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"How was your little excursion for cheap mortal rags, Mittelt?"

Dohnaseek's voice dripped with mockery as Mittelt stepped through the creaking doors of the abandoned church, the decaying scent of mildew and blood thick in the air. His gloating expression barely concealed the boredom etched deep into his aged features.

But Mittelt didn't spare him a glance.

Her focus was elsewhere—on survival.

Every instinct screamed at her to leave this forsaken group before sunset. She had to disappear, vanish into the shadows and return before she became a stain on the earth.

Jeanne's punishment was a mystery wrapped in dread, but Ophis... the Infinity Dragon could erase her from existence with a flicker of thought. There would be no escape, not even bones left behind to mourn.

"The Ouroboros mentioned Dohnaseek… He's supposed to be dead."

Her thoughts coiled in unease as she shifted her gaze toward the man.

She looked at him not with fear, nor with contempt, but with a strange, heavy pity.

Why had Jeanne spared him?

What had made her show mercy to someone who should have been reduced to dust?

If Dohnaseek truly didn't realize the depth of danger he stood in, then it could only mean one thing—Jeanne had erased his memories. A clean slate, perhaps… or a cruel delay in judgment.

Mittelt trembled.

A human—no, a woman—capable of casting Hypnosis Magic strong enough to bind the mind of a Fallen Angel, a being born with innate Holy Power? That was no ordinary enemy. That was a monster in human skin.

She was in far too deep.

Dohnaseek's lip curled as he noticed her expression.

"What's with that look, brat? What's a fledgling like you doing pitying someone like me?"

The venom in his words masked the brittle edge of wounded pride.

Dohnaseek was no mere lackey. He was among the older generation of the Fallen, cast down from the heavens long before the Great War. He had survived when others had perished, clawed his way through centuries of blood and fire. He had accepted his lowly station long ago, wearing it like a second skin.

But to be pitied by a greenhorn? A child who still harbored fragile dreams of redemption? That pierced the last fragment of pride he clung to.

And he hated it.

"I don't know you," Mittelt said flatly, her voice devoid of warmth. "I'm done with this pathetic little troupe."

Raynare, who had been silently observing the exchange from the shadows of the ruined chapel, tilted her head, a flicker of surprise dancing behind her eyes.

Dohnaseek, however, blinked in disbelief. That disbelief curdled quickly—his expression twisting, darkening like a storm rolling in over a broken battlefield.

"Are you saying… you're betraying us?" he asked, his voice trembling with both fury and denial.

Mittelt forced a cold shrug, the motion mechanical, practiced. She had to wear the mask of indifference. If word somehow reached that woman—if Jeanne even caught a whisper of her hesitation—then Mittelt wouldn't just be hunted.

She'd be erased.

"I'm not betraying anyone," she said, ice in her tone. "This group was doomed from the start."

She wasn't here to ask for permission. She was here to provoke. If they threw her out, even better. All she needed was a clean break—something loud enough to make her exit look forced.

"You, Dohnaseek, have done nothing but grumble and posture like a relic from a war no one remembers. You said you'd handle that kid with the Dragon-type Sacred Gear. Well? Where's your victory? Where's your corpse?"

Dohnaseek stiffened, anger simmering in his veins, his fists clenching at his sides. His glare could have split stone.

"And Kalawarner," Mittelt's gaze snapped toward the silent woman. "All you do is sit there, parroting whatever drips from Raynare's mouth, as if blind loyalty could make up for your lack of spine. No wonder Azazel doesn't even spare you a glance."

Kalawarner's eyes narrowed, lips twitching. Mittelt's words had found their mark.

"And you," Mittelt's voice dropped, venomous now, aimed at the one who had once called herself their leader.

"Raynare. You're the worst of them all. You claimed Kokabiel gave the orders, yet you never once checked with Azazel. What did he offer you? A promotion? A promise? A touch? Everyone knows Kokabiel's nothing but a warmonger—and the only ones who follow him are those already too broken to care."

Raynare's expression barely shifted, but the slight tightening around her eyes betrayed the blow.

"And when we were tasked with observation—just observation—what did you do?" Mittelt's voice rose, trembling with fury. "You slaughtered him. Then handed his corpse to the sister of the Maou like it was some offering. Bravo. Should I clap? Or would you prefer a knife in the back as a token of thanks?"

This would be the last time she'd see them. The last time she'd look upon the wreckage of what they used to be.

So why not let the truth spill?

Her team wasn't just incompetent—they were mad.

Raynare, drunk on lust, had given herself to a higher-ranked Fallen in search of favor, only to be tossed away like garbage.

