Though it was called a "simulation," to Lucan, the long years he experienced were far more than a game. It had never been something he could dismiss lightly. So even if he had anticipated it, learning that he had actually changed history in the present world still made him genuinely happy.
Waver Velvet saw the smile tugging at Lucan's lips and gave a nod of understanding.
But clearly, he misunderstood.
"Sure, Luvist was a real big shot," Waver said with a sigh, "but don't get ahead of yourself. At best, you're still a second- or third-generation magus. That's not too different from before."
Still a commoner in magical terms.
Waver noted that to himself.
"So what?" Lucan blinked. "As long as I'm strong enough, that's all that matters, right?"
"The older the lineage, the greater the power, usually."
Seeing Lucan's carefree attitude, Waver finally relaxed and nodded. He settled his earlier excitement—the kind that came from hearing news about his 'idol.'
"Well, no matter what, since you've awakened that bloodline and Crest, you've got endless potential. Congratulations, Lucan."
"What's this? You congratulating me just to hit me up for that meal I owe you?" Lucan smirked. "Bad news. I'm broke."
Waver groaned.
"Fine, fine."
He stood and glanced at the wrecked room—the cracked walls, broken furniture, and shattered magical instruments. This had been Lucan's room and his workshop, one he'd poured all his funds into. Typically, Clock Tower students wouldn't set up their workshops in a dorm—they'd find a proper site with strong leyline flow.
But Lucan couldn't afford London's overpriced real estate. This dorm was all he had.
And now, it was wrecked.
"Looks like you're not going to class today. I'll tell the lecturer you're out."
Waver had come that morning specifically to wake Lucan up for class.
"Oh? Right... class..." Lucan blinked, as if remembering something long forgotten. "Yeah, go ahead."
Honestly, he'd nearly forgotten about that entirely.
Not that it mattered.
"I just sleep through class anyway," Lucan yawned, a weary glaze passing over his amber eyes.
"How the hell did a guy like you manage a second awakening..." Waver grumbled under his breath.
Lucan, still slumped in the wreckage, gave him a sidelong glance. In the sunlight, his eyes shimmered faintly—like stars.
"That's because," he said with a grin, "you don't dream."
"Oh, so being a lazy bum is an advantage now?" Waver huffed, unable to suppress a laugh. He carefully stepped around the glass shards and broken instruments toward the door.
But just as he reached it, he stopped.
"Oh, right." He looked back at Lucan, serious again. "Don't tell anyone about your Crest just yet."
"Even though the Church and Association dropped their charges after Luvist's death, he still pissed off half of Europe's magical elite. If people find out you're his descendant, you might get hit with a Sealing Designation."
He spoke with utmost sincerity.
Then, without waiting for a reply, Waver stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Click.
The auto-lock clicked shut.
Left alone, Lucan leaned back in his chair. He muttered to himself, "Waver really does act like a girl... not just the looks, the nagging too..."
He kicked his feet up where Waver had been sitting and gazed up at the sunlit sky outside.
He didn't need Waver's warning.
As Lucan Luvist, he knew how many enemies he'd made.
Decades had passed since Luvist's active days. Many of his foes were either old or dead, and time had eroded their grudges.
But some hatred lingers.
Some magi still clung to a twisted vision of orthodoxy. To them, Mental Magecraft was an aberration to be purged.
Lucan had seen it himself in the final years of his simulated life. Magi and church agents still scoured the world for his trail.
Among them were Lords of the Clock Tower...
And agents of the Burial Agency.
If he wanted to keep walking the path of Mystery, he couldn't afford to remain exposed.
But Lucan had prepared for this.
A true magus never moves unprepared.
From his coat pocket, he pulled a parchment imbued with Mystery.
He scribbled a brief message on it.
And then, using a simple communication spell...
He sent it.
To the El-Melloi household.
If hiding wasn't an option—
Then he would make himself seen!
...
"He is the incarnation of evil, a blasphemer upon the path. His mere presence is an insult to divinity. My Lord cannot abide such a heretic. All things upon the earth must cast judgment upon him, with the same fervor they offer their Father—"
A deep, resonant voice filled the old, noble room. Heavy scarlet drapes shut out the daylight, and only a single blue flame from a candle lit the circular table in the center.
A tall man sat with military posture, golden hair slicked into a perfect back-sweep. Dressed in a dark robe, his handsome, sharp features bore the arrogance of authority. He recited the passage with solemn cadence.
Then, he smirked.
"—Written in 1969 by a cardinal of the Church. This 'Revelation'... what a load of garbage."
"If all things were created by God, then why must we, mere mortals, preserve Mystery?"
Kenneth El-Melloi Archibald threw the book to the floor.
Then stomped on it.
As Lord of the Mineralogy Department, Kenneth held no respect for the Church. Ever since the Second World War, the two organizations had refrained from open warfare—but their ideologies remained incompatible.
And today's contempt wasn't just about doctrine.
It was about that man.
Lucan Luvist.
Even Kenneth's late grandfather—the previous Lord El-Melloi—had acknowledged the man. A commoner who rose to genius heights. Rumor had it the elder El-Melloi had dealings with him.
That alone made Luvist worth studying.
Kenneth hadn't picked up this Church book out of curiosity. It was because of a dream.
As both head of Mineralogy and a leading lecturer in Spirit Evocation, Kenneth believed dreams were glimpses of prophecy from the soul.
He had dreamed of reading The Book of Law as a child with his grandfather.
Specifically, Luvist's edition.
So when he woke, he reached for The Book of Law.
But instead found this Church nonsense, where even that man was denounced.
Scowling, Kenneth stood.
Then paused. A parchment lay flat on the table. It hadn't been there before.
In the flickering candlelight, he read the words:
"The El-Melloi Pact."
—Lucan Luvist, personally written.