At that moment, the man stepping out from the shadows behind the Tsar's throne wore an expression darker than night.
He was tall, clad in the same black priest's garb as Lucan. But unlike Lucan's dignified attire, his robe was disheveled and wrinkled, the fabric creased all over. He had long, thick hair and an equally heavy beard. From beneath the curtain of hair, his deep emerald eyes gleamed with a bottomless magic—eyes that seemed to emit a constant allure, even now, when his face was twisted in displeasure.
Just as Lucan had said—
Grigori Rasputin.
That was the man's name.
A man born in the depths of the Russian empire's underclass, who rose to fame by masquerading as an ascetic who claimed to commune with God—a charlatan.
That much Lucan knew.
What he also knew was this: it was this very charlatan who, in the twilight of a crumbling empire, would help bring about its collapse. Rasputin, with his so-called "divine arts," healed Nicholas II's youngest son, Alexei.
For that, he earned the absolute trust of both Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra Feodorovna. And with that trust, he gradually wormed his way into the upper echelons of power.
During his rise, he viciously ousted and killed many talented nobles and innocent civilians, stirring a tide of public outrage.
Of course, that was the original timeline—the future that would unfold without Lucan's interference.
But now, Lucan was here.
And so, everything had changed.
Lucan also sought Nicholas II's support.
Which meant that Rasputin was his political rival.
"Grigori," Nicholas II finally came to his senses after a stunned pause. The Tsar, clad in his imperial military uniform, gripped the armrest of his throne, his thick beard and groomed face filled with shock and fury.
"An intruder in the palace—Guards!" the steward barked out.
But the very next second, neither the steward nor Nicholas II could make a sound.
Not only could they not speak…
They couldn't move either.
Their bodies were frozen in place, as though bound by invisible chains.
Particles of shimmering light drifted around them, encircling their forms and locking them in place.
Through it all, Rasputin neither turned around nor offered the Tsar any explanation. He simply walked to the front of the throne and looked down at Lucan from above.
"How did you figure it out…?"
The delicate veils drifted and swirled in silence, stirring the motes of light in the air like fireflies. Rasputin's face was grim, his expression sinister. Down below, Lucan clapped his hands softly.
"Let me guess," Lucan said, shedding his earlier composure. "You're about to claim your actions were flawless?"
He smirked. "Well, you're not wrong. Your hypnosis was one of the finest illusions I've ever seen."
"I didn't notice a thing."
"Dizziness can be chalked up to overwork. Forgetfulness? Happens to everyone. Especially in these past two days, when His Majesty must've been endlessly meeting all sorts of 'masters' summoned from across the country."
Lucan's grin widened with playful mockery.
"And as for why His Majesty instinctively believed he was under your hypnosis… it's simply because you actually hypnotized him."
"That was his body issuing a primal warning."
"…You're setting me up," Rasputin growled, his brow furrowed.
"Of course I am," Lucan sighed. "Whose fault is it you exposed yourself like an idiot?"
"You call yourself a servant of God, but you're nothing more than a magus in disguise."
Rasputin was, without a doubt, a magus who wielded true mystery. His pious image was nothing more than a tool to transcend social barriers.
The illusion that deceived Nicholas II was merely magecraft—classic illusion-type magic.
Yet, despite how refined Rasputin's illusions were, to Lucan, they still reeked of crudeness.
Because rather than trickery, Lucan believed in the power of words.
Like what he'd told Nicholas II earlier.
Like his statement: "The older something is, the stronger it becomes."
The same words, spoken in different places and to different people, could take on entirely different meanings.
That was the power of language.
Words, when used as chains—undeniably, were a form of magecraft in themselves.
The magecraft of suggestion and manipulation.
"We're not so different, are we... 'Little Sage' Lucan Leuwis?" Rasputin sneered, clearly having heard of Lucan's reputation. He turned slightly—though still paralyzed, Nicholas II's face darkened as he listened to the exchange.
