—Heh. Old man, look at me now. The pupa has become a butterfly of evil.
That pure, naïve youth has vanished without a trace.
What remains is the sovereign of all wickedness.
Soon enough, this butterfly will become an emperor —
seated upon a throne of jade, gazing coldly upon the world…
not from above, but from below.
Because the place where I stand… is darkness.
The right to walk beneath the sun belongs only to the virtuous.
I have long since set foot upon the path of shadow.
Remember to kneel and pay your respects in your dungeon from now on —
for I am destined to become the emperor of crime!
The emperor who shall rule over all evil!
James—
"What are you writing, Moriarty?"
"Oh—uh—nothing. Nothing at all."
"Really?"
The black-haired young man stared at Moriarty, puzzled.
He asked purely out of casual curiosity — Moriarty had been writing with a proud little grin, after all. But the surprising part was that the normally composed silver-haired genius suddenly panicked, almost instinctively shielding the letter-like paper from view.
Now that he thought about it… Moriarty did seem to write a similar letter every year.
"Well, I won't disturb you then. Keep going."
The black-haired man didn't pry. His fingers brushed the edge of his tie as he smiled lightly.
To him, this was simply the personal affair of the prodigy who—at twenty-one—had published his binomial theory paper that swept across Europe, and then, soon after, released the groundbreaking pure-mathematics treatise Asteroid Mechanics —
James Moriarty.
Still, he couldn't help his surprise.
Moriarty actually had that kind of expression — the kind people wear when they storm out in anger, achieve something glorious, and return just to brag about it.
His eyes burned with light reflected from the room's lamp as his pen flew across the page.
Was the letter meant for a family member?
A friend?
A beloved?
Someone he admired?
…Or perhaps… that "old priest" he once mentioned?
The black-haired youth reclined slightly on the sofa, gazing over the rim of his glass at Moriarty, thinking silently.
His name was Charles Babbage — 19th-century mathematician, scientist, and the visionary steam-king who dreamed of reshaping the world.
He was the one who conceived the Difference Engine and Analytical Engine — the earliest mechanical predecessors of the computer, powered by steam.
In modern times, he would be called The Father of the Computer.
He was also the very same man Moriarty sought out in England after departing the Château d'If.
At first, Moriarty approached him only because he was curious about who this "Charles Babbage" was — the man Father Faria mentioned.
But once they met, mutual fascination quickly brought them together as close friends.
After all, back in 1812, Babbage had helped found the Analytical Society, aiming to introduce continental advancements in mathematics to England — revitalizing the field.
Thus, for a mathematical prodigy like Moriarty, he was a kindred soul.
It was during this time, while calculating celestial motions… Babbage found himself troubled by the sheer magnitude of numerical computations required.
Not just astronomy — all government departments and economic enterprises alike relied on manual labor for countless equations.
If those calculations could be entrusted to machines instead…
Babbage pondered deeper —
It's possible.
A machine driven by steam, capable of highly sophisticated computational work—
Its name: Difference Engine.
Yes. Every discipline required mathematics.
Once constructed, this machine would enable humanity to save unimaginable amounts of time across every industry.
Civilization itself would leap forward by centuries.
A dream no one had ever achieved.
"Precisely because it is a dream no one has achieved… according to my calculations, it is not very likely."
Moriarty denied him outright.
But Babbage did not grow angry.
There were bonds that only competition could forge.
To truly understand another person — one must weigh both virtues and flaws in words and actions.
Life cannot be risk-free.
You might anger someone.
You might be hated for it.
But without bearing risk… genuine trust can never be built.
This truth, he understood perfectly.
So he only smiled and replied:
"You never know until you try.
It's not as though everything can be accomplished through effort alone.
Even in the face of crushing setbacks — even when the brilliance of the goal forces you to bow your head — you must continue to move forward."
"Is it because there are things you'll never understand… unless you try?"
Moriarty glanced over the equations Babbage had written and rose to his feet.
"Yes. Something like that."
"…You sound just like that old man."
James Moriarty muttered under his breath.