Dohnaseek had chased forbidden knowledge until Heaven hurled him down, his arrogance staining his wings.

Kalawarner followed Azazel with the wide-eyed hope of a loyal hound, only to be forgotten like yesterday's whisper.

And Mittelt?

She had fallen not for ambition, not for lust, not for defiance.

She had simply fallen.

There was a time—long, long ago—when Mittelt had been a pure being. An innocent angel, still untouched by malice or doubt, her heart radiant with the boundless love of the Father and the promise of eternity.

Her wings had shimmered a brilliant white, reflecting the harmony of Heaven itself.

She had sung hymns beneath golden skies and bathed in the divine warmth of sanctity.

In those days, she knew nothing of pain, of betrayal, of the crushing silence that came when no one answered your prayers.

But innocence is fragile, and temptation comes softly.

She had been brought down not by force, nor by violence, but by whispered promises—of freedom, of knowledge, of seeing the world beyond the rigid halls of Heaven.

The Fallen spoke of liberation.

They painted visions of a sky not watched by judgmental eyes, of choices unconstrained by celestial order.

And she, foolish and young, had believed them.

She reached for the world.

By the time she realized it had all been a lie, it was already too late.

Her wings, once as white as divinity itself, had faded into a dark gray.

Not quite black, not yet—a color suspended between guilt and shame. A symbol of her fall from grace. A stain on her soul.

The hue of a child cast out of paradise, too impure to return, too clean to fully belong among demons.

She denied it at first.

Refused to accept that she could never go home.

To the Kingdom of Heaven.

She tried—truly, she tried. For decades, she clung to the remnants of her old faith. She prayed every day, knelt beneath broken stars, whispering apologies and pleas into the void. She cried alone, in forgotten ruins and rain-drenched alleyways, begging to be forgiven.

Begging to be seen.

But no voice came.

No warmth touched her.

Heaven was silent.

And slowly, her heart began to rot. Hope curdled into bitterness. Faith twisted into resentment. She looked at the world with cynical eyes, her lips curled with cruel amusement.

If Heaven would not forgive her, then she would stop asking.

If the Father would not speak to her, then she would damn herself with a laugh.

And in the midst of this storm, the Grigori found her.

They called themselves a refuge—a home for the Fallen, a place where castaways like her could start again. At first, she believed them. She wanted to believe. She thought perhaps, just perhaps, the promise of freedom could still be real.

But time wore that illusion thin.

What freedom was there in this place?

It wasn't a home. It was a corporation. A cold, bureaucratic machine run by beings who had given up on redemption and embraced apathy. Ranks. Orders. Missions. No one cared who she had been. No one saw her as anything but a tool, a disposable asset stamped with a number.

If she wanted to leave?

The Vatican would come for her.

Her former kin would hunt her down.

Her death would be swift. Justified.

But… why?

Why?

Did she not believe in the same Father?

Did her prayers not rise to the same Heaven?

Was she not worthy of salvation?

What had she done, truly?

Was it so wrong to be curious?

To want to see more than the garden walls?

She would atone, if someone would show her how.

She would kneel, she would bleed, she would offer her very soul.

But how does one atone when no one tells you what you did wrong?

The questions devoured her.

Day after day, year after year, they gnawed at the edge of her mind like maggots in a dying fruit.

And then, one day…

She saw the End.

Not metaphorically.

The real End.

An entity beyond comprehension—a presence so absolute, so final, that the very concept of redemption seemed laughable before it. She realized then that she would die with no closure, no redemption, no divine hand reaching out in her final moment.

No light.

No savior.

She had fallen.

And there was no coming back.

That day, she did not cry.

She had already despaired long ago.

However—

Next to that End, that terrible and inescapable abyss from which there was no light or salvation—

There stood a new Beginning.

Where despair once reigned, a single spark remained. And from that spark, a path appeared.

A path she had never expected.

This Beginning... it did not shimmer like Heaven. It did not sing like the angels once did. It was not wrapped in divine gold nor adorned with sacred titles. No, it was quiet. Calm. Almost mundane in its bearing. And yet—

It reached out to her.

Offered her something no one had ever given before.

A choice.

Not a command. Not an order. Not a punishment disguised as purpose.

But an opportunity.

An opportunity to shed the cursed identity of a pawn—a lackey trapped in the purgatory between Heaven and Hell. An opportunity to become something... more.

To walk a different road.

To be seen, truly seen, not as a tool of war or a fallen disgrace, but as a soul worth saving.

The End had terrified her—an entity so vast, so utterly final, that it dwarfed even the Father she once worshipped in trembling awe. Power radiated from it like the weight of the void itself. Unstoppable. Eternal.

