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

[You return once again to England.]

[This too was something you had planned a long time ago.]

[After defeating Edmond Tremblerio, you once promised him that after the war, you would personally return his Magic Crest to his family—to his successor.]

[In the time since, you have studied the Magic Crest of this mage-lord extensively. His work in the theoretical foundations of Mystery greatly enlightened you—this was a summary of a genius lifetime on the Mystery Side. It filled in many of the gaps in your understanding of this era's magecraft. In a way, your achievement in simulating the Greater Source and forging a "Divine Body" owes something to him.]

[And having benefited from it, you naturally intended to fulfill your promise.]

[Besides that—]

[You still hold another hostage: the former Regent of England, the King's own uncle—the Duke of Bedford.]

[He too must be returned—as a bargaining chip.]

[To win benefits for France.]

[Given your current status—no longer bound to the Mage's Association, a religious figure in your own right, a leader of an independent Church—no one is better suited for such negotiations.]

[After the coronation ceremony, your wedding with Jeanne was set for a month later.]

[And you planned to use this time to settle all remaining matters.]

...

Waves surged and rocked the currents. A great ship advanced, wind billowing in its sails. Though you now had the power to cross the sea unaided, Lucan stood at the prow—he had come as France's envoy, and it was only proper to arrive with grandeur, not stealth like in his youth.

A clank of metal echoed behind him.

Lucan turned to see several soldiers escorting a man in manacles—tall, lean, bearded, with a noble bearing despite his state. The Duke of Bedford.

Lucan waved a hand, ordering the shackles removed.

"How does it feel, Lord Duke?" he asked with a calm smile.

The Duke flexed his wrists, numb from confinement. "It feels… novel."

"My first time as a prisoner," he said. "And perhaps my last—if your people refrain from launching war on France again."

"War…" The Duke trailed off, recalling the miracle-bearing maiden who had shattered his battle lines. His breath caught. "As long as you and Jeanne d'Arc live, England won't dare try again."

"They fear you both too much."

"Then all is well," Lucan replied. "Soon, I'll send you home. Your presence should help quell unrest in your homeland—and preserve peace between our nations."

"But first, I need a favor."

"Name it."

Though Lucan remained courteous, the Duke knew better than to believe they were equals. He was still a prisoner—a defeated regent. Yet he also knew that Lucan now stood as not only France's sovereign but its spiritual leader. He and Jeanne had founded a national Church, backed by their own templar order. Rome had done nothing in response. Their dominance was now a matter of fact.

So the Duke dared not refuse.

Lucan smiled, pleased by his tact.

He said:

"I want you to wear a silver mask and serve briefly as my emissary. Use our victory—and your status—as leverage. Win us concessions from your own people. Win France what it deserves."

The Duke froze.

He stared at Lucan, gauging his seriousness. Then slowly nodded.

He understood—this was about survival.

If England failed to satisfy France, war would follow.

This was a chance. He had no choice but to try.

...

[But in truth—you weren't thinking so far ahead.]

[You just didn't want the hassle.]

[And you weren't worried about the Duke playing tricks.]

[You had other priorities.]

[Not the secular—but the Mystery.]

[In England, there was only one place that mattered to you—]

[The Clock Tower, the headquarters of the Mage's Association, the heart of European magecraft.]

[You would part ways with the fleet.]

[Bearing the Tremblerio Magic Crest, you would go alone.]

[A solitary visit.]

...

Outside London.

A quaint-looking structure—ancient, unassuming.

The seat of the era's greatest magical institution.

Magic was secrecy. And so the Clock Tower's exterior was plain.

Except for Big Ben.

Beneath it, beside the Thames, a group in black robes waited.

Each cloaked in Mystery.

Each at least a Fourth Stage (Sacrificial) magus.

Mist billowed before them, layered illusions guarding the path.

Above, atop the Tower—two figures stood.

One before the other.

Piercing eyes, glowing blue, surveyed all of London—and all of England.

"He's not here yet," said the woman behind.

She was tall, elegant, in a lacy hat and deep black court dress. Bare shoulders, slender waist, graceful curves, long legs wrapped in black silk. A beauty wrapped in shadow and danger.

Her eyes, like blooming glyphs—layered and inscribed with ritual patterns.

She was one of the Clock Tower's four confirmed Lords, and one of its three remaining Department Heads.

A scion of the Age of Gods witches—the head of the Botany Department—Lady Charlotte Achelott. Not a Grand-ranked magus, but of Color-level.

Yet even so, she stood at the top of the Clock Tower.

The Grand foundation required reviving God Age Mysteries—her ancestor had succeeded. That feat secured their seat as a Lord—one of only three in the last two centuries.

Charlotte was the heir to that legacy.

Though not a Grand herself, she inherited stability and authority.

Grand-ranked successors like Barthomelloi were rare monsters.

And the one before her was just such a monster.

The current Lord Barthomelloi.

A genius who refined ancient foundations into modern form.

The head of the Department of Law, Deputy Director of the Association, heir to Solomon's disciple and the Clock Tower's architect—Lord Vitro Barthomelloi.

A magus who had surpassed the peak, body and mind.

Hair white, form slightly stooped—but eyes sharp, aura overwhelming.

He did not turn as Charlotte spoke.

Only said:

"He's here."

And as he spoke—

Wind stirred.

The mists before the Clock Tower vanished.

A figure appeared.

Not approaching from afar—but emerging, as if from nothing.

"...A technique of the Age of Gods—folding distance itself."

A step.

[Without touching English soil, you arrived]

[Crossing from the docks to the Clock Tower in an instant]

[A Mystery that collapsed space itself]

[You stepped through kilometers in one stride]

[A miracle approaching the realm of the divine]

It was a Mystery fit for the Age of Gods—

A feat half a step beyond Grand!