The Principle of the Micro-Source Imitating the Great Source — The Illiterate Girl
"Viewing magecraft solely as a tool for killing rather than a means to pursue mystery, seeking not truth but only victory in conflict—I have always considered such magi to be a cancer upon the world of magecraft. Yet at the same time, I cannot deny that their ideology of wielding 'flesh and blood' as weapons, stopping at nothing, is not entirely wrong within the domain of mystery and truth."
The origin of this ideology can be traced back to Victoire Tourelle, the miracle-worker and sage hailed as the victor of the Hundred Years' War by magi.
Among the theoretical monuments established by Tourelle was a discourse on the utilization of the physical body—a deeper investigation into the concept of the "micro-source."
—Clock Tower Fundamental Curriculum (Revised 1541)
...
[You borrowed the secular military to defeat the great spell known as the "Pseudo-Origin Core" cast by Color-Rank Magus Treille Barju-Ereta.]
[You spied on his great spell and engraved it upon your Mental Magecraft Foundation—and in a flash, replicated it and counter-cast.]
[You used his own spell to destroy him.]
[But you did not kill him.]
[Because you knew he was not your true threat—even a Color-Rank magus, considered a master in the realm of mystery, was far from enough.]
[Your only true concern was the man behind him: Edmond Tremblayrio, who had already completed the foundation of kingship and established a foothold toward the "Grand."]
[So you spared his life.]
[You sent him back to England to stand before his new monarch and deliver a message.]
[What was begun in the past—must be concluded now.]
[Also, his spell—the Pseudo-Origin Core—had inspired you. It gave shape to a line of thought you'd long held.]
[Since long ago, you'd planned to build a triple cycle: using actions to verify consciousness, consciousness to communicate with the soul, and the soul to record all actions.]
[Consciousness is the self, the mind, the "heart" that bridges to the soul.]
[The soul is the origin—the primal self, your transformed Divinity.]
[Action is material. It is your flesh.]
[This was your grand road: material embodying thought, thought connecting to soul, soul containing all things, ultimately folding the cosmos into your origin.]
[But you had always lacked a vital catalyst. Your body, though gifted with forty-six magic circuits, was not monstrous enough. The circuits determined efficiency of life-to-mana conversion, not life force itself—and your life force was insufficient to fully house your Divine soul and mind.]
[Your heart was strong. Your body, too weak.]
[You had resolved to bide your time and grow stronger.]
[Now, a new path had opened: simulate a "Great Source" with a "Micro-Source," replicate a divine age environment within the body, and forge a vessel akin to a divine body.]
[Though this idea remained vague and untested, it was far more promising than before.]
...
The war had ended.
As Lucan defeated Treille Barju-Ereta, Jeanne's army broke the English siege around Orléans.
Their assault was too swift, too sudden.
Their tactics and formation were tailor-made for such a strike.
Despite having twice the numbers, entrenched camps, and an acclaimed general, the English were routed and chased for dozens of kilometers.
The siege was lifted.
In the charred remnants of enemy camps, amidst broken palisades and burning tents, the fleur-de-lis banner flew high—Jeanne d'Arc dismounted, looking back at her dusty and bloodied commanders. Relief bloomed on her lovely, dirt-streaked face.
"The Lord's glory be upon us—we've succeeded."
She beamed.
"The English are mighty, but they are not invincible."
"Today, the Lord's radiance shines upon us!"
The commanders dismounted with her. Soldiers knelt. Their eyes gleamed with awe.
They recalled the furious day and sleepless night of battle, and now understood what "miracle" meant.
France had endured endless failures. Nobles, soldiers, peasants alike had lost their will. They believed the English unbeatable, their kingdom shattered, their king fled, their prince powerless. They answered Jeanne's call only for survival—not victory.
But they had won.
Against the invincible.
And victory brought honor.
And honor, often, brought gain.
At this moment, none doubted Jeanne's authority to grant ranks.
Regardless of whether she had that right, their positions would rise with such merit.
Now, they truly wished to follow her.
To the end of glory.
To the end of triumph.
Thousands followed her.
Lucan, arriving from across the river, watched her.
He was not surprised.
This girl had always embodied "miracle."
...
One war united fractured hearts.
One battle began to turn the tide of a century.
Henceforth, Jeanne d'Arc bore her official title: "The Maiden of Orléans."
The miracle of the nation.
The miracle of salvation.
The miracle of miracles.
—The Holy Maiden of Orléans
...
[You reunited with Jeanne, now glorified by victory.]
[She saw your ragged appearance and smiled in welcome, saying nothing. Her eyes acknowledged your struggle, confirming your shared battle. You offered her congratulations.]
["It is our victory. France's victory," she corrected.]
[You nearly said, "I am France," but stopped—not wanting to confuse your future self.]
[Truthfully, you were exhausted.]
[Forcing a pseudo-Origin Core within your body—a bounded field even Color-Rank magi needed leylines to manifest—had greatly drained your magical energy.]
[In this age of depleted mana, magic was life.]
[Though not fatal, you were worn thin.]
[Jeanne noticed.]
[She ordered the army to rest in place, guarding against enemy counterattack, and had Gilles notify Orléans' defenders of their abrupt salvation.]
[That night, as a "military medic," you were assigned to Jeanne's tent.]
[Sharing meals and quarters with her.]
Lucan: "?"
Staring at the weary blonde girl alone inside, so unlike her daytime self, Lucan was baffled.
She knelt by the fire, her armor removed, revealing her lithe, curving figure. Her posture cast shadows across her waist and hemmed skirt. Her fingers twitched faintly.
Being mistaken for a medic was fine—he knew enough from books, certainly more than this world's reliance on bloodletting.
But she hadn't been injured earlier.
And now—what was this?
"You... you're doing this in the middle of a battlefield?" Lucan muttered.
"What?" Jeanne jerked up, startled, revealing trembling hands clutching a scroll.
Her eyes refocused, spotted Lucan—and lit up.
"Victoire! Help me read this letter, quick!"
"..."
So she was just reading.
And struggling.
This girl—what was with the drama?