In the Nasuverse (TYPE-MOON), I Created a Magical Family Lineage

By all accounts, having lived a full seventy-six simulated years, Lucan should have reached the point of facing life and death with calm composure, unmoved by insults or honors.

But in truth, post-simulation, with all those years of memory tucked away, Lucan's mindset remained that of a seventeen-year-old student who used to joke and laugh with Waver at the Clock Tower.

Only when necessary would he consciously access those seventy-six years of experience—recalling them precisely, methodically.

Which was why, right now, he felt a spark of thrill.

Here in 1993, in this so-called 'modern era,' he wanted to show what he'd gained.

The low hum of magic filled the El-Melloi estate, the activated workshop steadily drawing in leyline mana from deep underground. From the hall, one could clearly see that the corridor outside had completely transformed. Twisted light and chaotic vision—wind and fire merged into a molten hellscape. Hellhounds roared within the compressed field.

Kenneth El-Melloi Archibald, who had risen abruptly, frowned deeply. As the master of this magical workshop, he clearly sensed the growing threat.

And yet—

The intruders hadn't stepped inside.

They were only manipulating Mystery from outside.

A provocation.

Here in London, on Clock Tower soil, a provocation toward one of the Twelve Lords.

"How brazen the lapdogs of the Department of Policies have become!" Kenneth sneered through gritted teeth. Under the chandelier's light, fury was etched into every line of his noble face.

Across from him, Lucan chuckled, "I've long heard the Policy Department's enforcers—thanks to their backing from the Barthomeloi family—show no regard for the other departments, despite being only one of the Twelve. But I suppose I underestimated them."

"To challenge a Lord of the Color Ranks? 'Stray dogs' would be too generous—I'd call them wolves."

Kenneth gave him a sidelong glare. "Childish provocation."

"But…"

"I gave my word, and I shall see it done. So long as you're under my protection, no one in the Clock Tower will harm you."

"No," Lucan interrupted, rising slowly. "You misunderstand, Professor Kenneth."

"I'm not trying to rile you up this time."

Kenneth paused, then watched as Lucan raised a hand and added with a smile, "I'm saying—when wolves bare their fangs, you beat them down with a stick. Beat them until they learn fear. That's how you prevent future attacks."

His words hung in the air.

But the speaker was gone.

Kenneth blinked. Gone? No, not quite.

"An illusion?"

He had left behind a mental projection during Kenneth's moment of distraction. Classic Mental Magecraft.

In that same instant, Kenneth's eyes traced Lucan's real presence—already outside the estate.

Outside.

Beyond the workshop.

He'd bypassed the activated wards and the slumbering spirit-hellhounds with ease.

Kenneth froze, momentarily shelving his own response to the attack. Now he watched, curious, to see what this boy—freshly awakened inheritor of Mental Magecraft—could really do.

...

Midday sunlight burned through the forest canopy, dousing everything in golden fire.

Lucan stood tall, robes fluttering.

From the distorted space that was the El-Melloi domain, he walked calmly into the forested road.

Shadows swayed beneath the trees—dozens of magi in black awaited him.

Enforcers of the Policy Department.

They had anticipated he would come.

Lucan tilted his head, smiling. A perfect opportunity. A stage to announce the rebirth of Mental Magecraft under the name Lucan Luvist.

A man in black, clearly the leader, stepped forward and spoke in a low voice:

"Lucan of the Department of Spirit Evocation—by order of the Department of Policies, we are here to conduct an internal investigation."

"Please cooperate and accompany us."

The Department of Policies wasn't a true department like the others. It didn't teach. It governed. Like a student council with terrifying authority, it supervised students and professors alike.

And so, most wouldn't dare refuse.

But Lucan shook his head.

"Investigation? Everyone knows the Barthomeloi treat the rules like suggestions."

"I know what you're after," he said, eyes gleaming. "If you want me to come with you—just defeat me here."

The words had barely left his lips when the wind howled.

The enforcers moved.

No mockery. No contempt.

They were elite—the Clock Tower's best. Once graduated, they would become Sealing Designation Enforcers, the Association's sharpest blades.

They didn't underestimate him, even if in their hearts they still thought this once-mediocre student couldn't pose a threat.

Spells activated instantly.

"Winds of the North, scour the earth!"

"Fire, bloom!"

"Water rise and carry the dust!"

Fire rained down like red lotus flames.

Water surged from beneath the earth.

These weren't slow rituals—they were prepared spells, built into Mystic Codes and bodies alike.

Blades drawn, close-combat magi leapt forward, activating slicing and severing enchantments.

The Policy Department didn't care about collateral damage—they had top-tier healers on standby. As long as the target wasn't vaporized, anything could be healed.

Lucan stood motionless.

The glow of fire and water reflected in his brown eyes—

Then vanished.

His eyes closed.

And the world stopped.

Wind fell still.

Flames were snuffed out.

Water reversed course—draining back into the earth.

Stillness. Reversal.

Mental Magecraft moved faster than spoken spells—an instant shutdown!

The attacking magi staggered, pale.

The close-combat ones lunged in that instant of distraction.

Perfect formation. Perfect timing.

But just before their blades landed—

BOOM.

They were blasted away!

Feathers of light. Waves of radiance.

Lucan's Clock Tower uniform was now lined with silver runes, glowing like a web of sorcery—

A Magic Workshop manifested as attire.

All interference bounced off.

Kenneth, deep in the estate, had just sat down again when he leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair.

He stared, wide-eyed.

That glow—it was unmistakable.

A Ritual Array.

A Mystic Code.

He had watched that uniform just minutes ago—plain, student issue.

And now it had become a Hall of Mystery.

Lucan had transformed it in an instant.

It wouldn't last long—but the technique was real.

Even without peak mana reserves.

Even without polished physique.

His refined mastery over Mystery, honed across seventy-six simulated years, had allowed him to do it.

Even great spells requiring multiple casters and long chants aside—

He could now instantly cast almost any other magic, inscribing them briefly into the world.

Yes—

In that moment, Lucan's memories surged into view.

His eyes remained youthful.

But they gleamed with ancient light.

"He is like a saint—and like a man."

"Like an elder—and like a child."

"Supremely good. Supremely wicked. Pure and worldly. Divine and demonic."

What was once only written in The Book of Law—

Now existed, alive and undeniable, in Lucan's form.

A moment echoing the past—

He walks among the forest of Mystery.

Cleaving through bramble and thorn.

—From the El-Melloi Journals