Fate/Juggernaut

===Jeanne===

The world around Jeanne seemed to have lost its vibrancy. What was once a bright, lush green now appeared dull and colorless, as though even the land itself shared in her sorrow. The only thing that still seemed to hold its hue—oddly enough—was the headband Emi wore, its blue and gold fabric sending a pang of longing through Jeanne's chest.

As they walked, passing through a small village, it was clear that the people had noticed them. The villagers seemed to shrink from their presence, husbands pulling their wives and children close, ushering them into homes—homes that no doubt had hidden corners for them to cower in.

As Jeanne and the others approached the village, the tension in the air grew thicker, the villagers' fearful glances lingering on their backs. The road ahead seemed quiet, too quiet, as if the land itself held its breath. Despite the growing unease in her chest, Jeanne kept her head high, her eyes forward, trying to maintain composure in the face of the shifting reality around her.

It was then that a man, gaunt and weathered by hardship, stepped hesitantly from behind a crumbling stone wall. His clothes were worn thin, his eyes wide with fear, but there was a desperation in them that quickly caught Jeanne's attention. He took a trembling step toward them, his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture as if to signal peace—but there was no mistaking the panic in his voice.

"P-please," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Who are you? What... what are you doing here?"

Jeanne's group came to a halt, her companions eyeing the man cautiously. Artoria's hand drifted to the hilt of her sword, while Heracles and Cu-Chulainn remained on alert, their eyes scanning the area for any immediate threats. Mordred stood by Jeanne's side, her expression unreadable but clearly tense.

Jeanne took a step forward, her calm presence attempting to ease the man's evident fear. "We are travelers," she said softly. "We mean no harm."

The man's eyes flickered between them, his gaze lingering on each of the formidable figures in their group. But when his eyes landed on Jeanne, they seemed to soften—perhaps out of recognition, or perhaps because of the empathy she quietly exuded. It was enough to push him to speak, his words rushing out in a wave of fear and desperation.

"Lawlessness... it's taken over," the man choked out, his voice breaking. "Bandits... they've come. They've been taking everything. Food, livestock... and... and women. A few young girls—they've been taken, and... and we can't do anything." His voice broke with the weight of his helplessness.

Jeanne's chest tightened as she looked down at the man. His fear was palpable, and she could sense the helplessness that clung to him like a heavy cloak. She glanced briefly at her companions, her heart aching with the thought of those innocent women, stolen from their homes, trapped in a world of violence and lawlessness.

"We need your help," the man pleaded, his eyes wide with desperation. "Please, these bandits are merciless. They've killed a few already, and if you don't do something, they'll come back. We... we need your strength. We need you to help us stop them."

Jeanne's gaze softened, and despite the growing heaviness in her heart, she gave a small, resolute nod. She looked over to Godrick's absence, a pang of longing in her chest, but her duty was clear.

"We will help," she said, her voice firm, a promise to the villagers that she would not let this cruelty go unchecked. "Lead us to them. We will make sure they can't harm anyone else."

Heracles grunted, cracking his knuckles with a thunderous sound, while Cu-Chulainn's eyes narrowed with the anticipation of a fight. Artoria placed a hand on her sword hilt, preparing herself for the coming battle. Mordred let out a low sigh but nodded in agreement.

The man's eyes were filled with gratitude and relief as he bowed deeply, more to Jeanne than anyone else, his voice shaking with emotion. "Th-thank you... thank you so much."

Jeanne gave him a reassuring smile before turning to her group. "Let's move quickly. We don't know how much time they have before the bandits return."

The man hesitated for a moment, looking over at the quiet village, his expression grim, but he nodded in agreement. "Follow me," he said, leading them down a narrow, dirt path that wound through the village. As they walked, Jeanne couldn't shake the feeling of the villagers' eyes on them, watching, hoping. She knew this wasn't just a battle against bandits—it was a fight for the soul of a broken world.

And as the group followed the man, Jeanne's resolve only grew stronger. Whatever had happened in this world's past, whatever pain it carried, the future depended on them. And this time, she wouldn't let anyone take away the light she still clung to.

As they followed the man through the village, the once quiet path grew darker, and the tension in the air thickened. Jeanne could feel the weight of the villagers' hopes pressing down on them, but her heart burned with a steady resolve. She had been given a purpose, and she would not falter. Not now.

The man led them down a narrow trail on the outskirts of the village, the earth beneath their feet soft with the scent of wet leaves. Their destination: the heart of the bandit camp. Jeanne's companions remained silent, their steps measured and confident. Artoria's hand rested lightly on her sword's hilt, Heracles cracked his knuckles in preparation, and Cu-Chulainn's eyes flickered with anticipation. Mordred was quiet but eager, her every movement betraying her readiness for a fight.

Igrain rolled her eyes and drove her sword into the damp earth, her gesture clearly signaling her disinterest in the entire affair.

"I'm only here to help the Juggernauts kill each other. I'm not about to play the white knight for a bunch of village rats," she said flatly.

Jeanne shot her a cold look, her gaze speaking volumes about how much she cared.

