of absolute confidence.
What a ridiculous thing to worry about! Her Fafnir was entirely matchless beneath the heavens. On any given battlefield, she was uniquely positioned to act as the absolute executioner; the conceptual notion that a mortal adversary could somehow successfully end her life was an absurdity beneath notice. It was a statistical impossibility!
Of course, this flawless projection was entirely dependent on the enemy failing to summon Heroic Spirits—or, through some catastrophic stroke of cosmic misfortune, accidentally pulling Fafnir's absolute mythological nemesis, Siegfried, onto the field. On that front, however, Jeanne maintained a fiercely optimistic outlook.
With their goals locked in, Jeanne and Fafnir prepared to vacate the sector and chart a course back toward the borders of Rim Billiton. Fafnir looked so incredibly eager she seemed ready to take flight this very second, burning to hunt down these unnamed adversaries and stage a grand exhibition of her power.
Granted, she possessed zero understanding of who these enemies actually were, let alone what manner of mystical properties or physical strength they wielded. True to her nature, she had zero intention of prying into the intelligence reports.
To her beautifully binary mind, spending hours agonizing over enemy movements and cross-referencing military data before a clash was a massive, exhausting chore. Fafnir considered such meticulous preparation a total waste of mental stamina—time that would be infinitely better spent out in the wilderness hunting for her next meal!
After lingering inside the subterranean chamber to conclude their brief tactical dialogue, the pair turned to exit. Stepping out beyond the threshold of the hidden cavern, Jeanne immediately spotted the Babel operative waiting patiently in the open air, wrapped tightly in his heavy field gear.
Reflecting on their organization's aesthetic, Jeanne couldn't help but think that Babel's choice of attire was uniquely eccentric within the borders of Kazdel. Throughout her entire journey across the frontier, she hadn't encountered a single independent mercenary faction that insisted on enveloping its personnel so completely in dense, heavy layers of protective fabric.
Then again, the stark contrast was likely due to the reality that the common rabble scraping a living in the wastes simply lacked the financial capital to secure standard military gear. For the vast majority of the wandering raiders she had encountered, a proper uniform was an impossible luxury; a fighter was considered exceptionally well-equipped if they possessed a tattered cloak to conceal a pair of rusted blades.
Perhaps I should pass a casual recommendation along to Talulah once we cross paths again, Jeanne mused, her thoughts drifting toward her companions. Even though our own fighters always ensure they carry their personal weapons into the field, our collective organizational structure still lacks the absolute precision and standard uniformity displayed by Babel's vanguard...
Look at me, letting my mind wander off into high-level logistics again, Jeanne thought, giving her head a firm shake to clear the unnecessary data. To an outside observer, her sudden, silent movement looked exactly like the reflexive gesture of someone fighting off a wave of physical discomfort.
Sure enough, the waiting Savra scout immediately directed a deeply worried look toward her features—or at least, that was how Jeanne interpreted the subtle shift in his eyes. The sheer volume of complex emotions swirling behind his mask made his expression incredibly difficult to map.
"It is nothing serious, you have zero cause for concern," Jeanne offered smoothly, cutting off his inquiry before he could even articulate a sentence. Her light, casual tone earned a silent nod of profound understanding from the operative.
"Still... if you don't mind my asking, why exactly do you look at me with that specific expression?" Jeanne asked, her natural curiosity finally breaking through her reservations.
The moment the inquiry landed, the Savra's entire posture locked up, going completely rigid as if a shameful, classified secret had just been forcefully dragged into the light. He shifted his weight awkwardly, looking thoroughly embarrassed.
Oh, please. Your entire face is practically screaming your admiration for the world to see; who on Terra could possibly miss it? Is there truly a need to stage this elaborate display of bashfulness now? Jeanne grumbled internally.
As she studied the twisting, sheepish movements of the scout, she got the distinct impression that the young man was a split-second away from deploying his natural camouflage to vanish from the spot entirely just to escape the awkwardness.
"In truth... there is no grand, hidden justification for my behavior," the operative admitted softly, his voice tight with embarrassment. He seemed completely at a loss for words, struggling to properly frame the immense volume of respect that filled his chest whenever he stood before her. "I suppose... a large part of it stems from the reality that you personally executed the medical treatment plans for so many of our wounded field agents. Furthermore, the simple fact that the Doctor went to such extreme lengths to establish a tracking matrix just to locate your position proves you are an extraordinarily powerful individual. I deeply admire people who possess that level of capability."
