SWNOVELXO Chapter 47: The Mystical World War
Nicolas Flamel—also known as "Nicolas Flamel" in the tongue of the world—was a name spoken across the globe.
Compared to François Prelati, whose legacy lived on in scattered, ominous whispers, Flamel's achievements were far more groundbreaking.
After all, where Prelati's human transmutation dealt merely with the substitution of physical life, Flamel succeeded in researching something previously deemed myth—something thought to exist only in the Age of Gods: the Philosopher's Stone.
The Philosopher's Stone wasn't merely a miracle of transmutation. It enabled not only human synthesis, but also the legendary feat of turning lead into gold—a pinnacle achievement in alchemy.
In this world, where the older and more mysterious something is, the more powerful it becomes, gold holds transcendent significance, having originated in stellar cataclysms. Those who can manipulate gold often can manipulate everything—and even replicate the conditions of the divine Age of Gods using modern magecraft.
If human transmutation equaled grand thaumaturgy like Baptism Rites or Reality Marbles, then the Philosopher's Stone approached something higher—
The realm of True Magic.
Though Nicolas Flamel wasn't the only one to ever craft such a stone, he was undeniably the trailblazer.
He was the first, after the decline of mystery, to recreate god-era technology. A miracle-worker. A peak alchemist whose accomplishments nearly reached the level of Magic.
That very man now stood before Lucan and Prelati.
An old man in a plain gray robe, his long hair dense and tangled. His stooped frame and skin like dry bark gave him the air of a weathered ancient tree—a being etched with time.
[You are surprised by Nicolas Flamel's aged appearance.]
[In your understanding, masters of such arcane heights should have countless ways to delay their aging—or even achieve immortality, like Prelati, who lived to the modern era in the "original work."]
[But Flamel seems completely unbothered by your arrival.]
[He pays no mind to Prelati's rude tone or your visible surprise, simply inviting you both into his timeworn shop and serving rich, pre-prepared coffee.]
"This coffee... how long has this stuff been sitting around? As long as you have?"
Prelati made no move to take the cup, instead covering her nose with distaste.
Lucan eyed the near-black coffee. His silence spoke volumes.
"These beans were grown the same year John II was captured by the English. I remember that year well—nearly lost my coffee supply."
Nearly sixty years ago.
Flamel sat down opposite them with a shuffling gait, a distant look in his eye.
The shop, matching its owner, was soaked in age. The four surrounding shelves and alchemical tools scattered throughout evoked a sense of quiet dignity. Clearly, this was Flamel's personal alchemical workshop—akin to a magus's atelier.
Though Lucan felt no trace of magecraft or spellwork active within, as if it were merely an ordinary store.
Had Prelati not been with him, Lucan would never have stepped inside.
Entering the atelier of a legendary alchemist, even one confident in his own strength, would be reckless.
Then Flamel added:
"Of course, that year was most memorable for another reason—meeting you, Lady François Prelati."
Was Prelati older than Nicolas Flamel?
Lucan's brows twitched slightly.
He recalled the legend: Nicolas Flamel had not been born a magus or alchemist. He had been a mere scribe who claimed an angel gifted him a mysterious book filled with alchemical knowledge.
Now it seemed—no angel. Likely Prelati, stirring up her usual mischief.
He now wondered: Just how long had his eternally youthful teacher lived?
"Something wrong, little Vic? You look like you're thinking bad thoughts," Prelati said, turning her violet eyes toward him. Her smile was pleasant, but her displeasure was unmistakable.
Lucan replied calmly, "I'm simply curious—curious in the way any magus seeking Mystery ought to be."
Prelati blinked, genuinely surprised.
"Such a calm, rational answer… how unexpected, little Vic."
"Of course," Lucan smiled back. "After all…"
"I've seen your future—in a dream. That power you call 'future sight.'"
"Good people die young, but villains live a thousand years. I'm honestly curious… have you already lived a thousand? Planning to double that?"
Lucan—no, Victoire Tuval—could vaguely glimpse scenes of the future in his dreams.
[Prelati already knew.]
[In truth, these dreams were fragments of memories—remnants of Lucan's life before reincarnation.]
[The simulation system naturally allowed for such dreams when stimuli triggered them. These flashes only occurred when encountering people or places he had seen as a "viewer" in his past life.]
[That's why it hadn't happened in the first simulation.]
[But this time, with the chaotic element that was François Prelati—it had been reactivated.]
Lucan had been intelligent even before regaining full memory. Just a bright, observant eight-year-old.
His casual mention of the visions had been natural.
And Prelati, ever theatrical, had labeled them "future sight."
[In this world of mysteries and unknowns, even a rare ability like future sight wasn't cause for panic.]
[Especially one so vague and unreliable.]
Prelati smiled wickedly.
"Curious, are you?"
"Well then, stay curious. Maybe I'll tell you—at your grave, when you're dead. Looking just like this."
"Puhahahaha!"
The "girl" burst into peals of laughter.
In the midst of that exchange, Nicolas Flamel finally turned to Lucan.
"So this is the young man you spoke of so often, Lady Prelati? Your newest pupil—the prodigious peasant throwback—Victoire Tuval?"
The old man raised cloudy eyes.
"That's me," Lucan replied calmly, turning his gaze to the famed elder of alchemy.
"I'm Victoire Tuval. And—very likely—the ally you hope for in resisting England's incursion into France's mystical domain."
Yes.
[Though Prelati never stated her goal, you had guessed it.]
[You knew that the magical world of Europe was governed by the Mage's Association and the Church—both of whom claimed magic had no borders.]
[But you also knew the truth: Magic may not have borders, but magi do.]
[Most magi didn't care for politics. But when their personal interests were threatened, they fought.]
[And in the old world, Mystery belonged not to the common folk, but to nobility—to the elite. To those like Gilles de Rais, who followed the saint. And like the powerful family your mother once belonged to, who could call upon someone like Prelati.]
[Mystery might remain hidden—but its wars took many forms. Magi could battle without the common world ever knowing.]
[Yet throughout your travels, you hadn't seen many magi.]
[You knew that was wrong.]
[Then you arrived in Paris. Then you met Flamel.]
[And suddenly you understood.]
[The magi weren't absent. They were gathered here—in France's capital.]
[England had already seized five port cities along France's northern coast, effectively controlling the Channel.]
[Paris, in the north, was the next flashpoint.]
[Already the front line.]
[The front line of a war unknown to the world—a mystical war between nations.]
[You suspect that's why Flamel's atelier is utterly unguarded—no magical defenses, no concealment. Too many guests in recent days.]
[You believe this is why Flamel didn't seem surprised to see you.]
[And you are confident in your reasoning.]
Silence.
As Lucan—Vic—spoke each word, giving form to every observation, every suspicion born of his journey…
The ancient shop fell quiet.
Flamel looked at him with wide eyes.
Prelati could barely contain her delight, suppressing her laughter at Flamel's reaction.
She merely said:
"Don't look at me like that. I honored your precious little secrecy pact. Didn't say a word on the way here."
Prelati adored surprise, shock, fear, fury—even despair. To her, those were the finest performances.
And this performance? An eight-year-old boy, deducing the entire truth on his own?
Perfect.
"This is… astonishing," Flamel finally said.