"Fine. Stay back like the coward you are. We don't need your help anyway." With that, she motioned for the man to continue down the path.

The man stopped at the edge of the woods, looking over his shoulder at Jeanne and the others. "It's just ahead," he whispered, his voice shaky. "They'll be expecting no one. You can take them by surprise."

Jeanne nodded. "Stay here. We'll handle it."

With that, the man stepped back, hiding himself behind a tree, watching them as they vanished into the thick cover of the forest. The silence of the woods was broken only by the sound of leaves crunching beneath their boots as they moved forward, the soft glow of distant campfires flickering through the trees ahead.

They reached the edge of the bandit camp. It was a mess of rough tents and scattered debris, the harsh sound of men shouting and laughing filling the air. Jeanne's eyes narrowed. This would not be a battle. It would be a slaughter.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice steady.

Heracles grinned, his hands already flexing with anticipation.

Artoria's eyes flicked over the camp. "Let's make this quick."

Without another word, they sprang into action. Heracles, with his massive form and godly strength, surged forward first, a storm of fury and force. He launched himself into the middle of the camp, sending bandits flying in every direction with each powerful swing of his fists. The ground shook with each step he took, his roar of battle like thunder through the trees. Two bandits attempted to rush him from behind, but he spun with a savage snarl, swinging his arm to catch both of them by the throats. They were tossed aside like ragdolls.

Cu-Chulainn, with his usual fluid grace, darted to the east, his spear flashing as he impaled one bandit through the chest before twisting it to send another flying. His movements were so fast, the bandits never had a chance to react. He was a blur of motion, his laughter echoing in the chaos as he danced through their ranks, cutting them down one by one.

Mordred surged ahead next, her sword slicing through the air with precision. She didn't hesitate—her strikes were quick and brutal, each one finding its mark. She cleaved through the bandits with a fierce joy, her movements almost wild in their ferocity. Her sword found the throat of one bandit, and she turned, her boot smashing into the face of another. No mercy. No hesitation.

And then, Jeanne. She moved through the chaos with a calm resolve, her sword drawn in one swift motion before it was covered in flame in her left hand, while holding her lance in her right. Her enemies never even saw her coming. She sliced through the bandits' defenses as if they were nothing, each strike clean and decisive. She was a whirlwind of fire and fire, cutting down those who would harm the innocent without an ounce of remorse.

She reached the shack where the women were being held, and without missing a beat, she broke down the door with a single strike of her sword. Inside, the women huddled in fear, their faces pale and gaunt from their captivity and abuse. They looked up at Jeanne, unsure, but when they saw the blade in her hand, they knew they were free.

"It's safe now," Jeanne said softly, offering her hand to one of the women. "We've come to take you home."

The women hesitated only for a moment before they began to move toward the door, their faces filled with gratitude. Jeanne ushered them out of the shack and into the cover of the woods, glancing once more at the chaos unfolding in the camp.

The bandits were falling one by one, their cries drowned out by the fury of her companions. Artoria moved like a wall of steel, cutting down anyone who dared approach her with disciplined strikes. Cu-Chulainn's laughter rang out as he felled one bandit after another with savage precision. Heracles, still smashing through the camp, left nothing but destruction in his wake. Mordred, smiling fiercely, made sure no bandit could escape. The fight was over almost before it had begun.

Jeanne gave one last glance back at the camp, where only a few bandits were left standing—those who had managed to flee or cower in fear. But they would not escape.

In a final, decisive moment, Jeanne raised her sword, it's flaming blade gleaming in the fading light. The remaining bandits froze, eyes wide in terror. Without a word, Jeanne and her companions surged forward, finishing the job. No bandit was left standing.

The camp was silent now, save for the heavy breathing of Jeanne and her companions, the echoes of battle still hanging in the air.

Jeanne's chest rose and fell with the exertion, but her heart was steady. She turned to the women, who were now safe in the cover of the woods, their faces filled with gratitude and awe.

"Go. We'll keep you safe," Jeanne said, her voice calm but filled with authority. "You are free."

The women nodded, some with tears in their eyes. They stepped into the safety of the trees, led by the old man.

As the last bandit fell, and the sounds of combat died down, Jeanne looked at her team—Artoria, Heracles, Cu-Chulainn, and Mordred—each of them standing tall, their bloodied weapons in hand.

"Good work," Jeanne said, her voice soft but satisfied. "We've done what we came to do."

Heracles let out a loud grunt, wiping the blood from his hands.

Mordred smirked, flicking her blade clean. "I'd say it was just right."

Cu-Chulainn's eyes glimmered with the thrill of battle. "More fun than I thought."

Artoria stood by Jeanne's side, her face calm but her eyes bright with approval. "You led us well, Jeanne."

Jeanne smiled, but there was no time for celebration. They had work to do. They would escort the women to safety and move on—always moving forward, always fighting for the innocent.

In the distance, the first rays of dawn began to light the sky, casting a faint glow over the defeated camp. Jeanne's heart was lighter now. Justice had been served.

And the battle for this broken world would continue.

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