And yet…

The Beginning commanded it.

With no force. No chains. No demand.

Only presence.

If the Beginning could move the End, could tame the absolute—

Then Mittelt knew.

All she had to do was follow.

Perhaps, just perhaps… if she did, she could once again glimpse the splendor of the Kingdom of Heaven. Not as it was, but as it could be. Not with the eyes of an angel, but with the soul of someone who had truly lived, fallen, and survived.

The Beginning bore the name of a Saint.

She never claimed the title.

She never called herself holy.

And Mittelt agreed.

There was nothing pious in her hands—only callouses and quiet conviction. No halo adorned her, only the shadow of her own burdens. And yet, despite threatening her very existence, her plausible death, despite carrying judgment and a capricious demeanor in her gaze—

Mittelt felt something she had long forgotten.

Kindness.

Undeserved.

Unexplained.

Unmistakable.

Her savior did not come with trumpets or divine light.

She came as the Beginning.

And Mittelt, the fallen, the forsaken, the forgotten—

She reached for her.

All she needed now was to be unbound. To be released from the rusted shackles of the Grigori, from the chains of the past that kept dragging her back into the pit. And then—only then—could she take her first step toward redemption.

A single phrase—faint and buried deep within her, from a time when she still dared to believe—rose like incense to her lips:

"I have blotted out your transgressions like a cloud, and your sins like mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you."—Isaiah 44:22

So now she walks. Toward the Beginning.

Toward her answer.

And if she reaches her in time... will she be saved?

Such thoughts surged through Mittelt's mind like a storm breaking against the cliffs of her heart.

Everything she had repressed—the grief, the regret, the shattered remnants of her faith—was now boiling just beneath the surface. And in the face of that reckoning, the screams of her comrades felt distant, almost hollow.

"Y-You bitch! What did you just say about me?!"

Raynare's voice cracked like thunder, her composure disintegrating as veins bulged from her temple, her face twisted with fury. The pride of a commander had been trampled—and trampled by someone she deemed inferior. She wasn't the only one livid. The others were seething, their gazes blazing with outrage.

They had every right.

Mittelt had not held back. She had spoken her truth—raw, scathing, and unfiltered. She had cast off the mask she wore and revealed the bitter contempt festering underneath.

Yes, she was irritating. Yes, she was a brat.

Mittelt had never claimed to be noble or virtuous. She had sinned. She had strayed. She had fallen.

But unlike them—

She still had something they didn't.

A chance.

A singular, miraculous opportunity.

It pulsed inside her chest now like a second heartbeat. She didn't know where it came from. She couldn't explain it, not even to herself. But that woman—Jeanne—the one who stood at the edge between End and Beginning… she had seen something in Mittelt. Something worth pulling back from the abyss.

She didn't care if it was just because she was whimsical. Sometimes, the intent didn't matter.

It was the result.

Her salvation did not wear a crown or wield a sword. But she was real.

And Mittelt would not let this chance slip through her fingers.

Not for the Grigori. Not for Raynare. Not for anyone.

She clenched her fists tightly at her sides, as if physically holding onto the fragile thread of fate she had just begun to grasp.

"Are you trying to get yourself hunted by the Vatican the second you leave here alive?!"

Raynare's voice trembled now, not just with rage—but fear. "Where is this confidence coming from?!"

Her voice rose into a shriek, confused and desperate.

But Mittelt did not flinch.

She did not shout back. She did not curse, or explain, or cry.

She only spoke two words.

Words that silenced the room like a divine decree:

"I'm leaving."

Time stopped.

Raynare's lips parted, but no words came out. Dohnaseek's glare faltered. Even Kalawarna, usually the most composed, was stunned into stillness.

They were equals in power—each of the four held their own dominion, their own pride.

But what they heard now wasn't power.

It was will.

Raw, unyielding will born from desperation, from longing, from a soul that had nothing left to lose.

There was no arrogance in Mittelt's voice.

No pride.

Only fire.

And it froze them in their tracks.

For the first time, they saw something unfamiliar in the girl they'd mocked and belittled.

Conviction.

Mittelt turned her back on them.

Not with rage.

Not with pride.

But with the heavy silence of someone who had already mourned the life she was leaving behind.

Her boots echoed faintly against the cracked stone floor of the abandoned church. Every step away from the others felt like tearing through invisible chains, links forged from years of compromise, shame, and false loyalties.

Raynare didn't scream again.

Dohnaseek didn't curse.

Kalawarna didn't stop her.

None of them could.

They were paralyzed—not by fear of her power, but by the clarity in her stride.

She wasn't bluffing.

She wasn't wavering.

She was simply… done.

