It wasn't until Lucan departed—his figure disappearing at the far end of the street—that Sesshōin Kiara finally snapped out of her thoughts.
She looked up at the massive figure suspended above the Kremlin. The Phantom Spirit forged from the generations of Tsars stood silently under a sky blackened and inverted, as if a deep abyss had swallowed the heavens—its dark veil thickened by the ever-growing malice of humanity.
The surface of the abyss shimmered like still water.
It mirrored the uneven architecture of Moscow's palatial skyline.
Sesshōin Kiara could feel the evil of humanity surging in from all directions—
As one who had once reached the Throne of Magīa Hōra and awakened the "Eye of Perception," allowing her to sense the evil in human hearts, this moment struck her profoundly.
That man—he's insane.
And yet…
That will to save the world… stirred something within her.
"Truly… it brings back things that should never have been forgotten."
The Demon Bodhisattva—or rather, the monastic nun—Sesshōin Kiara let out a sigh, recalling the days when she was merely a Buddhist monastic, dedicated to salvation.
She clasped her hands together. The revealing garments upon her vanished in an instant. The black-and-white nun's habit once again wrapped around her body, restoring her previous appearance. In solemn silence, she exhaled.
Then turned slightly.
"So that's why you let him go? Monster woman—"
A sharp and crystal-clear voice pierced the air.
Moscow's snow-swept streets, now flattened and clean, revealed a woman in a black cloak and formal hat, her long reddish-brown hair swaying. She appeared suddenly beside Sesshōin Kiara.
Sesshōin Kiara blinked, then grinned. "Who knows? Maybe I truly was powerless."
"Heh." The red-haired woman shot her a sidelong glance, lips curling in disdain.
Then, after a pause, she said, "So be it. If your Church has chosen to give up—then that man falls under the jurisdiction of our Sealing Designation."
The woman stepped forward, her long hair trailing as more figures appeared behind her.
Sesshōin Kiara remained in place.
She watched as the woman strode toward the Kremlin, shadows trailing behind the billowing cloak.
"Sealing Designation Executors of the Mage's Association... and the Director of the Department of Law and Politics, Barthomeloi, huh? What a troublesome bunch."
Of course Sesshōin Kiara recognized them.
The Church and the Mage's Association had always been enemies. In other circumstances, they'd be clashing swords. But now, they shared a common and very public enemy.
Lucan Luvist—the one both the Church and the Association considered a mutual heretic.
Under the current situation, Sesshōin Kiara would not raise a hand against them.
But she wouldn't help them either.
Even though she still had plenty of strength to spare.
In fact, she had only displayed a thousandth of her true power.
Who would've thought such a man would emerge in a parallel plane?
So mused Sesshōin Kiara.
Yet...
"You're already too late." With a soft laugh, Sesshōin Kiara vanished.
"Lucan Luvist… perhaps we'll meet again someday."
Her voice faded.
Up ahead, Barthomeloi paused in her stride. The red-haired woman glanced back. One of her subordinate magi quickly approached and asked, "Shall we prepare for a possible Church intervention—?"
"No need," Barthomeloi replied coolly, her voice icy. "She won't interfere. She wouldn't dare."
"What matters now is locating and applying Sealing Designation to the heretic who defies the laws of mystery."
"Yes, ma'am!"
With that, the magi vanished in an instant.
They accelerated toward the palace—
Almost simultaneously—
Atop a tall building in Moscow, a man gazed silently toward the massive form looming above the Kremlin.
Vladimir's beard fluttered in the cold wind. A cold pipe rested between his lips, unlit. The malice in the wind was thick and palpable.
"An unexpected performance," he muttered, chewing the stem of his pipe. "But perhaps it's for the best. Though three days earlier than planned… we're fully prepared."
The revolutionary turned and addressed the figures behind him.
"Begin. Rouse the workers and peasants—get everyone moving."
"No need to seize the Kremlin. No need to replace the power structure. First, we must ensure the oppressed are no longer oppressed. That the displaced find a home!"
"It's time."
"Time to burn the sins of the old era to ash."
"Comrades, the moment of revolution is upon us!"
January 1917. Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, standing atop the Moscow clocktower, spoke in a thunderous voice—
...
[You stand before Nicholas II]
[With malice in the sky growing ever more dense, you know—the time has come]
Elsewhere—
Before the palace at the Kremlin, Lucan paused.
Above him, the colossal beast continued to roar, its fangs bared atop the palace dome. The Phantom Spirit formed of all Tsars—its great tusks seemed ready to pry open the entire era.
Every last Menshevik rebel that attacked had been swept aside.
As Lucan advanced, he saw them fall again and again.
