It was the only time in history that the Church and the Mage's Association united on a global scale.
And the only time both sides suffered a crushing defeat.
In the two-thousand-year history of the Mage's Association and the Clock Tower, the center of magical and religious power, such a loss had never occurred. But their enemy was not a vast organization, nor a terrifying Demon God descending upon the world.
It was just one man.
The most fearsome, most malevolent man of all.
—Excerpt from The Clock Tower Chronicles
...
"How arrogant. How insolent—that man is a villain, a brute, a blasphemer of the Mysteries in the extreme!"
"All descendants of the Barthomeloi must remember—"
"He must be crushed by Mystery!"
—Vivian Barthomeloi
...
The moment the long-prepared god-creation ritual began, everything unfolded as if by inevitability.
Within the domain-wide mystical scale Lucan enacted, neither Vivian Barthomeloi nor the Sealing Designation Executors could stop him.
Each of the Executors were elite combat magi, the best in magical battle. Vivian Barthomeloi herself was the current head of the Barthomeloi family—one of the top Lords of the Clock Tower.
But when all things slowed down, no amount of mystery could be invoked, no power could be released.
And in that moment, Vivian finally realized: Lucan had never seen them as opponents.
To him, they were merely spectators.
Witnesses to his second large-scale display of Mystery.
Within the towering halls, under scattered lamplight, Lucan walked forward leisurely, departing the palace like a man strolling through a courtyard.
He paid no mind to the rage and hatred in Vivian's eyes.
She was no Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, he thought. The alternate world embodiment of Human Evil existed only once... Compared to that, there was no need to treat her as a serious threat.
Outside the palace, Lucan let out a low chuckle.
Behind him, a faint glimmer emerged—a fragile, wavering divine silhouette.
It was still incomplete, weak and thin, able to halt the time of an entire nation only due to the momentary impact of its birth.
But it was real.
A true god.
The source of Mystery.
In this world, both magecraft and miracles were fundamentally fragments of authority originating from the divine.
This god represented infinite possibility.
This was the symbol of Lucan's established mystical system for a new age.
Vivian's speculation had been entirely correct—
But what she did not realize… was that the indistinct figure forming within that divine silhouette—
Was Lucan himself.
The god he created… was also himself.
Only by using his own soul as the god,
Could he retain absolute control.
Only then could he fully realize his principle of Mental Magecraft:
"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law."
From this day forward—
Whether forward or back—
Lucan's Mystery would flood through time itself!
...
[You left the Kremlin]
[The foundation of Mystery is established. The Empire has collapsed. A new era begins. All that belonged to the Tsar is now past—no one can abuse the Tsar's name, nor rise again through it. The past has become mere history—without influence on the future.]
[This is the conceptual severance through Mystery]
[Mysteries of the past still exist—but they now belong to the past]
[You must also fulfill your promise to Nicholas II]
[To tie up his final loose ends]
[His family. His nation.]
[After your departure from the palace, the Tsar's domain resumed normal temporal flow. Vivian Barthomeloi and the Executors promptly retreated—fleeing the enemy's domain. Yet before leaving, Vivian gritted her teeth in rage. This defeat was not just personal—it was a disgrace to her family.]
[What she did not know was that despite the distance—you still heard her teeth grinding. Though still weak, you had already taken on divine traits by making yourself a god.]
[All words spoken—are heard]
[But you didn't mind]
[Though you had left the Kremlin, you did not immediately depart Moscow. You lingered outside the palace, watching as the Mensheviks returned, claiming it as their capital. They tried to establish a new government—but the fruits of revolution were stolen by the bourgeoisie—the landowners and merchants who had remained spectators.]
[You also witnessed the Bolsheviks liberate countless impoverished people. You stood in the streets of Moscow, an ordinary passerby. Revolutionaries rushed past—but none noticed you.]
[By chance, you passed Vladimir in the street]
The streets of Moscow were chaotic. With the fall of the Tsarist regime, this vast nation inevitably plunged into brief disorder. The Provisional Government vied for control, favoring the bourgeoisie, while the Bolsheviks fought to free the common people.
They temporarily allied with the defeated Mensheviks, setting aside ideological disputes. But without a common enemy like the Tsar, the conflict between them and the Provisional Government became unavoidable.
Vladimir was deeply troubled by this. He didn't want the Tsar's land to fall into civil war, but the situation seemed beyond saving.
He hurried down the street, his mind clouded like the overcast sky.
But suddenly, his steps froze.
He turned his head.
Staring at the back of a young priest who had just passed him.
It felt familiar.
Yet he couldn't recall who it was.
"Professor?" someone beside him called, snapping Vladimir from his daze. "Is something wrong? Do you know that man?"
He shook his head, mustache twitching.
"No." But the next moment, he smiled. "But now I know what to do."
"Let's go. It's time to act—even if it means blood."
Revolution wasn't a dinner party.
Blood was inevitable.
Vladimir had always known this.
And now, he made up his mind.
It was you, wasn't it?
He glanced back. The figure had vanished.
Yet he smiled softly.
The one who cleared my final doubts…
—My teacher.
The teacher of my teacher.
[October 1917. Another shift struck the Tsar's land. The Provisional Government was overthrown by the Bolsheviks. For the first time, a party representing the people took the stage of history.]
[You stood atop the tallest clock tower in Moscow, watching that banner rise]
["Beautiful," you thought]
[You had stayed in Moscow for ten months]
[It was time]
[Time to visit the family of Nicholas II]
[To see the girl who had always waited for you]
...
The nameless teacher.
The demon known by all.
In that fading Tsarist empire—
Two entirely opposite figures appeared at once—
Like angel and demon.
The teacher who led the people to freedom—
He was the teacher's teacher, the sage recorded in his diary.
The demon who seized the palace and closed the curtain on a crimson empire.
Some said they were the same man.
Some said:
He was an angel.
And a demon.
—Excerpt from Langwen Guide: The Russian Empire, 1689–1917