"So? What did you think of her, Rias?"
Sona's voice cut through the quiet, her gaze sharp as always. Across the table, Rias gently placed a chess piece onto the board, the soft click echoing in the silence.
"Hm… I couldn't quite put my finger on it," Rias murmured, leaning back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. "She seemed like a genuinely nice person. But… that's all there was to her. Nothing more."
Sona gave a small nod, her expression unreadable. Jeanne had been pleasant, courteous, and perfectly polite—almost too perfect. And yet, despite all that, something felt off. Hollow.
Rias let out a low hum, her crimson eyes unfocused as her thoughts wandered back.
"It's like she's reciting a script… playing a role she's memorized down to the breath. But at the same time, it is her. It's hard to explain. It's like—" she frowned, struggling for the words, "—like watching a stage play where the actress is too good, so good that it becomes unnatural. Just weird."
She remembered the conversation clearly—every word, every smile, every pause. Jeanne had left an impression, yes. But the impression itself was strange.
And that, in itself, was unusual.
As a Devil, Rias was naturally sensitive to the emotional undercurrents of others. Most people, even the most innocent or selfless, carried faint traces of negativity—resentment, envy, bitterness, regret. But Jeanne?
Nothing.
No bitterness, no pride, not even suppressed anger. It wasn't that she was pure. It was as if the very concept of negativity passed through her like light through glass—colorless, scentless, invisible. The absence itself was disturbing.
Rias had initially chalked it up to Jeanne being a 'Saint'—the exact image that came to mind when most people laid eyes on her. But the more she thought about it, the more it felt like something deeper. Something fundamentally different.
It wasn't denial or repression. It was closer to indifference—a serene, absolute neutrality that neither Rias nor Sona could understand, let alone explain. The more they examined it, the less sense it made.
And that lingering sense of incongruity… that was what made Jeanne unforgettable.
Despite magical probes—measures meant to detect even the faintest supernatural trace—Jeanne remained an enigma. She defied categorization. She felt human, and yet not quite.
Her innate Magic Resistance, so absolute it bordered on the divine, had even made both Rias and Sona consider her as a potential Bishop. After all, such an extraordinary defense implied a wellspring of mana—one that could repel even Hypnosis Magic without conscious effort.
What they didn't realize, however, was that Jeanne's resistance was not something she trained or cultivated.
It was simply her nature.
The kind of resistance born of her EX-ranked Magic Resistance—capable of deflecting even magical Noble Phantasms. A divine bulwark forged not through intent, but through identity.
Ironically, Jeanne had never practiced Magecraft. Not once.
Her devout faith was visible to anyone who met her—sincere, unwavering, almost radiant. And yet, that very radiance created distance, as though a divine wall separated her from the world around her.
In the end, Rias and Sona had settled on the safest label they could give her: a special human. Not dangerous enough to monitor… but far too strange to dismiss.
What neither of them could have possibly known, however, was the truth behind Jeanne's soul.
Her very being operated under different rules.
The original personality that had transmigrated into Jeanne's body made up only half of who she was. The other half… shifted depending on the vessel she occupied. Each vessel imposed its own filter, warping her speech, thoughts, and even her emotional output.
No matter what sarcastic thoughts danced in her mind, what came out of her mouth were pleasant, even-tempered phrases. The image of the Saint—polished, immaculate—was not just a performance. It was enforced by the vessel's very nature.
Each form brought its own burden.
Jeanne Alter was sharp-tongued, volatile, impulsive—her prickliness combining with the original's wry detachment to form a volatile tsundere who lashed out before thinking.
Saint Jeanne, on the other hand, was bound by altruism and fairness. She took every internal thought and refined it, reshaped it, until only neutral, measured words were left—likely a trait inherited from her Ruler class.
Metatron was an entirely different case. Initially designed to be a perfect, emotionless judge of humanity, it lacked a personality entirely. And yet now, unless Jeanne consciously invoked Univers Immortel Metatron, that 'perfect angel' form had devolved into a lethargic, playful loafer who did nothing but nap and play around inside her psyche.
It was a frustrating reality that Jeanne had long since given up fighting.
There was only one exception—a moment of clarity amidst the chaos.
When Jeanne was with Ophis, while in her Saint Jeanne form, something miraculous happened. Her deeply rooted wish to be an older sister aligned perfectly with her genuine desire to protect and cherish Ophis. In that rare harmony, the filter worked with her, not against her.