The air grew still. The sun dipped just enough behind the clouds to cast a pall over the ruined building, as if Heaven itself was watching this quiet exodus.

And somewhere far away—so far it felt like another realm entirely—Jeanne sat atop a golden Divine Throne, her silhouette bathed in celestial light. In one hand, she held a half-eaten cracker, and in the other, a small bag of snacks crinkled softly with each movement.

A saint savoring a snack—that, in itself, would be blasphemy in some eyes.

But she was not bound by their gaze.

She had felt it the moment Mittelt spoke those words.

"I'm leaving."

She didn't need to witness the confrontation. No divine prophecy was required. The resolve contained in those words had traveled like a lone prayer carried on the wind—a voice so small, so fragile, yet brimming with defiance and clarity.

It had reached her without fanfare. Quiet. Absolute.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, so subtle it might have been mistaken for a trick of the light.

"…Good," she whispered to no one in particular, the word dissolving into the still air.

Because in that single act of rebellion, Jeanne had not merely seen defiance.

She had seen a choice.

A deliberate, conscious act of will forged in despair.

And in the eyes of the holy—those who understood the weight of free will—a soul that chooses, even from the depths of disgrace, shone far brighter than one that blindly obeyed in the name of virtue.

The wind stirred her silver-blonde hair, and she closed her eyes. A forgotten verse surfaced, brushing past her mind like the turning of a sacred page.

Not all who fall are forsaken.

Yes. The Beginning had taken root.

Jeanne hadn't extended her hand to Mittelt with some grand design in mind. It had been, at best, a whim—no, more accurately, a passing gesture laced in curiosity. A choice between life and death.

A test.

She never intended to kill the girl. But Mittelt didn't know that.

And when faced with annihilation or servitude, Mittelt had chosen to live.

To live… under her.

That fact alone set her apart.

Jeanne was no tyrant. She did not revel in chains or contracts. But to someone like Mittelt, who had spent her life bound by failed ideals and broken promises, Jeanne must have appeared no different from a conqueror.

A woman who had tamed the Strongest Being in Existence was now commanding her?

Yet Mittelt did not beg for her life.

She did not cry in dispair.

She did not ask for leniency or bargain for time.

When Jeanne had extended a single question to be answered—trust—Mittelt had offered her entire being in response.

No hesitation. No conditions.

And that, to Jeanne, was fascinating.

She had anticipated resistance, bargaining, or at the very least—resentment.

But what she received was surrender.

Not the kind born of weakness… but of hope.

A defiant hope, clutching at the smallest spark of salvation.

How ironic.

The Mittelt she remembered from other versions—the kusogaki, the bratty imp who mocked her betters and died ignobly to give someone else a power boost—was gone.

What stood before her now was someone new. Someone real.

Someone who, when faced with even the slimmest chance of redemption, had discarded everything she knew and chosen to walk a path toward the unknown.

It wasn't much, no.

But it was symbolic.

That was what Jeanne understood most deeply, as she took another thoughtful bite of her cracker.

Sonder.

That peculiar, aching realization that every soul—even the most insignificant—carries a story just as vast and intricate as her own. A world unseen. A depth unspoken.

And here she was—Jeanne d'Arc, a saint reborn—now witnessing the unfolding of Mittelt's story.

One that had nearly been written off.

She had given Mittelt a chance on a whim… and in return, Mittelt had offered her soul.

The tide had already shifted.

Whether Mittelt was prepared or not, change had been set in motion.

Could Jeanne redeem her?

She wasn't sure. She had pondered it.

In this world—this strange reflection of theology and myth—it seemed Angels fell far too easily. Not from acts of rebellion, as in the Nasuverse, but from something as human as impure thoughts.

A single errant desire, and you were cast down.

What a whimsical, cruel Creator the world served.

The Saint within Jeanne bristled at the injustice. And yet, she understood. This wasn't the world she knew. Here, to fall from grace was easier than to rise into it.

But maybe… maybe she could change that.

If God created angels in His image, perhaps she could craft her own.

After all, Jeanne, as a Vessel of Power, was an existence closer to God than she was to the Angels of his Creation.

So maybe, just maybe, she herself could create her own children.

Not as servants.

But as kindred souls.

Beings molded not by divine judgment and yearning for an imperfect perfection—but solely through second chances.

Could Mittelt ever be worthy of such grace?

Jeanne didn't know.

But she was willing to find out.

Only time would tell.

And for now, that was enough.

--+--

A/N: Just a quick chapter before I go to bed. Again, thanks for the power stones, I'm eternally grateful. I see big number and I'm like SHEESH!

