The morning mist clung to the earth like restless spirits as Jay and Joan rode at the head of their battered force. Behind them marched soldiers hardened by bloodshed, their armor dull with grime, their faces weathered by loss.
Jay's dark hair was tied back, streaked with dried blood and dust — the mark of a man who had seen too much death for his years. His cloak, once bearing no crest, now fluttered behind him like a blackened banner, stained by war. Joan rode beside him, her once-radiant silver armor dulled to a battle-worn grey, her blonde hair braided back tight, framing her fierce, unwavering eyes.
Three days of solemn rest had done little to erase the ghosts that haunted them. Jay still saw the face of the young soldier he buried — the boy who never got to see victory. That grave was behind him now, but it weighed on his heart heavier than steel.
The road to Orléans was treacherous — villages burned to ash by retreating English forces, rotting corpses left to the crows. The smell of death and iron filled the air.
As the sun began to set, they crested a hill — and there it was. Orléans.
The city was under siege — its walls scarred, its defenders desperate. English war camps ringed the city like vultures around a dying beast. Towers of flame rose from their siege engines.
Jay narrowed his eyes. "This is where it ends."
Joan's voice was quiet but resolute. "This is where it begins."
That night, they met with surviving French commanders, their strategy brutal but necessary — strike at night, sow terror, break the siege from within. Jay would lead the vanguard — silent, deadly, like a shadow of death. Joan would rally the people from within, igniting their hope.
Jay stood motionless for a moment longer, feeling the weight of every life lost press against his chest like a second heart — one that beat only for vengeance and justice.
The French camp behind him was eerily quiet. Soldiers murmured prayers, sharpened weapons, and repaired dented armor. Fires burned low to avoid detection, casting long shadows that flickered across scarred faces. The survivors from their last battle looked to Jay now with something more than respect — they looked at him like he was something not entirely mortal.
His awakening had changed him.
His Arc blood — ancient and powerful — had fused his human resilience with something ethereal, something terrifying. His eyes glinted faintly in the darkness — gold rimmed with burning crimson when anger stirred him. His body healed faster. His senses were sharp beyond measure.
But it was his presence — that unnatural calm in the storm — that made even seasoned warriors pause when he passed.
Joan approached him quietly, her soft leather boots barely making a sound on the dirt. Her armor had been cleaned as best as possible, though blood still clung stubbornly in the grooves of the metal. Her braid, messy from battle, fell over one shoulder.
"You shouldn't carry all of this alone," she said softly, standing beside him.
Jay shook his head. "If I don't carry it... who will?"
Joan sighed, her blue eyes searching his face. "We all carry it. But together, it's bearable."
Jay allowed himself a faint smirk — rare, fleeting. "That's why I have you."
They stood together in silence, watching Orléans in the distance.
Hours later, the camp came alive with whispered orders.
Maps were spread across rough tables. Joan's voice was calm but commanding as she pointed to the weakest points of the English siege lines.
"We strike their supply routes here... here... and here. Tonight, Jay leads the shadow vanguard — fast, silent, deadly. I will rally the citizens within the city to rise when they see the signal."
Jay leaned over the map, his sharp eyes tracing every path like a hunter memorizing his prey's lair.
"Kill fast. Leave no survivors to raise alarm," he instructed his small elite force.
Night fell like a shroud over the battlefield.
Jay donned blackened armor scavenged from fallen foes. His sword gleamed with a faint crimson hue — awakened alongside him. Beside him stood veterans who owed him their lives — men and women willing to follow him into hell.
They moved like ghosts.
They struck without mercy — blades sliding across throats, daggers driven into hearts before a sound could escape. Blood splattered across Jay's armor — hot, metallic, and oddly familiar.
By the time the English realized what was happening, their camps were already burning.
Joan had ignited the fires from within Orléans — the city erupted with defiant war cries.
Jay stood atop a hill overlooking the chaos — his breathing steady, his hands slick with blood. His Arc blood pulsed like a war drum.
But even amidst victory, his eyes darkened.
He knew this was just the beginning.
The Black Order still waited in the shadows. The battles ahead would demand more from him — from Joan — than either of them could imagine.
But for now... Orléans would rise.
And Jay Ryan — the fallen, the awakened, the storm — would lead them.