He walked into the palace, under the beast's looming shadow.
The Phantom Spirit had no legs—its lower half fused with the palace.
Or rather… with the man seated inside—
"You've come."
The interior of the grand hall was still luxurious. Velvet curtains. Red carpets. On the imperial throne sat a man, his eyes now open.
"Yes, I'm here," Lucan replied. "As promised."
Wearing a dark military uniform, Nicholas II looked weary beneath the soft light of the hanging chandelier. Though the Phantom Spirit had been summoned using the magic leylines of Moscow, its anchor—the vessel bearing the form of every Tsar—was Nicholas himself.
Of course he was tired.
It was natural to be exhausted.
But it would soon be over.
"Let's begin," Lucan said, walking slowly toward the throne.
Their year-long plan would now reach its final step. Once he bore the full burden of the old world's sins, the hatred could be dissolved. Even if the Tsarist Empire collapsed, at least Nicholas's family could live normal lives in the new world.
All the sins of the old age would end here.
But just a few steps forward—Lucan halted.
A sudden barrier had appeared.
He looked toward the throne, where Nicholas sat bathed in divine light.
"Your Majesty… what is the meaning of this?"
"I ask you to stop, Your Excellency," Nicholas II said, his voice frail and breathless—like he was dragging chains—yet still filled with conviction.
"I understand your intentions fully."
"But—"
"I've already said it."
"Said what?" Lucan frowned. Was this coward regretting everything at the final hour? Did he want to avoid the guilt? Or protect the crumbling Tsarist Empire?
But Nicholas didn't answer right away.
He looked up.
Toward the dome.
Toward the Phantom Spirit towering above.
He laughed bitterly and murmured, "So this is what an emperor truly is."
"Not divine. Not glorious. Merely terrifying."
"Such a thing belongs in the garbage heap of history—"
His voice echoed through the palace.
Lucan furrowed his brow, studying the man who'd begun to ramble.
"They always told me emperors were great. The empire, sacred. All must revere the Tsar like a father. Growing up in the palace, I believed I'd become like him—my father, Alexander III. A great, holy Tsar."
"But upon ascending the throne, I realized how hollow it truly was. Just holding the seat was exhausting—ruling it even more so. Yet I clung to those ideals, to the belief in my absolute authority. My father once said I wasn't fit to rule. Too timid. Too weak. I was determined to prove him wrong. I donned the mask of a strong, iron-fisted ruler."
"But in hindsight… he was right. My reforms failed from hesitation. My decisions faltered from fear of blame."
"You must despise me, Your Excellency."
"I could never be like you—opposing gods without flinching."
Lucan's eyes shifted.
He saw the fragile man seated on the throne and realized—Nicholas had never followed him out of religious faith.
He knew Lucan wasn't divine.
He knew the Church had never stood with him.
The gods had abandoned him. So even if Lucan was a demon—he had no choice but to stand beside him.
Lucan was about to speak—
But Nicholas continued:
"Cowardice. Fear. A failure to shoulder true responsibility. My iron rule was just a façade hiding my weakness. I've made countless mistakes."
"But still—"
The weak man straightened his spine.
His voice deepened. Like a war drum. Like a sovereign.
"Some burdens… I must bear alone."
"For I once declared—"
"I am the state."
"The crime of a nation's downfall is mine alone to carry!"
A thunderous boom rocked the palace.
Nicholas II stood tall, military uniform fluttering. Slowly, he drew the imperial saber from his waist. His expression turned solemn.
Above, the Phantom Spirit let out a defiant roar.
As if answering his will, it raised its massive tusks.
It struck toward the sky's dark clouds—
Its trunk wrapped around all the evils in the heavens.
It devoured. It shouldered.
All the malice of mankind.
And then—
It began to march—toward the end of the empire.
Lucan watched.
He had been wrong.
Nicholas II hadn't backed out.
He had hesitated all his life—but at the end, he wanted to make one final, brave decision.
At least for this moment—
He chose to shoulder all those sins alone.
"The aftermath… I leave to you, Your Excellency," Nicholas said quietly.
He raised his sword.
And was ready to take his own life—
To fall with his crumbling empire, bearing its ancient sins as emperor—
But—
His sword halted mid-swing.
A hand stopped him.
Lucan had passed through the barrier and now stood before him.
"I don't oppose your decision."
"But let me be the one to see you off—"
"This way, I can inherit the empire's 'legacy.'"
Nicholas II was silent.
Then he smiled.
What legacy? There was nothing left.
What was to be given had already been given.
What Lucan desired, he had already taken.
Still, Nicholas nodded.
"Then I leave it to you… my First Consul."
"My 'Sage' and my 'Mentor.'"