While I don't see much point in writing redemptions and I personally don't enjoy reading such, I enjoyed writing this. It was a unique experience. Why the other angels and herself fell is unknown. I just made that shit up.

Jeanne this chapter didn't look like much of a personality, but this was more of an explanation of last chapter.

I personally think it's interesting to see a dichotomy of the almost casual manner in which Jeanne took Mittelt in, but in this chapter it really shows what Sonder is, everyone having their own complex story, even characters as insignificant as Mittelt.

The ORV symptoms are kicking in.

So yeah, it was a blast writing this chapter.

Now I'll rant about some comments that kind of irked me, cause I have emotions and I feel indignant reading such comments.

There was a guy who wrote a review that MC's excuses and motivations were bad. That there, lowkey I have a hard time finding reasons. That's just one of the main limitations I think I have as a writer and something I know I have to fix, but I don't think I'm creative nor smart enough to think up such things, so I can't say much but apologize about that.

There was a guy who said it made no sense Jeanne didn't know Ophis despite reading fanfics and watching up all the way up to season 4.

When I say watched up to season 4, I am basing the original personality's memories based off my own memories of watching high school dxd to season 4. I'm going to be honest, I watched this back in middle school and I'm now in college. I didn't remember much about Ophis, at the very least I remembered her character design.

(Anime wise I only remember until the... terrorist attack at the peace conference? And then skip all the content and I vaguely remember the Hero faction kidnapping Yasaka and that's kind of all I know.)

I know some minor events such as Issei's first Juggernaut Drive and the Rating Game between Sairaorg Bael and Rias (basically having Issei carry them on his fucking back) cause the ost during that fight was fucking bomb. There's some snippets I vaguely remember but I personally don't remember much. Like I know there was something about kuroka but I forgot the entire arc and what it was about. The Fenrir and Ragnarok plots flew over my head too. I'm lowkey getting a headache thinking about having to read up on that shit.

Also, to make this a little more interesting, with the exception of high profile main characters and people in my memories of the anime, any other character who Jeanne may have read she doesn't know much in proportion to how strong they are. I was inspired by the Plausibility of orv, so since the strong take up so much Plausibility, Jeanne doesn't recognize them as easily.

Another complaint there was was that I was giving too much fanservice. What in the world? I know the meaning of fanservice in the content of anime, but I don't think I put any sexual or racy scenes. Are we reading the same book rn?

Last complaint I remember was someone asking me to remove laziness from jeanne. Again, what in the world? If I removed the Bestowal of Seven Sins the title wouldn't have been Lazy Saint of Orleans it would have just been Saint of Orleans??? Do you want me to just change one of the main premises the book was written on? Whuh?

So yeah, sometimes I write chapters under the motivation of like "I am so going to rant about these comments when I finish writing this."

--+--

Confession/Rant#2

Disclaimer: I started writing fanfics because I have a big habit of daydreaming what ifs, which is why I enjoy reading fanfics as well. And sometimes, those ideas that were only in the confines of my imagination fall their way into my hands and I write them(In this case, type them).

Generally, this means that I write fanfics mostly for my own satisfaction, and get some more satisfaction seeing numbers rise. This also means that I won't write things that I don't enjoy writing, now matter how profound or entertaining to others it may be. I don't enjoy writing frustrating events, and if misunderstandings do come up, I try and solve it as fast as possible because I find them annoying.

I also try and finish events as fast as possible, because I don't enjoy reading unreasonably long arcs. It's just a part of my personality of having loosing interest quickly. It's why the mall date, despite having foreshadowing for 2-3 chaps, ended in like 2 chapters, even if it had a combined 8000 words.

Also, admittedly, I enjoy writing cliche tropes occasionally, like the hidden op character, whimsical godlike character, a person with a filter, emotionless character being attached, etc.

It's fanfiction, and I write my fantasies come to life and some reader out there will enjoy it like I do.

Yes, I make mistakes, yes sometimes I don't understand what I write, yes my characters may have unusual and weak motivations. However I enjoy it all the same.

The Jeanne I bastardized is a result of said thoughts and ideas that I enjoy and like but into a character of change.

And I thank you all for enjoying this bastardized character, and this bastardized world, just like I do.

Because no matter what I write, this world I write will never be mine, just a crude imitation of what it could have been.

But I enjoy writing, reading, then rereading my own creations(fakes) much more than the original.

Who says a fake can't beat the original?

Jokes aside, I am very happy for everyone's support despite my shortcomings. This rant and disclaimer was to give a warning for my future readers, and to thank my current readers who have come to enjoy this fake and bastardized world and the bastardized characters in this world.

Thank you once more for over 1k Power Stones, everyone.

End of rant.