In the Nasuverse (TYPE-MOON), I Created a Magical Family Lineage

[To magi accustomed to drawn-out wars of attrition, your proposal was certainly novel—but not widely accepted.]

[It was simply too risky.]

[Even the previously aggressive Lord Audun Lautrec thought so.]

[While none could deny the viability of your plan—France's northern ports were all seized, the nation stood defenseless, and scattered infiltration into enemy territory could indeed serve as a deterrent—they weren't willing to risk their own lives.]

[They had no intention of dying for their country.]

[They only cared about protecting their own holdings.]

[And most importantly, they couldn't trust you. After all—you were only eight years old.]

[That age might be acceptable for battlefield prodigies in Konoha, but here...]

[You mentally quip.]

[The surprising one was Flamel. Despite his earlier caution, he now voiced his support.]

["You were born extraordinary. Of course you can accomplish what others cannot."]

[He said this—and seemed to mean it.]

[His praise for you remained as lavish as ever.]

[So much so that even you, confident as you were, found it a bit excessive.]

[Though few in number, you decided to proceed.]

[To observe the times. To merge into the era. To act within it.]

[That is the very purpose of simulation.]

"So, in the end, it's just the few of us?"

At the northern edge of Paris, under the towering city gate built in 1383 to resist English incursions, traffic bustled with fleeing carriages. Some sought the city's high walls for protection; others simply passed through, heading farther south.

Yet Lucan observed one pattern: all movement was southbound—none came north.

Clearly, even the lowliest French peasants could sense war's return.

An inevitable tide.

Yet Lucan was walking against that tide. He glanced over his shoulder, youthful face tinged with discontent.

Behind him stood only a handful of people.

Just a few magi who agreed to his plan—those willing to infiltrate England for a "strategic counter-move."

"A few people, and you're still dissatisfied? How greedy of you, little Vic."

Prelati's teasing voice floated behind him. She looked down at the small boy with the mature expression and found it amusing.

She flicked her flowing silver hair. "Do you think magi are the kind to risk their lives?"

She poked at Lucan's cheek.

Lucan replied flatly, "Risking our lives?"

"This hardly qualifies as 'danger.'"

"Hahaha! That's the look I love—so confident, so calm... I can't wait to see it twist in fear and panic, little Vic!"

Prelati giggled, then turned. "Still, I didn't expect you to join us... Lady Isabelle de Rais."

Indeed, among those who followed Lucan was the pale-skinned, dark-haired woman related—perhaps closely—to Gilles de Rais, future black magus and companion of the Saint.

Isabelle answered with a chill smile: "Our family has magical heritage, but at its root, the de Rais line earned its peerage through knightly valor. Naturally, I must join a just cause."

"Oh? But I heard it's your little brother—Gilles—who'll inherit the knightly path this generation, no?"

Prelati tilted her head with false innocence.

Isabelle lowered her gaze, barely restraining the twitch in her eye. Were it not for Flamel's reputation, she might've assumed Prelati was simply a naive girl—not an ancient, dangerous entity.

Lucan, by contrast, remained calm.

"Lady Isabelle de Rais," he interrupted, halting Prelati's antics. Then he addressed the rest:

"'Ash' Pierre."

A tall, silent youth in dark leather armor stepped forward.

"'Madam Raven' Marguerite."

A sultry middle-aged woman dipped in acknowledgment.

"'Mute Clocksmith' Jean."

An elderly, hunched man stroked his disheveled beard.

Old, worn, and unnamed—these three had only aliases, not noble family names. True first-generation commoner magi.

Their origins were even humbler than Lucan's own maternal nobility.

But that was exactly why they could take risks. No lands to defend—only the opportunity to earn something from this mission.

And because of their long immersion in the world of the arcane, they knew never to underestimate a child endorsed by Nicolas Flamel.

Their reply was respectful:

"Yes, Master Victoire Tuval."

"We follow your command."

"Then let's move," Lucan said. "To the nearest port."

Infiltrating England required a ship.

No one objected. Even Prelati agreed.

They set out—six in total—heading northward against the flow of refugees.

Their destination: the port city of Calais, 250 kilometers away.

"Is it really necessary to guard this place?"

Calais—one of five ports facing the English Channel, firmly under English control. The key to any counterattack on English soil.

England had long recognized this. Even a decade ago, they relinquished French territories but held these ports tightly.

Among them, Calais was special—close to Paris, vital for trade, and essential in strategic logistics.

And, critically, important in Mystical terms.

Several English magi now guarded it in secret.

"Watch your tongue," one snapped at a peer. "This port is vital to Lord Trambellio. He gave these orders personally!"

Trambellio—a long-standing noble mage family of Britain. Their bloodline traced back to the age of King Arthur.

Their specialty? Fundamental magecraft. Foundational—but versatile. All-encompassing.

This generation's heir, Edmond Trambellio, was a prodigy: over a hundred circuits, Crown-class potential, a rival to even Lorelei Barthomelloi of the Political Affairs Department.

He was the architect of this covert mystical war between England and France.

And he was rumored to be ascending—to join the Twelve Lords of the Clock Tower.

The other mage fell silent.

For all their talk of reaching the Root, mage families first needed status, wealth, and resources.

And Edmond had his sights on France's remaining 'Mystery'—what little magical essence the war-torn land had left.

He intended to claim it through Calais.

A foundational crest demands a vast, ancient source to evolve. Only the resources of an entire nation would suffice.

And who in France could stop him?

Not even Nicolas Flamel, who'd nearly been sealed by the Association for misuse of the Philosopher's Stone.

France was weak.

The mage guarding Calais gazed across the dock. Sea breeze rolled in. Ships crossed the Channel. All seemed calm.

This section of the harbor had long been cleared of civilians. The Trambellio family's magi—over a hundred—watched it closely.

All of them skilled. All of them branded with crests.

He scoffed.

Let France come. Let them try.

Unless Flamel himself...

Wait. What was that—?

His eyes widened.

A figure.

Someone—ignoring the wards.

Like parting fog.

Walking straight in.

"Enemy attack!"

Magi shouted.

Flames. Water. Smoke. Shadow.

Dozens of spells fired. Dozens more layered.

Crest circuits burned. Magecraft surged.

Over a hundred spells, roaring like a tidal wave.

And then—

Silence.

The storm split.

And from within stepped a child.

A single, radiant figure.

Those born extraordinary, fear not the mundane. —The Thrice Great

[You reached Calais and instantly activated the magic inscriptions woven into your clothes—turning them into a mobile sanctuary of arcane power.]

[Thought became spell. Will became art.]

[Mental magecraft made its debut in this era.]

[Your personal domain of Mystery rejected all inferior Mysteries beneath it.]

[You raised your gaze.]

[The spells surged. The powers fell.]

[There was smoke—but not a scratch on you.]

[Not a single thread out of place. You simply smiled.]

"Over a hundred magi, huh...?"

"My senses weren't wrong."

"This port really is crucial to England's arcane campaign."

Which means...

It must be destroyed.

Lucan's resolve hardened.

Only eight years old.

But forty-six primary circuits roared within him.

Bathed in holy light.

He shone—like an angel, like a GOD