SWNOVELXO Chapter 46: The Sadistic Prelati and Nicolas Flamel
Just like the first simulation, a new life flashed past in a montage of memory. Now named "Victoire Tuval," Lucan stood at the edge of the village road with a small pack on his back. Villagers passed by and greeted the frail boy with warmth. Though the blazing sun bore down and he had both mana and mental magecraft bolstering his body, a fine sheen of sweat still layered his skin.
Despite his better starting point and exceptional talent, this body was still that of an eight-year-old. His mana capacity was far below that of his real self, and even with the Mental Magecraft Crest in hand, he couldn't compare—not to the peak-era Lucan Luvist from the Tsar simulation, and not even to his real seventeen-year-old self with limited magic.
Still, reflecting on this simulated life so far, Lucan noticed something: as the simulations progressed, the duration in which his true memories returned—the 'administrator period'—seemed to grow shorter.
That meant more time to develop, more time to plan, more time to consolidate everything he learned.
Satisfied, he waited.
By midday, she finally arrived—his teacher, François Prelati.
He hadn't heard her name in the modern era, but from his true pre-reincarnation memories, he knew it well. Though not famous to the world, she was a powerhouse on the mystical side of this era, rivaling or even surpassing the average Grand of the Clock Tower.
A master of forbidden arts. An expert in alchemy.
Even without being a combat specialist, she was far beyond Lucan's current abilities.
And indeed, the 15th century of France—the Hundred Years' War—was the very era in which François Prelati was said to thrive.
Some even whispered that the martyrdom of Jeanne d'Arc, the saint who would reclaim lost French lands, bore her shadow. And that it was her influence that led Gilles de Rais to descend into the path of black magic.
Undeniably dangerous.
Still—
"Even if you're a big name in the mystical world, that doesn't excuse being late, Prelati-sensei."
At the edge of the country road, Lucan called out to the slow-approaching figure.
"This was a test," she replied without shame. "You should be grateful and wait patiently."
Bathed in the noonday sun, she walked with a parasol tipped at an angle, silver hair cascading around her lace-lined kerchief. Her face was youthful and delicate, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, and her frilled black-and-white dress had a style far beyond this era. Her lithe figure swayed with every step, breasts gently rising and falling, hips outlined by the skirt's curve. Stocking-clad legs in spotless shoes tread across the dirt as if untouched by dust.
She radiated elegance. And mischief.
In Lucan's memory, she hadn't yet started body-switching or gender-swapping like the "Tentacle Princess" she'd be known as in later eras.
Though she'd already achieved one of alchemy's highest miracles—Human Transmutation—she hadn't used it on herself. Not yet.
She hadn't dabbled in Outer Gods either—not to Lucan's knowledge.
But that sadistic personality? Oh, that was unchanged.
"You overslept, didn't you?"
Lucan didn't mince words.
"Now, now, dear Vic. Don't say the quiet part out loud." Prelati smiled while twirling her parasol. "Or… were you hoping to see me sweat through my dress under the sun?"
"Too bad, I'm not into you."
Lucan stepped back calmly—away from a writhing black shadow, and from the tentacles slithering near his feet.
"And stop showing off those octopus limbs. Illusions don't fool my Mental Magecraft."
"Aww… what a shame."
She sighed, letting the tentacles vanish.
"Was hoping to catch a shocked little-boy expression from you. Boys and tentacles are such a match, aren't they?"
What a grotesquely sadistic personality.
Good thing he was used to it.
And thankfully, his Mental Magecraft—part miracle, part magecraft—was potent enough to resist her when she wasn't being serious.
He mused: Boys and tentacles? Shouldn't boys go with fat guys?
He also thought: I'm not that hot yet.
"It's time to go, Sensei."
"Fine, fine."
...
[March of that year — the grass grows, birds chirp.]
[You and your teacher leave the village you called home for eight years and head for distant lands.]
[Prelati doesn't say who her friend is, but based on context, you suspect it's someone important.]
[In this era, few in France could be considered friends of a master alchemist like François Prelati.]
[You travel south.]
[Though this brief peace cuts through the long war, France remains wounded.]
[Graves litter the land. Fields lie barren.]
[The rich stay rich, the poor stay forgotten.]
[Though you've never left home before, you know the geopolitical landscape. Even without foreign threats, France is unstable.]
[The pro-reform Burgundians push for Prince Charles' ascension. The conservative Armagnacs protect the king. Their conflict creates chaos for the people.]
[You understand, but do not intervene.]
[Throughout the journey, you continue studying magic. Even with your Mental Magecraft Crest and illusion capabilities, you seek more.]
[You aim to deepen your foundations and extend the range of your Crest.] [You want to cast more powerful spells instantly.]
[The pursuit of Mystery is endless. You understand this.]
[You learn many insights from Prelati's alchemy.]
[But just as things seem smooth...]
[You witness a riot—farmers and townsfolk rising due to the upper-class political strife.]
[Prelati gleefully eggs them on.]
[You try and fail to stop her.]
[The mob chases you both.]
[Your mana can't sustain wide illusions.]
[Prelati escapes. You run for ten kilometers alone.]
[When reunited, you find she had joined the mob—chasing you—with glee.]
"I finally saw you look pathetic! How delightful, little Vic~"
[Pressed against your back, her feminine body calms your panic.]
[She definitely did it on purpose.]
[You think so.]
[You tell her: 'I may be weak now—but when I'm strong, things will change.']
[...]
[Next riot: you flee first. She gets chased for ten kilometers.]
[Another riot. More chaos.]
[From Vichy in Auvergne, to Bourges in Bourbon, to Romorantin, then Tours—riots spread like wildfire.]
[You realize France truly is the 'land of revolution.']
[And you sense war may return soon.]
[King Henry of England, ever ambitious, won't ignore this unrest.]
[In September of that year, you reach the journey's final stop—Paris. Once conquered many times, still the capital of France.]
[There, you visit an ancient-looking shop.]
[Its owner is exactly who you expected—]
Nicolas Flamel.
"Still alive, old man?"
Prelati greeted him the instant he opened the door.