In Type-Moon: Creating a Magecraft Family Lineage

January in Moscow was still wrapped in the harshness of winter. The heavy snow falling outside, carried by the biting wind, was like goose feathers shaken from a giant beast. The accumulated snow was like a blanket woven from down, covering the world.

With a jingle, a figure burst through the snow-swept street and into the tavern, where a bell hung on the door. A blast of hot air, laden with the thick scent of smoked wine, rushed to meet him.

"Mmm, what a nice smell," the newcomer said, stroking the upturned mustache on his face. He took off his leather hat, which was soaked and covered in snow, shook his shoulders, and the falling snowflakes seemed to bring the heavy snow into this small, warm space.

"Sir, what can I get for you?" a young bartender asked, walking past the crowded square and round tables.

The man smiled. "I'm here to meet someone. And get me two bottles of vodka—on a snowy day, this kind of drink is very suitable, isn't it?"

"Certainly, sir. Please have a seat first." The young bartender bowed slightly and stepped aside.

The man stroked his mustache again. He looked at the tavern, which wasn't spacious but not too cramped either, crowded with people. On a snowy day, the people of the Tsarist empire always liked to gather in taverns to drink and have fun. This was a very normal phenomenon. But this year seemed a little different.

The man walked to a corner of the tavern. "Since the Gray Terror last year, it's been rare to see a scene like this in a tavern." The man placed the hat he was holding on the table in the corner by the window and looked at the young man sitting opposite him.

"Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov?" The young man, who had been leaning against the wall in the corner as if resting with his eyes closed, was startled awake by the man's deep voice and opened a pair of deep brown eyes.

"It is I, sir," the man smiled and sat down.

"When you said 'rarely see', were you referring to the rare heavy snow outside, or the people in the tavern?" the young man asked, sitting up straight, his expression serious.

"Perhaps both," Vladimir said, stroking his beard. Just then, the bartender brought the vodka. He said a quiet thank you, then took the bottle and took a long swig. The high-proof alcohol went down his throat without hesitation. The man's posture made the young man's eyes twitch.

He said, "Are you all prepared?"

"Of course," Vladimir said. "We are ready to pass through the gray curtain and embrace the blazing sun of freedom! But for this, I must thank you for your funding, sir." This was said with exceptional sincerity and seriousness. "Without your funding, the Bolsheviks would probably not have their own independent factories and arms. And I wouldn't have been able to come back—that arrest warrant was causing me quite a bit of trouble!"

"I think the ones who should be troubled are the ones trying to arrest you, no?" the young man joked. "Everyone outside is calling you the 'Thousand-Faced Mentor' now!"

"Who knows?" Vladimir smiled again. After laughing, he fell into a thoughtful silence. He looked out the window at Moscow, which was shrouded in snow, and suddenly felt a bit emotional. He lamented the swift passage of time, and even more so, the events of the past year.

In mid-January of 1917, the first snow fell. Yes, at this moment, a year had passed since the Tsarist empire's defeat in the war, since Nicholas II had humiliatingly signed the reparations treaty with a foreign country. In this year, the situation in the country had changed several times. To stabilize the situation, the ruling Lu Kang Luvest had launched a major purge known as the 'Gray Curtain'. He had formed an investigation bureau and arrested a large number of progressive elements in society, exiling them to Siberia to dig potatoes. Under the brief suppression of the Gray Curtain, the Tsarist empire had passed a year in superficial peace, but anyone could see the extreme instability lurking beneath it.

Under high pressure, there will inevitably be a backlash! The Bolshevik party, founded in 1898 with the liberation of the working class as its platform, existing for the true interests of the broad masses of the people, was one of these unstable factors. The Bolsheviks, who had not been very strong a year ago, had continuously grown during this period. This was due both to the resistance under oppression and to the secret help of the person before him. He had provided funds, supplies, and even more, the intelligence for them to grow and develop.

"Within a month," the young man opposite him said in a low voice after a moment of silence, "there will be a great change in the court. The Mensheviks, who represent the petty merchant class, are planning to launch an armed uprising in February. Be prepared, and seize the opportunity. Although you are also a workers' party, I remember that you have ideological differences with the Mensheviks."

Hearing these words, Vladimir couldn't help but become solemn. He said in a heavy voice, "I understand... but I still want to say that our differences with the Mensheviks are only ideological. After all, we will not compromise with other classes!"

Seeing his expression, the young man also smiled. "I have passed the message on to you. This is also the last time," he said. "In the future, we may not need to meet again. After this time, it's either success or death. Let's hope we can still see tomorrow!" The young man raised the bottle of liquor on the table.