"Your Majesty," Rasputin said with a slight bow. His posture was respectful, but his words were sheer blasphemy. "Please wait quietly here. Soon, I'll help you forget everything."
Nicholas II could only grunt in frustration, his tightly knit brow sinking even lower.
This damn heretic…!
He cursed in his mind, powerless. But he was still an emperor. He hadn't lost his composure.
He reasoned that the so-called "Little Sage" may be dangerous, but at least he was hostile to Rasputin.
The enemy of one's enemy might be an ally. He could only hope Lucan could defeat this traitor and free him.
Rasputin turned back toward Lucan.
He descended the steps from the throne, boots thudding on the gold-lined red carpet, his movements deliberate. The heavy soles dragged slightly, creasing the fabric.
"I've heard of you," Rasputin said as he walked, the glint in his deep eyes intensifying. The veils around the hall swayed more violently, as if echoing his approach.
"Lucan Leuwis, the 'Little Sage.' You managed to pierce through my illusion. Impressive."
"But you made a mistake."
"You shouldn't have stepped into this place."
"Because this place…"
"…has long since become my workshop!"
As Rasputin's words fell, the drifting veils flared with light. Runes and sigils began to shimmer along their surfaces, forming intricate mystic arrays—like cold rivers of liquid starlight spilling outward.
An invisible force descended.
A crushing pressure fell upon Lucan, who now faced Rasputin directly.
Just as he claimed, this hall had become his mage's workshop—a magus's sanctum, a stronghold shaped and ruled solely by the magus who constructed it.
Rasputin had arrived in Moscow three days ago.
On arrival, he immediately used hypnosis to gain Nicholas II's trust. But illusions were fleeting. He had deeper ambitions—namely, to transform this very palace, the symbol of imperial power, into his personal domain.
Once it was done, he could constantly exert magical influence over Nicholas II, turning fleeting trust into permanent manipulation.
With it, he could seize the empire's supreme power, indulge in unrestrained luxury…
And in the throne room, he would be invincible against any foreign threat.
That was what Lucan now faced.
As a magus—
He had stepped into another magus's workshop.
"May the Lord bless you, boy," Rasputin said as he stroked his unruly beard. He wore a sly and confident smile. "I'll send you to meet Him myself."
As his words fell—
The silvery glow of his magic arrays burned even brighter, pouring forth like rivers. Even the air trembled as if filled with crashing waves.
Water-element magecraft.
Illusions, being ethereal and intangible, belonged to the element of water among the four classical elements.
And now, under the overwhelming flood of "water" magic, Rasputin was certain Lucan would have no escape. In a mage's workshop, the magus held overwhelming advantage against any opponent.
That's what he thought.
What he believed.
Until the next instant—
The roaring flood stopped.
The surging ritual arrays ground to a halt, as though a turning wheel had been forcefully jammed. And through the fading glow, a hand pierced the space—
And gripped Rasputin's face.
"!?"
Eyes wide, Rasputin stared in disbelief at the hand in front of him—and the boy who now stood before him!
Lucan stood tall and composed, walking unhindered through the oppressive power of Rasputin's workshop.
Because he, too, was glowing with mystical light.
His priestly robes shimmered—not with divine grace, but with the structured glow of a mage's workshop.
Mystery clashed with mystery.
And canceled out.
Rasputin's home-field advantage was neutralized in an instant.
What remained—
Was a duel between magi.
And the unprepared Rasputin was caught completely off guard!
"You thought you were the only one with a home field advantage?" Lucan smirked, one hand gripping Rasputin's face while the other brushed aside his robe.
"My workshop… I wear it on me."
Years ago, Lucan had traveled from place to place, never settling anywhere. In order to maintain his full power as a magus, he had miniaturized and engraved his workshop formula directly into his clothing.
Drawing on the early 20th century's richer atmosphere of mystery compared to later times, he completed a magical vestment known as The Hall.
It was the robe he now wore—
He had made his workshop wearable.
And wherever he stood…
That place became his domain.