Mystic power surged from every book and page, spreading wildly throughout the library. The fluttering of turning pages echoed beneath the evening breeze pouring through the high windows.
Though invisible to the naked eye, the Executors—masters of miracles—could sense the approaching danger.
Bathed in the chandeliers' glow, the towering shelves seemed to transform into giants spewing molten red lava, surging toward them beneath Lucan's radiant cloak.
They had underestimated him—again.
But it wasn't due to negligence. Lucan's tricks were relentless, each more astonishing than the last. He didn't feel like some stray, self-taught magus. No—he felt like someone backed by a structured lineage. A proper, traditional magus.
That same pressure… that aura… reminded the Executors of magi from ancient magical families. From the Clock Tower—their age-old enemies in Western Europe.
They exchanged glances. Then, without retreat or hesitation, they charged forward.
"O people, hearken unto my words! All inhabitants of this world, lend me your ears...!"
They began to chant.
The library no longer felt like enemy territory—it had become a sacred cathedral.
"Whether noble or humble, all must listen—for surely none may redeem themselves."
Side by side amid the storm of flying pages, they prayed in unison. Their solemn voices echoed through the towering, light-filled, book-laden halls.
Lucan listened. He watched the golden radiance rise from their bodies, watched the faint angelic silhouettes manifest behind them in response.
A light—pure, sacred, absolute.
Whatever shadows lurked within the Church… it still harbored pure faith.
Faith may not be good.
But fanatic faith—was always madness.
"So this is the great miracle, the Baptismal Chant, that rivals grand Magecraft?" Lucan now understood.
Executors, like combat magi, preferred efficient, tactical miracles—low-power, low-mystery, high-speed executions.
But some miracles—just like grand rituals in Magecraft—could not be shortened or altered.
The "Baptismal Chant" was one such miracle.
A grand ritual meant to call forth the brilliance of divinity. Normally, it required hundreds or even thousands to chant together. But it could be cast by a few… at the cost of their lives.
They were self-destructing.
Determined to complete their mission, even in death.
Their faces remained solemn, their eyes blazing with pious fervor beneath their hoods.
Madmen.
Fanatics.
Lucan admired their zeal—but took no action to stop them. He knew he couldn't. Once begun, the Baptismal Chant could not be interrupted. Attacking would only hasten its completion.
Against mystery, the proper method was always: observe, analyze, then strike.
Lucan observed. But he wasn't idle.
He flipped pages.
He mentally commanded every book marked with his Magecraft—every symbol, every letter.
They chanted—to manifest divine judgment.
He compiled—a mystery from the future.
Light and light collided. The library split into two realms. One of vibrant arcane color, the other of sacred purity. Magic and miracle vied for dominance.
The space around them twisted—like a Van Gogh hallucination, or a disordered Picasso canvas.
Then, in the next second—
The light shattered.
Lucan blinked.
So did the Executors.
Their Baptismal Chant… abruptly stopped.
From the divine glow above and behind them—another figure emerged.
Their ritual had been hijacked.
They hadn't summoned God—but something else.
And so, they survived.
"Well, well... throwing away your lives so easily? That's not very Executor-like, is it?"
The crisp, playful voice rang out.
The spectral figure floated in midair, gazing not just at the Executors below—but at the radiant youth before her.
She looked at Lucan Lovester.
"Kishinami Kiara-dono of the Burial Agency?" the Executors gasped, recognizing the apparition.
She was a member of the most feared department within the Executors—a monster among monsters.
They were relieved. If she was here…
"Oh, I appreciate you not getting mad about me hijacking your ritual," she smiled. "But this is just a miracle projection. I don't have much power."
She floated effortlessly, her form ethereal yet curvaceous, a long nun's habit brushing the floor.
"So—how about a compromise, Lucan Lovester-san?"
She looked straight at him.
Lucan said nothing at first, merely staring at her from atop his mystic field of books and glyphs.
"Kishinami Kiara?" He mulled over the name.
Of course he knew it.
How could he not?
She was a parallel of Killing Stone Kiara—one of the Seven Evils of Humanity in the Moonlit World, destined to destroy mankind.
"Oh, you know me? That's perfect," she said with a bright smile. "I was just assigned here to Tsarist Russia, and boom—chaos already. I wasn't sure how to handle it in this unfamiliar place, but it's lucky you're so reasonable."
She continued, "So how about this: let's follow Solomon's Laws of Mystery. What belongs to God goes to God. What belongs to man, to man."
"If you back down now and leave the palace, we won't pursue you. You've already glimpsed the structure of miracles—surely that's reward enough?"
Her sweet tone didn't sway Lucan—but the Executors below paled.
"Glimpsed the structure of miracles?"
They realized they had revealed too much to this heretic within the Church.
Lucan had observed their miracle—and gained insight into the divine system.
But he sneered at her offer.
"That's mine. I took it. You want to bargain using what I already have?"
So the negotiation failed.
Kiara blinked.
She tried to speak again—
But Lucan didn't let her.
Words held power equal to spells.
But now—
It was time to end this.
"You're right about one thing."
"What belongs to God, to God. That was the covenant set by Solomon and Christ—two thousand years ago—to divide miracle and Magecraft."
"But I say—Solomon's to Solomon. Christ's to Christ. And I—"
"—will take everything."
Calmly, he opened the book he had been holding.
Instantly, every book in the library opened.
Countless letters burst into shimmering light.
Like stars igniting across the cosmos, fireflies encircled them all.
And from those sparks—
A vast, majestic mystery roared forth.
The countless characters merged into a single, titanic glyph—
Like slamming shut a divine tome.
"Negotiations failed," said Kiara calmly.
"But next time—it won't just be ordinary Executors coming."
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't upset.
She was—
Excited.
"I'm looking forward to it. Hopefully you show up in person, Kishinami Kiara."
Lucan, surrounded by simulation, stood unshaken.
He'd been looking for a stepping stone to fame in the mystic world.
This would do nicely.
The next instant—
A hum.
All the glyphs merged, then exploded in blinding brilliance.
The surge engulfed the entire library.
The Executors—and Kiara's projection—were both consumed.
[You have driven out the Church's Executors and the Burial Agency's Kishinami Kiara.]
[You know your actions challenge the ancient power of the Holy Church. But you do not fear. You do not fear false death. You see this as opportunity.]
[You have begun to understand the framework of miracles.]
[You now hold the first concept for fusing bloodline and crest—to create your own mystic system.]