Of course, Jeanne Alter gave her the most freedom—being wild, whimsical, and unconcerned with consequences. But freedom came with a price. That same carefree attitude meant Alter cared little for what, or who, got hurt in the process.
But none of that—none of the fractured selves, the split filters, the emotional suppression—was known to Rias or Sona.
To them, Jeanne was just a gentle, distant enigma. A misunderstood girl cloaked in light.
And all Jeanne could do was smile politely… and weep in silence.
Because in the end, it was all just a misunderstanding. One she couldn't even explain.
--+--
'Why am I out here so late…?'
Jeanne sighed internally, her footsteps echoing faintly through the quiet night as a plastic convenience store bag dangled from her hand, swaying with each step. Inside were two premade bentos and a modest selection of sweets—dinner, hastily salvaged, for her and Ophis.
She hadn't wanted this outcome. She had tried. Earnestly.
Dinner had been her responsibility tonight, and she had gone in full of determination. She even bought enough ingredients to make four full servings, in case she botched it and needed to retry.
But what came out of her kitchen wasn't food. No—it was an unholy substance, thick and gelatinous, a mess that shifted like a cursed slime. Her attempt at a classic Hamburg steak had somehow mutated into a non-Newtonian disaster.
She stared at it, bewildered. How… how does meat even do that?
Ophis had tried to eat it. Genuinely. She'd poked it with her chopsticks, smiled ever so slightly, and said it was fine. Jeanne almost cried on the spot—not from gratitude, but guilt. That expression… that was the face of a martyr.
She wouldn't allow it.
And so, Jeanne had left the apartment, steeling herself for one last mission of the evening: emergency food acquisition. She aimed for the marketplace first, in hopes of finding both new supplies and perhaps a proper cookbook to keep future disasters at bay. But by the time she arrived, the shutters were already drawn.
So now here she was, walking through dim streets with a bag of store-bought meals. Not ideal, but it would do. She had also grabbed some sweets as an apology to Ophis. Jeanne had wanted to buy fruit too—but the prices were borderline criminal.
Two thousand yen for a handful of strawberries? That wasn't a purchase. That was daylight robbery.
Yes, she had money. But as a woman of principle, she couldn't bring herself to accept such extortion. She chalked it up to convenience store inflation and vowed to pick some up from the market tomorrow.
Then—mid-step—she halted.
The Revelation skill activated like a divine whisper brushing against the back of her neck. Her senses sharpened. Someone was behind her.
Not close. Not dangerous yet. But following.
A shadow in motion.
Jeanne didn't panic. Not even slightly. Fear never entered the equation—not when she knew, with absolute certainty, that she would win any fight that came her way.
No… what she feared wasn't losing.
It was being seen.
Jeanne had no interest in broadcasting her identity to the world. Not tonight. Not over something so trivial. The fewer people who knew what she was capable of, the better. Quiet victories left fewer ripples—and she preferred it that way.
Still, her thoughts raced. It could be that lunatic exorcist, Freed Sellzen. Or it could be the Fallen Angels—the arrogant dregs of Heaven who looked down on humans as inferior. She couldn't recall which one led them, and honestly, she didn't care enough to try.
They would be a threat. But a threat she could crush.
Even so, the vestige of Saint Jeanne that lingered in her heart frowned at judging others prematurely. Jeanne had read redemption stories before—some hopeful, some poetic—but they felt distant now. Hollow. Idealism was something she had shelved long ago.
And besides, she had no intention of calling on Univers Immortel Metatron for something like this. Not unless she absolutely had to. The Fallen wouldn't listen to a human anyway, even one chosen by Heaven. They never did.
She scoffed under her breath. "They'd probably still think they're superior… Even Arthur would flatten them with one hand."
Humans were flawed. Yes. But that flaw was potential. The kind that could rise higher than even gods.
No, she wouldn't waste Metatron on this. And he, in his impartiality, would probably agree.
Still—whether the person tailing her was friend or foe—she had no interest in being watched.
Jeanne veered off the main street, heading toward a quieter, abandoned corner of the district. Her stride never faltered. Her gaze remained ahead. But her senses stretched in all directions, precise and controlled.
In the stillness of the alley, she summoned just a fragment of Metatron's power. A sliver—barely enough to cause a ripple.
