In the Nasuverse (TYPE-MOON), I Created a Magical Family Lineage

[In the end, you were unable to hear the "will of the Lord" that Jeanne spoke of.]

[Though you were indeed curious about the so-called "Lord" of this world's Church—and your pre-crossing memories told you that this world's Lord did exist.]

[Even if the miracles of the Church now stem not directly from the Lord, but from a foundation created by the faith of believers across the world, the fact remains: the Lord once bestowed the Ten Commandments upon Solomon. That much is true.]

[And though Jeanne did not hide how she received her revelations, and you fully recreated her encounter with the Holy Angel—]

[You still failed to achieve your goal.]

[Jeanne reassured you not to worry. So long as one maintains faith, the Lord always listens and will answer.]

[But you knew well—faith meant nothing to you.]

[No emotion, only technique.]

[No devotion, only calculation.]

[Even if your first simulation self had been a priest from a monastery, you were never meant to be a true believer—and never needed to be.]

[Still, though you failed to hear the so-called revelation, you sensed something amiss. Jeanne's description of the Holy Angel from her first encounter—tall, divine, thundering, wrapped in flames, armored like steel—]

[Was that really an angel? Weren't the "Fallen Angels" also angels once?]

[You held your suspicions but said nothing.]

[And you didn't dwell on it.]

[Whether Jeanne's revelation came from the true Lord, and whether what she saw were truly angels or not—it didn't matter.]

[Because she would, in time, be canonized as a saint.]

[And that alone made her valuable.]

[Valuable enough to serve as a resource in your pursuit of mystery, and a foundation for influence within the Church.]

[You left the village where you were born, raised, and had lived for nearly a decade since your youth.]

[You followed her to the outskirts of Orléans, besieged by English forces.]

[You knew this would be Jeanne's first trial—the beginning of her mission to save France.]

[And you saw the "capital" she held at this stage of her journey.]

...

Night fell deep and silent. Campfires crackled and burned in the chill wind. Dressed in a heavy, dark academic robe, Lucan stood among the flickering flames, gazing at the blonde girl now clad not only in her uniform battle-dress, but overlaid with silver armor and a diamond-shaped helmet.

He then looked around at the sparse tents and the few rustling figures.

His face was unreadable.

"This is all the manpower you could gather?"

Lucan finally spoke, tone flat. He had held many high ministerial posts in the late Russian Empire during his first simulation. While he had never stood on the battlefield, he understood full well that numbers and quality of troops were crucial to victory.

This... was dire.

Barely a hundred soldiers, only a dozen of whom were properly armored knights. The rest? Clearly local farmers pressed into service.

How was this a fighting force? How could they win anything?

Behind Jeanne, Gilles de Rais looked like he wanted to speak but hesitated. This had been hard enough to gather. With Crown Prince Charles still in Chinon and uncrowned, his influence on the front lines was weak.

Even though Jeanne had his trust and a letter of commission, the scattered noble lords on the front didn't recognize her, nor did they lend her troops.

But before Gilles could explain—

Jeanne spoke up.

"These are the people I currently command."

Her golden braid fluttered lightly in the wind. The campfire's embers shimmered like stardust in the night, reflecting off her firm violet-blue eyes.

Petite, yet standing tall without a trace of doubt.

"I will lead them to break the siege of Orléans."

"You're... impressive," Lucan muttered.

So this was the power of faith?

Charging into hopeless odds, undeterred...

"Goddammit, Hakuno. This is a fire pit you've shoved me into!"

Lucan sighed. Even with miracles and revelations, this was reckless.

And he realized—he was now stuck on this ship.

Jeanne, at this point in time, wasn't just personally unrefined; her followers were even worse.

Still, since he was here, he wouldn't just sit idle.

"Sir Gilles de Rais," he said, turning to the pale knight. "I'll need you to run a few errands—deliver some messages."

"Messages?" Gilles blinked, but quickly nodded. "Please instruct me."

Lucan looked past him, surveying the dim camp.

"Tell the lords on the front lines: Jeanne d'Arc has been granted temporary authority from the Crown Prince. She has the power to promote on the battlefield."

"Those who contribute can be rewarded—granted titles and power—in the name of Charles VII, the future King of France."

"And tell them that the other armies have already begun marching."

"They have until dawn."

"Anyone who arrives late will find the honors gone—and face being swallowed up."

This was a world of selfish nobles and pragmatic magi.

And in this dark age, only two things could move people: crisis and profit.

Combine the two—and you wield the banner called "kingdom."

Jeanne frowned, confused. The Crown Prince couldn't possibly have given her such authority—they hadn't even met in person.

Was Victoire... lying?

Gilles, however, understood.

A noble himself, he knew politics.

It wasn't about what authority Jeanne had now—it was what she could plausibly have later.

If it came true, it wouldn't be a lie.

[Gilles de Rais obeyed your instructions and departed the camp.]

[Jeanne did not understand your methods, but she didn't object.]

[She didn't know politics, but she knew what needed to be done.]

[That autumn, with a few words, you rallied the scattered French forces at the front.]

[You brought them under Jeanne's banner.]

[In a single night, the army swelled tenfold.]

...

It was like magic.

With light words and subtle force, Lucan had unified the fractured French forces under Jeanne's fleur-de-lis banner.

He won not just troops, but the nobles' awe.

Some called it fraud or illusion—but no one could deny the miracle of that army gathered overnight.

An old farmer passing by that night saw the swelling ranks.

He called it a miracle.

He called it a divine army.

And it was a miracle.

A miracle wrought by one named Victoire.

—From "Victoire the Triumphant: The Army of Miracles"