Following a lengthy, heavy silence, the young man finally bared his heart. His reverence wasn't uniquely targeted at Jeanne; rather, he harbored a profound, overarching idolatry for any individual who possessed the raw talent required to stand completely independent against the world. He burned with a desire to one day ascend to that identical tier of existence.
Yet, the cold reality of life on Terra dictated that ascending to the ranks of an elite vanguard like Jeanne required an immense baseline of natural-born genius. For an ordinary operative like himself—someone who had cultivated a broad, surface-level understanding of multiple tactical disciplines but lacked the innate talent required to achieve absolute mastery in a singular field—the boundary was absolute.
Consequently, he was forced to accept his current station, relying on his basic scouting techniques to function as a standard, unremarkable operational asset for Babel along the frontier. This threshold was, in all likelihood, the absolute ceiling of his physical evolution.
No matter how much grueling effort he poured into his daily training regimens, he could feel that his development had hit a definitive wall—a towering, unyielding barrier forged from a total lack of natural talent.
Because of this hidden insecurity, whenever he encountered a truly gifted individual, his natural instinct was to project an overwhelming aura of envy and pure adoration. It was a clean, innocent reverence, completely devoid of any toxic strands of jealousy or resentment.
Jeanne fell perfectly silent, the weight of his words registering deeply within her conscience. Had the mechanics of the world permitted it, she would have gladly volunteered to act as a personal mentor, offering him a definitive blueprint to shatter his limitations. Yet, she was painfully aware that she possessed zero practical guidance to give.
After all, her own staggering combat proficiency was almost entirely a product of her unique origin and the sweeping guidance of her Revelation. Beyond that, there was also the unmapped, protective meddling of a certain highly indulgent divine entity operating from the shadows—none of which could be translated into a teachable training manual for an ordinary mortal.
After a few moments of careful deliberation, Jeanne reached out to offer a warm, encouraging pat against his shoulder. She locked her eyes onto his, her features radiating an absolute, unvarnished sincerity as she delivered her counsel:
"Since you possess a grand ideal, you must maintain your momentum and continue pouring your entire spirit into the effort! Perhaps the conventional metrics dictate that you cannot scale the highest peaks, but who is to say that you won't eventually awaken a hidden, extraordinary talent in an entirely unmapped field?"
When confronted with a soul that burned with such pure, innocent ambition, Jeanne lacked the cruelty required to douse the flames with a cold bucket of reality. Stomping on someone's dreams was a behavior she was fundamentally incapable of executing.
The scout's features lit up with intense, trembling gratitude upon receiving the Saint's personal validation. He offered a swift, deeply respectful bow of thanks, his posture immediately snapping back to a professional standard as he reined in his excitement.
"That reminds me... is your immediate itinerary directed toward Rim Billiton?" the operative inquired, his voice returning to a smooth, clinical cadence, the starry-eyed fanboy persona vanishing entirely. "According to our local logistics schedule, Babel has a mechanized transport convoy prepared to depart for that exact sector later today. Would you like me to establish contact with the drivers and secure passage for the two of you?"
Hearing his logistical update, Jeanne exchanged a swift, knowing glance with the little dragon anchored to her side before offering a bright smile. "We absolutely would. Thank you for the assistance."
With the arrangements locked in, the scout swiftly coordinated with the transport team, successfully gifting Jeanne a highly convenient, stress-free shortcut across the frontier.
Yet, the exact moment Jeanne stepped into the vehicle's interior and took her seat, an immediate intuition warned her that this cross-border transit was going to be anything but peaceful.
Sitting directly across the aisle from her was Warfarin, her features frozen in a look of sheer, unadulterated terror as if she had just come face-to-face with an ancient, apocalyptic entity. The legendary vampire physician looked ready to violently compress her entire physical form into a tiny, defensive ball, exerting every ounce of her strength to maximize the physical distance between herself and Jeanne.
In all likelihood, this was an expression the Doctor had never witnessed in her entire professional tenure on the landship. As a Sarkaz Vampire whose cognitive wavelengths aligned with the Doctor's eccentric mind with a rare, terrifying precision, Warfarin was notorious for her absolute lack of traditional fear boundaries.
Even when Kal'tsit cornered her for a severe administrative disciplinary session, the vampire's shrieks of agony—while spectacularly theatrical—never carried a single shred of authentic, existential dread. She was merely playing a part.
But today, the terror radiating from her skin was entirely real.
"It has been quite some time, Dr. Warfarin," Jeanne observed, watching the trembling medic with a look that was a perfect mix of absolute amusement and mild helplessness. "Though, I must say, is there truly a need for this level of panic? I am hardly a live explosive designed to detonate and reduce the cabin to ash the moment you blink."