The Divine Construct: Quill of Enoch materialized in her hand—elegant, weightless, ancient. She dipped the pen into the air and wrote a single Hebrew word.
Barrier.
מַחסוֹם
The air distorted. A Bounded Field snapped into place, invisible to all but the divine. Its properties bent around her intent like obedient threads weaving themselves into form.
She didn't want to be found. She wanted this over quickly.
So the barrier became what she needed it to be: concealed, fortified, temporally accelerated. It masked the alley in secrecy, pushed away curious souls, and quickened the flow of time within.
A perfect, silent stage for what came next.
Jeanne exhaled slowly, eyes gleaming beneath her bangs.
"Come on, then," she whispered to the night, lips curling ever so slightly. "Let's see what kind of fool you are."
The moment the barrier solidified, Jeanne's lingering worries dissolved like mist in morning sun. Now, even if she unleashed her full strength, no one would know.
She came to a halt, her footsteps falling silent on the cracked pavement. Slowly, she turned her head.
From the shadows of the alley, a tall figure stepped into the pale light of a flickering lamppost.
A man—broad-shouldered, draped in a dark coat that billowed faintly with his movements—emerged with the casual air of someone who had done this many times before.
Jeanne narrowed her eyes. She didn't recognize the man. Her knowledge of canon and fanfics could only take her so far.
Still, she spoke with calm clarity. "Could I know why you've been following me?"
The man's deep voice echoed in the hollow street. "Is there a reason I can't kill humans for no reason at all?"
Her expression darkened.
Now she remembered. This was one of the low-tier Fallen Angels—Dohnaseek. A disposable minion from the first season. Pathetic, really.
Jeanne felt the flicker of something darker crawl up her spine. Her fingers twitched with the restrained urge to shift into her Alter Form. It would be so satisfying to wring screams from this arrogant waste of grace.
But she kept her voice even. "What have I done to anger you?"
Dohnaseek scoffed, eyes gleaming with disdain. "You'll be dead soon anyway. Might as well know. That damn bitch Raynare yelled at me just because her stupid package was late. So now I'm pissed. And I want to kill someone."
He said it like it was a perfectly logical excuse. As if murder was on par with blowing off steam at the gym.
Jeanne stared at him, unimpressed.
'I want to kill you for pissing me off too, idiot.' She bit back the words, sighing internally.
If only she were one of those edgy fanfic characters who could just kill someone on impulse and walk away like nothing happened. But Jeanne was, unfortunately, burdened with logic—and consequences.
Killing Dohnaseek would mean dealing with the other three Fallen before they could report his disappearance. Which would drag attention toward Kuoh. That alone might put unnecessary pressure on Sona and Rias. Jeanne was new to town. Suspicion would inevitably fall on her.
And that wasn't even factoring in Asia Argento—the girl with Twilight Healing. Jeanne didn't know whether she was sent to Kuoh by Azazel or someone higher, but suddenly bringing in a Sacred Gear holder? That would light a beacon across the entire underworld.
It would turn into one of those never-ending Wuxia cycles: kill a fool, his elder comes; kill the elder, the grand elder descends. Eventually, you either die or become the storm.
Jeanne had no desire to escalate things that far. Not yet.
She clicked her tongue. Why is it always like this?
Metatron Jeanne had EX Rank luck. But right now, as Saint Jeanne… she barely scraped by with C Rank.
Resigned, she reached inward—tapping into the divine power of the Scribe of God.
If she couldn't kill him, then erasing the problem from existence without causing ripples was the next best thing.
After all, who could resist the magecraft of the being who granted it to Solomon himself? Who else could defy the will of Metatron, the Angel closest to the throne?
As Metatron's essence filtered through her, a deep weariness settled into her bones. Motivation ebbed. Sloth—its Sin—seeped into her limbs.
She sighed audibly.
Dohnaseek's face twisted. "Why is a lowly creature like you sighing in the presence of your superior?"
Jeanne glanced at him, expression flat. "Dude. At least be strong if you're going to talk like that. Otherwise, you just sound like a third-rate villain. Only someone like Gil can get away with that kind of arrogance."
Her voice had grown lazy, almost drawling, as the Sin took effect. But that laziness didn't hide the sharpness underneath—if anything, it made it cut deeper.
Dohnaseek's face contorted with rage.
