It took me a while to recover from the shock of waking in the world as Joan, or Jehanne as everyone called me, on my first run through. But the senses were vivid then.

  I remembered helping Maman milk the cows, and reaping the field with Papa using sickles. I smelled the manure, the hay, the sweat of us working—the dirt and grime of everyday farm life. I remembered watching the morning sun spill over the golden wheat and feeling a stillness that can only be described as: la sérénité des champs à l'aube.

  The serenity of the fields at dawn.

  But then his voice would come down, compelling me to take up arms and battle the English invaders. I would use all the knowledge I had from the game. I would do all the side quests, get all the right gear, and train myself in the ways that I somehow knew, as if God himself was putting me through the motions.

  I would lead armies and win battle after battle, but then I would be captured, and be burned at the stake. I would declare my faith in God while the crowds jeered and the flames would consume me.

  Then I would start over again.

  Each time it would be the same, I’d start as the farmer’s daughter, helping out in the fields, dancing in the festivals, laughing with friends as we stepped barefoot in the crisp, clear streams.

  And then the voice would command me. I’d join the war, lead, and be captured. I’d burn until me and my memories were ash.

  Each loop leeched more color out of the life that I had already lived before. The bread tasted like sand in my mouth. The warmth of our family at the table, and even Maman’s hugs felt cold. I could no longer even admire the cherished golden morning dew.

  Mon monde s’était assombri, devenant monochrome. The world had darkened, fading to monochrome.

  I tried to escape. I ran from the village. I became a street urchin, a nurse in a hospital. I cross-dressed as a squire for a knight, and even studied spells to see if I could break free with magic.

  But his voice would always find me, dragging me back, out of the depths of wherever I was, even after I had snuck over to the English side. The voice would call to me from above, directing me to go here and there, and I’d be forced to obey. I’d fight, win, and then later, die by the flames.

  I stopped proclaiming my faith as the heat cooked my nerves. It made not one bit of difference.

  Once, I caught the eyes of a noble, and hope rose in me that he could be a shield. But then I lost him to a duel of pride, and I was swept up once more by the voice of God on the winds of war.

  Each cycle was slowly grinding my soul to dust. I was losing my memories of the boy that I’d been. My memories of Allison, my mom and my dad, were starting to blur. Each lifetime pushed their faces and voices further into the monochrome background.

  My belief that this was a game world was fraying.

  This was real. I was Jehanne la Pucelle, and ‘Stephen Tagenet’ was but a fading ghost.

  I had to resort to carving his name into my arm, sometimes my chest. Just so the pain could help me hold on for a little bit longer. I started writing a list in English of the memories slipping away: my father teaching me to ride a bike, my mother reading stories to me in bed, Ally tracing the lines in the textbook for me late at night…

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  The list grew shorter each time.

  The end was coming. C'est inévitable.

  I had lost track of which lifetime I was at when I stepped into the familiar abbey near Orléans. Inside was the statue of Mary with her arms spread out. I stepped past the church pews, and knelt down before her.

  I crossed my chest and clasped my hands together.

  “Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace…” The words were inscribed into my very soul by now.

  A beam of light shone down from the stained glass window above. I looked up, expecting to see the gleaming steel blade of a long sword descending toward me. Instead it was a much larger sword, with a wider blade, made of darker, gray steel that rippled malevolently. Embedded in its hilt was a large red eye that stared menacingly at me.

  It radiated a foul, oppressive aura, and I knew immediately that this was my salvation: the [Demon Soulfire Blade].

  This was the blade that was never meant to be. The exploit that I had abused to win as a player. Perhaps the reason I was stuck in this game, and also maybe my way out.

  The men all shrank from my gaze when I came out of the abbey. They could sense the difference. I smelled their fear. But his voice called out to me still. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating a fort in the distance—my next target.

  I led the charge toward where he willed, and my army followed.

  Arrows rained down upon us, only to shatter against an invisible barrier of my [Indomitable Aura]. I pointed my sword and a wave of my men surged forward with [Righteous Fury]. Their weapons took on the form of [Heaven’s Lances] as they sundered the walls. Then stepping through rubble, my [Divine Guidance] lit up a path toward their commander. I followed it and put an end to the battle with my demonic blade.

  We conquered nearly all of Normandy by the time my capture event triggered. Once more, I was tied to the stake atop a pyre of firewood. But this time, the raging flames left my golden hair and pale skin untouched, burning away only my dress and bindings.

  I reached out and the [Demon Soulfire Blade] appeared in my hand. With it I scythed through the crowd, reaping the souls of those who called me the heretic that I was. Soon, the ground around me was drenched in blood.

  I survived.

  But his voice called to me still.

  We raced across the channel, our ships carving through the dark brackish waters. Once we landed, we took city after city. I met their generals in the field. I cut down John Talbot, and slew William de la Pole. In only five years, London was burning, followed by the rest of northern England.

  It happened in the middle of the night, just as we had captured the final English city of Newcastle. I was stirred awake by my men, who surrounded me, demanding that I surrender and yield my post. These were men who had followed me for a decade, through thick and thin, against insurmountable odds. Men who had never questioned me, not even when I took up an unholy sword.

  They were my fidèles, my faithful, and yet, now they looked upon me with rage and hate in their eyes.

  In the distance, I saw the shadow of the stake standing over a pile of wood, ready for the flames.

  A memory trickled back to me of a boy playing a game. It seemed that no matter what, the cutscene had to play.

  The demon sword materialized in my hand, and they all receded from me like a wave. I could cut a path through them easily enough. But I knew, deep down, that there was no escape. The curse demanded that I play my part and the fire was waiting.

  My gaze drifted over their faces, men whose families I knew, whose wives I had laughed with, whose children I had hugged. They were the small, bright dots in the monochrome of my existence. Then I looked down at my sword, its red eye stared back at me—angry, accusing, judging.

  I raised the sword and plunged it downwards, into my own heart.

  Please, I prayed to no one, let this be the end.

  “Je ne désire que la fin.”

  I desire only the end.