The last of the Antmen fell in silence.
Their bodies dropped to the ground like shocked flies, severed and crumpled like broken toys scattered across the cavern floor. Blood slicked the stone, and bits of carapace twitched uselessly, confused by death that came too quickly to understand.
Soon after, Clara began to hover back in the air as she made her way back to Adam, who was just floating there as her bone blades retracted with soft, wet sounds into her wrists, leaving behind only pale, unmarked skin. Her additional limbs crumbled like dried leaves, folding back into her body as if they had never existed.
She landed gently in front of him, her feet touching stone with not a sound.
Meanwhile, Adam stayed afloat, meeting her eyes, as Clara began to do a knightly bow, while saying as such.
"All enemies have been slaughtered, mon maître."
Her voice was as calm and neutral...unbothered even, as if she had merely finished sweeping a hallway.
Adam blinked at her. Slowly. A thousand-yard stare trying to process whatever war crime of physics he had just witnessed.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again...
His words not leaving...then he tried one more time.
And this time, he managed to speak his mind.
"What the actual hell was that?"
Clara turned her head slightly, one brow tilting upward, though her face remained unreadable, but she responded to him nonetheless.
"The Moreau family’s sword technique mon maître."
Adam tilted his head like a confused golden retriever.
"Yeah, I got that much. But how is that even... no, no, no... rather how are you cutting things that didn’t even touch your sword?"
Clara gave a small shrug, as if explaining why water was wet.
"It allows me to attack from angles that do not exist in your perspective. I see a different version of space. So I strike through it."
This adds up with the system explanation, although it was still hard to believe that a human was able to create something .
"That’s the explanation?"
He asked once more, still dumbfounded by it.
"It is the simple version, oui."
Clara replied, not knowing what to say to Adam, given this was the truth.
Seeing her response, Adam just sighed and nodded his head if agreeing to just roll with it, as he commented once more.
"You’re one tough cookie, you know that?"
She adjusted the sleeves of her feathered dress, smoothing out a fold near her wrist with robotic precision.
"I have been training in this sword technique since the age of three. Back when I was still human. My mother was...well, very demanding."
Adam whistled low once more, as this was the umpteen time tonight that this woman had surprised him.
"I mastered it in seven years, under the care of ma chère mère. By the age of ten, I was appointed chevalier under His Majesty, King Philippe of House Valois."
Adam blinked when he heard this. He knew she was knight under the king of France in the early 13th century.
But he never knew she became a knight from such a young age.
"You were knighted at ten?"
"Oui. I was born to a noble house with direct ties to the crown. I was expected to perform. My rank was ceremonial at first, but...my results in the field elevated me quickly."
She responded, her attention mostly on Adam.
Then, continue speaking.
"At thirteen, I was named Suprême Commandeur of the French Royal Army. It was not par faveur, nor nepotism. It was merit. I earned it. I won battles. I endured wars. I honed my family’s sword art with every campaign."
"I do not mean to boast, maître, but as a child... I was rather hopeless at most things. Cooking? Zero skills. Cleaning? An utter disaster. It’s funny when you think that in a household of mostly men, I was one of three fille...and to outsiders, it came as quite the surprise that a noble daughter’s only true talent... was killing."
"I know only war, mon maître. Beyond carving through flesh and making others bleed, I am...
She paused briefly as she looked at her black sword, then continued.
"...utterly inutile. Because these hands of mine were made for only the likes of the sword; anything else beyond the concept of violence, I am not very good at."
Hearing this, Adam could not help but say.
"So you were basically Joan of Arc before Joan of Arc was even born... Damn. You were out here slicing dudes up in the 1300s, and she doesn’t even show up till the next century, and does the same shit a century later? That’s wild. Honestly, it’s kinda funny. Like...did France just have a factory for badass warrior women or something?"
He gave her a half-grin.
"Seriously. Y’all French women are built different."
Clara, on the other hand, just tilted her head as she asked.
"Pardonnez-moi mon maître...if I speak out of turn, but... who is this Jeanne d’Arc you speak of? I have never heard of such a warrior in France. Is she... recent noble warrior or something?"
Adam hummed, looking at her, to which he chuckled and responded.
"Well... of course you wouldn’t know her. She wasn’t even born yet."
Said Adam, as he tried to explain who Joan was.
"She comes about seventy-ish years after your time. Her name was Jeanne d’Arc, or Joan of Arc. She was basically a teenage girl who was worshiped as a Saint by French people, Legend says she could hear voices from God. She also lead the French army, kicks ass, and then gets burned at the stake for witchcraft. Total legend."
From there, he pointed a finger at Clara as if connecting dots in the air.
"But you, my dear Clara? You’re basically the prequel. The prototype. If Joan is France’s holy blade, then you’re the original damn forge. But I guess not everyone gets to leave their name in history."
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