"This mongrel…!"
A spear of light formed in his grip, crackling with holy energy, and he hurled it with lethal intent.
Jeanne frowned. This Gilgamesh-wannabe really thought he could win with that?
With practiced ease, she raised the Quill of Enoch, divine script forming in the air around her.
The spear, aimed dead at her chest, suddenly twisted mid-flight—knocked off-course by a force unseen, yet absolute.
Jeanne didn't even move, her raised hand still lazily in the air.
Unfortunately for Dohnaseek, people who relied on Magic to fight were the best matchups for Jeanne.
Magic Resistance was an EX Rank Skill, despite Jeanne using Metatron as a vessel it still switched over.
Dohnaseek's eye twitched. "A fluke. Let's see you dodge this next—!"
"Silence."
Her voice came down like a divine edict.
The single word struck not his ears, but his soul.
Dohnaseek choked. He clutched at his throat, trying to form words—but his mouth wouldn't obey. Panic danced behind his eyes.
Jeanne shook her head, brushing a stray hair from her face.
"If only I could just kill you… God, when you send me enemies, could you please choose ones with no connections? Something like a good stress ball."
Oh wait. He's dead.
He stared at her, the weight of her indifference and apathy pressing down harder than any light spear.
Jeanne lifted her hand once more.
The Quill of Enoch floated between her fingers, glowing with sacred power. She began to write—two words, etched in radiant Hebrew that pulsed with law-altering force.
Dohnaseek's eyes widened. As a former Angel, he recognized the script instantly.
Memory.
Order.
זִכָּרוֹן.
לְצַוֵת.
His thoughts scattered. His vision blurred. His limbs began to move—not by will, but command.
Like a puppet cut from its strings, Dohnaseek turned around, dazed, and walked out of the barrier.
Jeanne watched him vanish into the dark, her lips curling in contempt.
"…How boring."
With how Metatron worked, just putting her intent into the words automatically resulted in what she unconsciously wanted. Jeanne wanted him to forget, and follow the order of walking away. Metatron's ability would do the rest, achieving an optimal result that Jeanne's subconscious would be satisfied with.
With a lazy gesture, she dispersed the barrier and let the power of Metatron fade from her form. The exhaustion lifted. Saint Jeanne returned, slipping back into the shadows of the city, unseen.
Dinner was still waiting for the Jeanne house. And hopefully, Ophis hadn't started eating that monstrosity.
--+--
He had followed her out of sheer boredom at first.
The blonde girl seemed like no one important—just another passerby with a plastic bag of convenience store junk. But something about her gait, her calm pace even in the dead of night… It irritated him.
And Raynare's endless screeching earlier had left him on edge.
He wanted a target. Something to break. And this human would do just fine.
What's the worst that could happen? The higher-ups didn't care about a single corpse. Raynare wouldn't complain if he came back with some blood on his coat. In fact, it might shut her up.
So when the girl stopped walking and turned toward him, Dohnaseek didn't flinch. He stepped out of the shadows like it was his stage.
Her gaze met his with a detached, unimpressed calm.
"Could I know why you've been following me?" she asked, as if she had caught a lost dog trailing behind her.
His lips curled into a smirk.
"Is there a reason I can't kill humans for no reason at all?"
Her eyes narrowed. A frown tugged at her mouth.
There it was—that flicker of recognition. The shift in her expression as she placed him.
Good. Fear me.
She responded with irritating composure. "What have I done to anger you?"
Dohnaseek shrugged, his words smooth with cruelty. "You'll be dead soon anyway. Might as well know. Raynare yelled at me over a damn delivery. So now I'm in a bad mood. And I want to kill something."
He thought she'd panic. Cry. Plead.
Instead, she stared. Blank. Unbothered.
He could almost hear her scoffing—What a moron.
It made his jaw clench.
She sighed. A long, tired sigh like she'd seen this all before and couldn't be bothered to fake interest.
What was this feeling…?
Disdain?
No, worse—indifference.
"Why is a lowly creature like you sighing in the presence of your superior?" he snapped.
And then she said it.
"Dude. At least be strong if you're going to talk like that. Otherwise, you just sound like a third-rate villain. Only someone like Gil can get away with that kind of arrogance."
Her voice was low, almost lazy, but her words sliced through him.
His pride flared. "You mongrel—!"
