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

The Church calls him a "Saint," a title that stands equal to the "Holy Maiden"—even though no scripture has ever recorded his devout faith, the Church stubbornly believes his actions speak for themselves.

But outside of the Church, what truly earned him a place in history was his mastery of warfare.

It was the lightning-fast, decisive assaults he led.

—From Victor's Tactical Research Notes

...

[Yes, a lightning assault launched in the dead of night]

[That was the real reason you sent Gilles de Rais ahead—he understood your method of threatening with crisis and luring with gain to unite the scattered warlords, but he did not grasp your tactical intent]

[Though the troops arriving hastily would be tired from travel, and their lords unprepared due to the sudden summons—]

[They were unprepared.]

[But your enemy—the English soldiers and commanders besieging the final stronghold in southern-central France, Orléans Castle—were even less so.]

[The first half of the night remained calm. Quiet winds, no signs of action.]

[But in the second half of the night, Gilles de Rais returned with messages dispatched. Then, suddenly, you had Jeanne issue the command.]

[Break camp. No delay.]

[March directly toward Orléans Castle.]

[You believed the noble officers, once informed, would race to catch up—if they didn't want their fiefs and holdings swallowed by others.]

[You also believed this small force of just over a hundred would grow on the move.]

[And as it turned out—you were right.]

"La Hire of Scone joined Jeanne d'Arc's army with 800 light cavalry."

"Jean de Brosse, heir to the Brosse family, hereditary counts of the Berry region, brought 200 knights and 1,300 infantry."

"John Stewart, a Scottish lord from Darnley, brought 1,000 pikemen and archers."

"..."

Reports poured in.

Torches lit the roads like a great serpent of fire winding through the night. Reinforcements converged from all sides—at first, the lords were dismayed by Jeanne's ragtag band and thought themselves deceived.

But once more troops arrived, their frustration turned to relief.

Relief that they'd come early.

Relief they hadn't dismissed Jeanne's summons or belittled Gilles de Rais.

They now believed Gilles' message had been sincere.

How else could so many noble houses be sending troops?

Such thoughts swept through the nobles like wildfire.

And once the idea took root—it only grew stronger.

Faced with Jeanne's order to march directly on Orléans, the lords obeyed with enthusiasm. Each saw a chance to earn favor—or titles.

Rustling, marching, horses creaked forward. The sound of armor and banners flapping in the wind filled the air.

And at the very front of all the knights and soldiers—

A small figure on horseback.

Clad in silver, bearing the banner of the fleur-de-lis, charging boldly ahead.

Jeanne d'Arc.

"Just beyond this Loire River, we'll see Orléans Castle!"

She called out atop her white horse, posture proud, voice crisp.

Beside her, Victoire Tourelle—Lucan—turned to look. He saw her trembling only slightly, chest rising and falling with both tension and resolve.

The world had few who could face their first true battle without fear.

Lucan said calmly, "According to Gilles' report, our army now numbers over 7,000."

"7,217 to be precise—including 45 noble commanders. And you, and me, Mr. Victoire."

Jeanne smiled at him, radiant and confident.

"I've been listening and keeping count."

"My memory's always been sharp. Even the old nuns back home used to say I'd make a fine sister one day."

"But now you're leading nearly ten thousand into battle."

Lucan smirked. "You'd make a terrible nun. Unless 'nun' means 'one who fixes people up.'"

Jeanne replied without missing a beat:

"The Bible says: 'I came not to bring peace, but a sword.'"

"If it's a just war—I don't mind doing some 'fixing.'"

"Is that so?" Lucan raised an eyebrow, surprised—but only slightly.

"Well then," he said, "let's see how well you 'fix' them."

"Maybe throw them into the sea like dumplings?"

"Exactly!" Jeanne laughed.

She looked at Victoire and felt the contradiction in him.

Holy and serene one moment, casual and warm the next.

From the moment she first saw him, Jeanne had found him mysterious.

When he stepped out of the house that day, he seemed like an angel from her dreams. But then he joked like a kind big brother.

Around him, Jeanne felt at ease.

He was sacred yet familiar, unknowable yet comforting.

Unreal—and reassuring.

Just being with him soothed the nerves of her first campaign.

It was a clever calm, masked in teasing.

"A reliable comrade," she said softly.

Lucan looked back. "Not necessarily."

"Not necessarily what?" Jeanne blinked.

"That I'll be your comrade," he said. "Not this time. You fight your war—"

"—and I'll fight mine. Out of your sight."

As he spoke, the wind stirred.

Then he vanished.

No one noticed.

Not the soldiers. Not even Gilles.

Only Jeanne saw him disappear.

She took a breath and looked ahead.

The Loire River stretched before them, and beyond that—

A fortress.

A sea of English camps, flags, cannons.

Orléans Castle.

Dawn was breaking.

She lifted her banner.

And led the charge.

...

Meanwhile, Lucan stood still upon the river's edge, robes rippling in the damp wind.

[You stood by the Loire and watched as Jeanne charged forward, Gilles de Rais leading the heavy cavalry.]

[Their formation—cavalry as a spearhead, light horse flanking, infantry shielding, pikemen forming claws between shields—surrounded the English like a noose.]

[Archers spread wide, artillery advanced.]

[It was your attempt at medieval blitzkrieg.]

[7,000 troops, now pressing into the English siege lines.]

[Caught off guard, English soldiers barely armed before the cavalry struck. Fire spread from tents to tents.]

[But their numbers, under the famed general Thomas Montagu, soon regrouped. They abandoned outer camps to mount a resistance.]

[You believed Jeanne would win—but you knew the war wouldn't end here.]

[You weren't part of her fight. But you weren't idle.]

[Your battlefield lay elsewhere—]

[In the realm of the mystical.]

Lucan watched the mist rise.

And from it—someone emerged.

"You arranged the assassin who targeted Jeanne, didn't you?"

Lucan asked.

"Then you must know who I am."

"Pah. You call us sewer rats—yet you, 'Victoire Tourelle,' the degenerate who angered the 'King of Mages,' hid for a decade."

The man stepped forward, tall, robed like a scholar.

Furious.

"My father died by your hand!"

"So? Who even were you?" Lucan frowned. "I killed over a thousand English magi. I can't remember them all."

The man seethed.

"I am Retel Barju-Ereta, new Color-Rank Magus of the Clock Tower!"

He chanted.

The river surged. Scales shimmered. Water magic.

"You've stolen the leyline beneath this river, haven't you?" Lucan noted.

Then—

"Let fire be born from water!"

Flames burst from the mist, green and ghostly.

"Water and fire intertwine—I summon a pseudo-Origin Core!"

A clash of elements, fire and water, heat and cold.

"I see. Mimicking divine flows by conflicting elements to amplify magical power. A massive bounded field."

Lucan understood instantly.

A self-created, large-scale environment tailored to a magus' attributes.

Retel grinned.

"My trait is enhancement."

Glowing circuits wrapped his limbs.

He leapt forward—

A punch strong enough to bend air.

Lucan didn't move.

Didn't even use his Mystic Code.

Because he saw it:

"You relied on leylines for power. But your battlefield was cut off—"

"—by the army crossing the Loire."

The pseudo-Origin Core collapsed.

Your spell circuits failed.

Lucan said calmly:

"Magecraft war isn't so simple."

"And a real magus—"

"Uses everything."

Water and flame glowed around Lucan.

His own circuits shimmered.

In an instant—

He mimicked the pseudo-Origin Core.

From within.

Not borrowed.

Created.

...

This was the truth of magi.

Use all means.

That was the first axiom Victoire Tourelle ever wrote in A Catalog of Mystic Professions.