Vladimir hesitated for a moment, then also raised his bottle. After clinking them together, they both drank deeply. Seeing the other person get up to leave, Vladimir hesitated for a moment, then couldn't help but say, "Sir... please leave your name. Although you have always put me off with various reasons, I feel that a person like you should not be buried in the corners of history."

The young man, who was walking towards the tavern exit, paused slightly. He looked back at Vladimir, and a smile couldn't help but appear on his lips. He didn't answer, just smiled and continued on his way. And so, although he had talked with him so much, when Vladimir tried to recall, he couldn't remember the man's figure or appearance, couldn't remember his voice. He only remembered the words he had said, the things they had talked about—not just intelligence, but also about the future direction of the Bolsheviks.

Though they had not met many times, they had in fact talked at length. And in their conversations, the young-looking man held views very similar to his own, and always managed to make his eyes light up. A like-minded friend. A spiritual companion. This was how Vladimir defined him in his heart. It was a pity that in the end, he still didn't know his name. A pity...

"Mentor." Someone reeking of alcohol approached his side. Vladimir was pulled from his deep thoughts and regrets. He looked at the person who spoke, then at the others in the tavern. The people who had just been in a boisterous uproar had, in that instant, all put down their liquor bottles and were looking at him. Their gazes were burning, without a trace of drunkenness.

They were all members of the Bolshevik party. Everyone in this entire tavern... was! The most determined warriors, and the most elite core members!

For some reason, Vladimir thought again of the person who had just left. A pity, he thought again.

...

'In the memoirs written in his later years, the mentor of the new regime stated that he was actually lonely in his youth. He had a great ideal that he could not speak of to others. He hoped to achieve a world of great harmony, a dream of equality for all. He could see the world a hundred years in the future, a time and space that ordinary people could not see.'

'But in his loneliness, he had also met a close friend.'

'The mentor did not know the other's name, only that he shared the same views, the same vision. The time they spent together was not long, but it made the mentor feel what it was to be like-minded.'

'It was a pity that that person gave his full support to the revolution but would never reveal his name. In his memoirs, the mentor only referred to him by the title of 'Mentor'.'

'He was the mentor's mentor, a pioneer hidden in history, unknown to all.'

—From "History of the New Nation: The Mentor's Chapter"

...

Of course, what the mentor who would later write special memoirs to commemorate him—Vladimir, or rather, Lenin—did not know was... that the mysterious young man who was so like-minded in his eyes, the moment he left the tavern, despite facing an icy and snowy scene, his back was already soaked with sweat.

"He probably didn't find out, right? That really scared me—every time we meet, I'm on tenterhooks, afraid my real identity will be discovered!" The young man looked back at the tavern, which was a hazy glow of light in the misty snow. He stood on the street corner, his black outer robe faintly glowing, blocking the falling snowflakes. He thought to himself, as expected of one of the few mentors of human civilization. That pair of eyes, though not Mystic Eyes, seemed to possess a wisdom that could see through everything!

Heaven knows how surprised he was when he first met Vladimir a year ago! He thought to himself that this was a person who had truly pushed the wisdom of an ordinary person to its absolute limit. In the face of such wisdom, he couldn't help but be afraid that his true identity would be discovered. Not his identity as 'Lu Kang Luvest', but his identity in this 'simulated life'.

Fortunately, the mentor had not had much contact with the real Lu Kang. Even better, they would not need to meet again in the future. Lu Kang thought. Time flies. In this past year, he had indeed been secretly helping the Bolshevik party—all to achieve his initial goal, to become the founder of a new soil, to plant the seeds of mystery in the new era. As for the Gray Curtain, that was of course also his doing.

He was 'accelerating'. Since the situation was already irreversible, then he would accelerate the collapse of this towering imperial edifice. When the time came, all he had to do was push the blame onto Nicholas II and Lu Kang Luvest. This was the preparation they had made long ago. It was what they had been doing all this year.

"Next, it's time to go back." Lu Kang looked up at the increasingly heavy snow. Although this wind and snow posed no obstacle to him—they couldn't penetrate the protection of his Sanctuary-like robe—standing for a long time was still a bit cold...

But just as he lifted his foot, he suddenly stopped again.

"Not going to come to my place for a sit-down?" a clear and bewitching voice sounded.

The surrounding wind and snow froze at the same time, like a freeze-frame. The misty world reflected the ink-wash-like silhouette of Moscow. The towering cities seemed to tilt like shadows on a screen. And beneath that, another figure slowly approached. Its posture was graceful, its body slender and lithe.

Lu Kang narrowed his eyes and spoke the other's name. "Kishinami Kiara?"

....

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