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

[Facing a hundred alone—but the outcome was never in doubt.]

[Though your Mental Magecraft would only be completed in the future, its roots had already taken hold. It used your "mind" as the foundation of Mystery. Whatever you imagined became Mystery; whatever you did, became its very structure.]

[And you had already lived in this era for eight years.]

[You knew it—truly, deeply.]

[This era existed in your mind.]

[And so your magic rooted itself here.]

[You prayed—to yourself. And the "god" that arose from your mental plane, a being wholly belonging to you alone, radiated unparalleled arcane power.]

[The fusion of magecraft and miracle emerged.]

[You were well aware that, in your time or this one, only the oldest magus families possessed such independent foundations—]

[All their many branches only inherited diluted fragments of that original Mystery.]

[You had no need to fear them.]

[This was the basis of your strategy—the source of your confidence.]

In an instant, the docks of Calais descended into chaos.

A "battle" had begun—and already ended.

"It's over."

Lucan, still childish in form but calm as ever, slowly lowered his hand and turned to the stunned group behind him with a natural smile.

"Didn't I say? This kind of situation is far from 'dangerous.'"

Aside from his instructor Prelati, who already knew how "abnormal" Lucan was in this simulation, the others looked utterly horrified.

Magic attacks had been ignored. Elements transmuted through Mystery were rejected.

A workshop-level ritual, born from the inscriptions woven into his very garments through pure thought, shielded him from every physical strike.

And from his invulnerable perch, he dispatched each opponent with a single slap.

Though limited by his underdeveloped body and its low mana capacity—compared to his peak in the first simulation—Lucan was far from weak.

Forty-six primary circuits. Over a hundred auxiliary ones. Mental Magecraft's supreme mana efficiency.

All combined to grant him power at least equal to a Color-Ranked Magus.

Not quite Grand yet, but undeniably a heavyweight on the stage of Mystery.

And his opponents, numerous and well-trained though they were, lacked independent magical foundations. They barely qualified as "Open-Rank," a third-tier level above apprentices and firstborns, but still below the Ritual and Canon Ranks.

This was the ceiling for most conventional magi.

"So this is 'Grand potential'?"

Compared to the others, Isabelle de Rais—scion of a magus lineage—could not help but recall Flamel's words as she looked down at the boy who barely reached her chest.

Lucan turned back toward the devastated port. He recalled the ripple of arcane disturbance he had sensed in Paris.

No visible signs remained, but clearly, the enemy's magical installations here had been wiped out.

His opening move was complete.

"Let's keep going."

[You led Prelati, Isabelle de Rais, and the others in dismantling the array at Calais, then left.]

[Rather than seizing a ship and sailing across, as they'd expected,]

[You waged guerrilla war across five ports under English control.]

[You hunted their magi one by one.]

[At Bordeaux, you defeated thirty.]

[At Brest, seventeen more.]

[At...]

[One was stronger—Canon Rank at least. You still crushed him.]

[And all the while, you continued your studies.]

[Learning as you traveled. Learning as you fought.]

[By December, after three months of raids, you finally chose to cross the English Channel.]

[You turned nine that month.]

[Your name resounded across the arcane world. You were called "the Atavistic Tuval"—a genius on par with the monstrous Barthomelloi ancestors who once ascended to lordship.]

BOOM!

A sharp crash shattered the stillness of a grand chamber.

Curtains fluttered like waves in a storm. Under immense invisible pressure, many lay prostrate on the floor, breathless before the towering figure at the head of the hall.

He was massive. His shadow alone seemed to consume the room.

Golden hair spilled like a lion's mane. His bearded face twisted in fury.

"That damned brat... the Atavistic Tuval again!"

Blue eyes narrowed. He crushed the message in his hand. Magic surged outward, thick as mist.

In this age of dwindling Mystery, mana from the Great Source had faded. Only those with vast personal reserves—"small sources"—could still wield true power.

Such might had nothing to do with study or skill.

It was bloodline. It was legacy.

It was Trambellio.

A thousand-year-old lineage, built upon "Foundational" magecraft. Vast mana, rooted in a Crest with more than fifty times the average circuit count.

And this generation's heir, Edmond Trambellio, surpassed even his forebears.

At twenty-three, he stood just below Grand, already a Color-Rank mage.

He was based in the Clock Tower, commanding vast influence, and stood one step from becoming a Lord.

The Association was a behemoth, home to nearly every mage in Europe. Only a handful ascended to rule it.

And in this era, only those of Grand Rank could claim a Lord's title.

It had been four centuries since Grand was first defined, and only two since the Twelve Lords had been formally established.

But already, their power felt eternal.

Most of those twelve seats were vacant.

Many eyes watched, waiting.

To become a Grand meant becoming a Lord.

For Edmond, already a Color, it should have been easy.

But Grand required more than talent. One had to create an entirely new magical foundation—a forbidden-tier system worthy of inheritance.

Skill and scholarship. Both.

All he needed was time and resources.

The Hundred Years' War provided both.

If he could seize the vestiges of French Mystery...

If he could push his family's foundation even further...

He would succeed.

But now, that plan was in jeopardy.

A low-born magus from rural France...

That brat Victoire Tuval!

He hadn't just annihilated Edmond's expeditionary forces.

He had crossed the Channel.

He was attacking Edmond's homeland. His family. His base.

Progress had stalled.

Of course Edmond was furious.

"Where is he now?"

His voice rumbled. The lion roared.

The prostrate figures trembled.

These were no mere lackeys—they were old magi, bound to the Trambellio legacy.

Each a fearsome mage in their own right.

But here, they groveled.

Edmond wasn't yet a Lord. But he was already a king among mages.

No one dared speak.

At last, an old man whispered:

"Latest reports say he destroyed the Autryan family's main workshop... He should already be in London."

The capital of England.

The seat of the Clock Tower.

The Trambellio stronghold.

"Coming straight for me?" Edmond sneered, veins pulsing. "Then let him come. I'll be waiting!"

Lucan was indeed in London.

[By July of the following year, you reached England's capital.]

[The seat of Europe's naval empire. Different from every city you'd seen before. Sea breeze sharp. Mana deep. The air nearly crackled with arcane energy.]

[Mystery overflowed. Stronger even than Paris.]

[Because beneath London slept the original World Dragon—Albwion.]

[The Clock Tower was built atop its corpse. A limitless source of power, mined for millennia, never yet exhausted.]

[Though its deepest layers remain untouched even into the far future.]

[That no longer concerns you.]

[In the past year, you led Isabelle, Pierre, Marguerite, and Jean in annihilating countless English magus families.]

[Your magic deepened. Your body matured. Your strength soared.]

[You identified the mastermind behind England's mystical assault: Edmond Trambellio.]

[You resolved to strike him down.]

[To prove how far you'd come.]

[But you never got the chance.]

[In September, word came from Paris.]

[The greatest alchemist of the age. Creator and bearer of the Philosopher's Stone. Owner of the eternal Magic Stone. Grand-ranked magus of the Association.]

[Nicolas Flamel...]

[...was dead.]