Babbage could only look at him with a rather complicated expression.
Because he had so rarely seen Moriarty make that kind of expression—he never would have imagined Moriarty could show that kind of look—Babbage couldn't help but ask in curiosity.
"Who was that old man?"
"Just a senile priest who spends his days spouting nonsense."
Moriarty answered Babbage's question with blatant irritation.
"Always rambling: 'I want to see that beautiful sight just once.' 'Can you show it to me?' 'Moriarty will definitely achieve it.' 'The world is golden.' What nonsense! If he wants to see it so badly, why doesn't he go look himself? Asking me to show it to him? Is he joking?"
"I… I see…"
Babbage awkwardly averted his gaze and coughed twice, as if pretending he hadn't heard too much.
Moriarty sure is stubborn, he thought.
His tone was harsh—nothing but sharp edges—yet…
At the corner of Moriarty's mouth, a fearless smile tugged upward.
It appeared only occasionally—truly rarely—but Charles Babbage had seen it. That expression belonging to the young man named James Moriarty.
It was the look of someone who seemed to coldly reject everything—yet inwardly waited for the day he could utterly overturn those who doubted him.
"Well, since you seem to want it that badly, I suppose I can use my mathematical ability to help you in my spare time. To forge that impossible fantasy— a world without conflict, only development and prosperity.
In exchange, Babbage, you shall become my first subordinate… Why are you laughing?"
Babbage drained his teacup and sighed.
"No, nothing at all… Boss."
"Don't call me boss. That title is unacceptable."
"Then what? Chief? Big Bro? Master? King? Your imperial majesty?"
Babbage teased him with a mischievous grin.
Moriarty fell into brief thought.
"None of those… Ah! That's it. Call me Professor."
"But at the moment, my academic credentials outrank yours."
Babbage wasn't wrong. By 1814 and 1817 he had already earned both a Bachelor's and Master's degree in Literature, and had been elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1816. Meanwhile, Moriarty was currently nothing more than a mathematics instructor.
"…Don't worry about that! It's just a title!"
"Alright, alright. As you wish—Professor Moriarty."
Present day — 1818.
In Geneva, Switzerland, the two close friends had already been staying there for nearly half a year.
Moriarty had moved in at the beginning of the year; Babbage followed, curious about his intentions.
In truth, Moriarty was here because of what Father Faria once told him:
"In Geneva, in the year 1818, something will happen.
I hope you will witness it."
He didn't understand the old man's meaning, nor did he care much for it—yet it didn't stop him from coming anyway.
Purely his own choice.
No one's orders.
At least that's what he believed.
Now, Babbage was engrossed in calculations. The geometric patterns he was sketching were magical sigils—basic structures taught at the Clock Tower—but drawn with such precision that even a First-Rank Lecturer would be impressed.
In the world of Type-Moon, scientists understood the reverse side of the world—magic—and many studied it to some extent. Helena Blavatsky would be one such example in the future. As technology advanced, the Clock Tower could no longer ignore science.
Meanwhile, Moriarty wrote a letter with meticulous caution. Night fell over Geneva, and a sudden storm swept across the city—lightning splitting the skies into blinding white.
The two exchanged a single look.
No need for words.
Both stood and moved at once—
Because they had both heard a roar — a sound that only magicians with refined senses could hear.
Lightning writhed like serpents in the rain-swallowed night, carving the heavens with breathtaking arcs.
The storm deepened. Thunder shook the air. Blinding flashes lit the world in violent bursts—like a burning sea of fire—only to plunge into darkness again once the light vanished.
And deep in a forest just outside the city—
In a Gothic manor—
The master of the house stumbled through the front doors, fleeing into the woods.
A distorted silhouette followed him.
Unafraid of rain or blackness, the figure moved as though the night did not exist—no lamp, no torch—yet every step was sure.
Day or night made no difference to either of them.
One was a magus.
The other, an artificial human.
Their magically enhanced sight pierced the dark. Shadows provided no refuge.