The light spear formed instantly in his hand, crackling with holy energy. He flung it straight at her chest, confident in his strike.
She didn't even flinch.
The spear swerved.
Like it struck a wall he couldn't see, it was knocked away.
What?
He stared, blinking in disbelief. That wasn't a normal shield. That wasn't a Sacred Gear.
That was something else.
Before he could ready another, her voice cut through the air.
"Silence."
And everything froze.
It wasn't a spell. It wasn't some trick.
The word itself commanded his soul.
Dohnaseek's throat closed. His jaw locked. No sound came out.
Panic surged in his chest. He tried to scream, to curse—but his body refused. His limbs trembled as he looked at her.
Her eyes were glassy with disinterest, like she'd already forgotten his existence.
She wasn't fighting back because she feared exposure.
No.
She didn't fight back because she didn't have to.
"If only I could just kill you…" she muttered, half-lidded eyes gazing at the stars like she was filing a complaint with the heavens. "God, when you send me enemies, could you please choose ones with no connections?"
He tried to gather power. Tried to manifest another spear. Nothing.
Then she raised her hand.
A golden pen floated between her fingers—gleaming with ancient authority. She began to write.
Dohnaseek recognized the script immediately.
Hebrew…?
His eyes widened.
No. Not just Hebrew.
Sacred Law.
Two words.
Memory. Order.
His thoughts shattered like glass.
His vision fogged. His body moved.
No—he wasn't moving. He was being moved.
Feet turned. Step after step, he walked away, expression vacant.
He couldn't stop. Couldn't scream. Couldn't remember why he even wanted to fight.
He passed through the edge of the barrier without even noticing.
And in that final flicker of awareness before the command erased everything, one thing became terrifyingly clear.
That woman—no, that being—was no ordinary human.
She wasn't even someone he could comprehend.
She was mercy cloaked in laziness.
A divine storm content to sleep… unless disturbed.
--+--
T/N: I really tried by best. I would appreciate all Power Stones btw
I added a name to the pen. I kind of just didn't want to keep calling it Divine Pen, and I consider it Divine Construct. I don't know the accuracy of the statement, but I personally consider both the Throne of God and the Pen a Divine Construct.
The name is Quill of Enoch because in the myths, Metatron was Enoch when he ascended, and Quill sounds cooler than pen.
As the Scribe of God, I assumed she used the Quill to channel her will on the World. Or God's will whatever you take it as.
She's a person who's the closest to God, who gave magecraft to Solomon.
She could probably use something like Divine Words like it's a kids game.
It went with the concept of Scribe of God too, so I was like why not.
There was a review who said Jeanne didn't have much of a personality, only being polite. There's a reason for that, but I did try to put some personality into Jeanne this chapter, because even though it may be negative i'll try my best to accommodate critique.
I really did try and put personality into Jeanne this chapter when she had the opportunity, so if you say she doesn't have any, I may be cooked.
Metatron's Sloth exacerbates Jeanne's original personality, and she's stuck having her words be twisted through Saint Jeanne, so she took the opportunity.
Also, people may dislike how she didn't kill Dohnaseek.
I don't really understand why she would. Yes, she may think that. If it was freed sellzen she probably would, because the fallen angels don't care for him that much.
It's because it was Dohnaseek that she didn't. While the fanfics of their mcs just killing people because they know they evil and annoying I do enjoy them as well. I just can't see Jeanne killing Dohnaseek for such a stupid reason other than he tried to kill me, because of how weak he is, no matter what Dohnaseek can't kill Jeanne anyways. It's like killing a pet of a CEO just cause it tried to steal the smallest part of your food.
But it gave me the opportunity to showcase Metatron's abilities instead of having Jalter blitz the man.
Also, some may ask, why doesn't Dohnaseek know that Jeanne is an Angel when she switches vessels?
Jeanne is only using the belief and energy through her pen. How is he supposed to tell from that, especially because DxD angels and TYPE-MOON angels are completely different.
I see it as God using the power from his accumulated Belief to make strong angels in DxD, while in TYPE-MOON all angels are born through Belief, and it's because their setting of belief that God is their Father.
So while Metatron's ability is set as Holy, technically it's in the same realm as the Gods in terms of origin. DxD angels are Holy power based because God made them that way, but Metatron is Holy because Belief made them that way. You understand?
Thank you for listening to my rant.