The magus was Victor Frankenstein—a mad scientist, alchemist, and magician pursuing forbidden human experimentation. He sought to create an artificial human rivaling mankind—miraculous creations akin to those of God.
In a way… he had succeeded.
Through corpses stitched together, then reanimated by alchemy and sorcery—he had created a being that resembled a human.
Yet…
Without emotion.
Unable to express joy, anger, sorrow, or delight.
The perfection-obsessed Victor was forced to admit his failure.
He labeled her—
"Defective."
"A monster."
"Frankenstein's Creature."
Earlier, the newly born being didn't understand Victor's disappointment. Wanting only to express gratitude, she killed a stray dog and offered its organs as a gift—
Which terrified Victor completely.
His faint hope for her shattered.
"Get out of my sight! You are no Eve of mine!
You are a damned monster—just die already!"
Victor raised his right hand—
A lethal spell tore forth instantly.
The creature didn't understand the words he screamed. She only knew he feared her. She reached out instinctively—
And destroyed the spell in a single gesture.
Realizing he was no match for what he had created—
Victor ran.
He now fully understood:
He had crafted a monster.
The artificial human did not understand why he fled. She followed silently.
A shadow—
Frankenstein's Creature—walked through the storm-soaked trees.
Her expression was tense—purely from a longing she herself did not understand.
Victor's heart was drowning in fear. The tiny space left in his panicked mind worked desperately to find a way to escape this abomination.
Her body — twisted, malformed — smeared with filth.
Every time he glanced back, those inhuman eyes glowed like a predator's—
To Victor, they were overflowing with murderous intent.
A proclamation of death.
Time blurred.
Exhausted, Victor collapsed to the ground. As the artificial human reached toward him, he screamed:
"Don't come near me! Monster!! My greatest regret is creating you!"
The warped figure tried to speak—she had no language, no training—and only a guttural roar escaped.
Don't… abandon… me… please…
Her anguished cry crashed into Victor's mind like a curse—stunning his thoughts—paralyzing his body.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't even scream.
Only his eyes remained—wide with terror—staring up at the demon before him.
Claws shredded the plants beneath her as she drew near—
Victor's panic surged again.
"Stay away! You are no Eve! Don't come closer! Just die already, I beg you!"
Disgust overwhelmed even his fear.
The creature froze—staring blankly.
Monsters do not cry.
She could only growl—a low, heart-rending sound.
But then—
Both became aware of another presence behind them.
Silent.
Unseen.
Until the voice spoke:
"Ah—I just realized a way to prove it.
Is now the part where I declare victory?"
Moriarty flexed his ten fingers, curiosity blazing in his eyes.
Babbage stared at the creature.
"This creation… is terrifying. But I see room for improvement."
Victor glimpsed hope.
"You two are magi, right?! Help me! That thing is a monster! I can pay you—everything I own!"
Moriarty tilted his head.
"Why call her a monster? Simply because she is unpleasant to look upon?"
"I-It's—it's a monster!! It's not the Eve I envisioned! It's a wicked thing incapable of emotions—!"
"AHAHAHAHAHAHA—!"
Moriarty burst into manic laughter—ignoring the panicked Victor—staring instead into the empty night sky that had ceased its rain. Moonlight faintly illuminated the void—starless and hollow.
"Marvelous! A wicked being, newly born and without emotion — what a perfect subordinate for the King of Evil!
Evil rules with evil! Evil devours evil!
Under the dominion of numbers, wickedness will grow endlessly!
My evil shall consume all others!"
Babbage coughed politely.
"He means you may leave now. He'll protect you — and she belongs to him."
Receiving this promise, Victor fled without a second glance—vanishing into darkness.
"AAAAAHHH—"
"Pathetic! Your response is riddled with flaws! A disgrace to evil!
What is with that expression?! Snarl! Show your malice!"
The creature tried to chase—
but Moriarty blocked her path, arms outstretched dramatically.
"I am James Moriarty—soon to stand atop all evil!
From this moment, you are my subordinate!"
"…Ah."
The artificial human froze—dazed.
"Submit to evil! Justice and wickedness alike are defects in the world's design!
I shall observe from above—and purge everything!
Therefore — obey me, Evil!"
Babbage exhaled and tried to translate again—
But before he could speak—
The artificial human whispered, haltingly:
"...Fa… Father…"
She had never been taught speech.
Never uttered a word until now.
No one understood why she spoke it.
Not even her.
"Ha?! Who the hell are you calling father?! Don't shout nonsense! Have some awareness of hierarchy! I'm twenty-one! I've never even been in a relationship! A burden like that has no place in my future plans!"
Frankenstein's Creature scratched her head, as if apologizing clumsily.
Babbage sighed at the sight of the furious Moriarty and the timid "monster."
"Well… since things are as they are, let's head back. You're soaked. If we don't repair you, you might short-circuit."
"Hmph. If she breaks this easily, she's disposable anyway…
And stop holding my hand! Where is your evil presence?!
…Fine, I'll let it slide for tonight. I'll train you properly later…"
And so—
following Father Faria's advice—
Moriarty's "evil organization" began to take shape.
One year later.
Moriarty returned to Château d'If as a prison inspector.
The warden informed him that a new prisoner had arrived. Intrigued, Moriarty went to see him.
As the key rattled and the iron hinges groaned, a gray-haired youth sitting in the far corner of the cell lifted his head—his face lighting up with joy as a sliver of daylight spilled in.
He sprang forward, hands clasped—putting on the most submissive, harmless expression he could muster.
"I am here to inspect the prison and hear the prisoners' requests.
What is yours?"
Moriarty asked routinely.
"I request to know what crime I've been charged with.
I request a public trial.
In short, I request this:
If I am guilty, then shoot me.
If I am innocent — then set me free."
"When I arrived, the guards told me you once tried to kill them."
"That's true. I was too angry. I apologize. He had treated me kindly… I must have lost control after being locked up for so long."
Moriarty frowned.
"How long have you been locked up?"
"February 28th, 1815, at two-thirty in the afternoon."
"Today is July 30th, 1819."
"…It's already been… so long, so very long… how could this be… clearly…"
The gray-haired young man's expression suddenly twisted into sorrow.
"Sir, have mercy on me… I'm not asking for a pardon — only for a public trial.
All I want is to see a judge. They should not refuse to interrogate a suspect.
I am innocent."
He then continued,
"I know you have no authority to release me, but you can make a request on my behalf. You can ensure that I stand trial. That is all I ask — nothing more."
"..."
Moriarty remained silent, and the gray-haired youth raised his voice:
"Please, I beg you — give me a sliver of hope!"
In that moment, from the expressions and words of the young man before him, Moriarty recalled what Faria once told him — the story of a man who stole a loaf of bread to feed his sister's seven children, yet was imprisoned for five years.
The unjust treatment drove him to four failed escape attempts, and ultimately he was sentenced to eighteen full years of penal servitude — all for a single loaf of bread that cost him eighteen years of his life.
At first, Moriarty believed it was just a tale — but when he remembered the look in Faria's eyes, he felt that perhaps the man had truly witnessed such tragedies… which was why he could not simply ignore this sufferer before him…
"I will go and look into it."
"Oh, thank goodness! I will finally be free! I will finally be saved! Mercedes… wait for me…"
"Who ordered your arrest?"
"It was Monsieur Villefort. Please, you must speak to him."
"Villefort… if I recall correctly, he is no longer in Marseille — he's in Toulouse."
"No wonder I've still not been released after all these years…"
the gray-haired youth muttered.
"So he has left — my only protector… Villefort must be worried for me, he must be working tirelessly to save me…"
"Does he hold any personal grudge against you?"
"None at all. Quite the opposite — he treated me very well."
"Then regarding your case, I can trust the records he left
behind, or any advice he gives me?"
"Villefort is absolutely trustworthy. Please, you must believe him."
He answered with unwavering certainty.
"Is that so… Very well."
Moriarty nodded slightly.
"Then wait here with peace of mind… By the way, your name?"
"Edmond Dantès."
***************************
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