Inside the dim dungeon of Château d'If, time seemed to pass much faster for the sailor from Marseille. With Father Faria's company and guidance, the endless monotony of imprisonment had vanished. Even thoughts of suicide or desperate escape—once his only obsessions—had quietly faded away.
That said, Edmond still dutifully continued digging the tunnel to freedom alongside the priest.
Both of them were careful to return to their respective cells at the appointed hours before the wardens' inspection. Other than that, nothing could interrupt the progress of their excavation.
As for the debris left behind from digging, Favia—ever cautious—ground it into fine powder and scattered it out the window, letting the night wind carry it away, leaving no trace.
Watching the priest work so methodically, Edmond quickly picked up the same habit.
While chipping away at the wall, Favia would teach him lessons—sometimes in one language, sometimes another. At times he'd speak of the histories of nations, at others he'd recount the lives of the so-called "great men" whose "glorious" deeds had shaped the world.
There was a certain aura about the priest, Edmond thought—a warmth that had nothing to do with logic or reason. Simply standing there, he seemed to radiate comfort, a quiet assurance that made one feel they would get along with him no matter what.
That was something Edmond, ever the quick learner, tried his best to emulate.
"Repeat what you studied yesterday."
But when that black, murky shadow spoke, Edmond's mood immediately sank.
He had talent, no doubt about it. Whatever the priest taught, he mastered quickly. Yet this so-called "evil side" of Father Faria—this being with two names, Abigail and Favia, the priest's supposed "sister"—
How should he even describe her? Edmond couldn't see the shadow's eyes, but he always felt their gaze—unblinking, heavy, and oppressive—fixed on him and the priest. The silence she brought hung thick in the air, like storm clouds or the stare of a vengeful ghost glaring at the thief who'd stolen her family heirloom.
"Abi."
Perhaps sensing her disapproval, Favia called to her softly.
"I'm just trying to make sure he remembers what he's learned."
"Edmond learns much faster than you did. If anyone needs to work harder, it's you."
"Got it."
A damp silence settled in again, the air heavy with the smell of mildew.
Still, Edmond couldn't shake the feeling that the black shadow's unseen eyes were still boring holes into him.
"All right, let's keep going. Don't think too much of it."
The priest lifted his small chisel, and the light tapping of metal against stone echoed gently through the cell.
"Sorry, Father. I must have disappointed you."
To Edmond, Abigail was part of the priest himself. Her tone could only mean he hadn't lived up to his expectations.
Abigail's voice was not gentle. Yet, as Edmond had learned from Favia's lessons, when people close to each other speak hard truths, their tone is rarely soft. Quite the opposite—because truth is cruel, it often comes in a voice that forces you to face it.
"Don't worry about it."
"But…"
"I said don't worry about it."
Edmond tried to argue, but Favia cut him off before he could finish.
"Yes, Father."
Though he wasn't uncomfortable with the priest, he still felt a faint restlessness in his chest.
I have to do better, he told himself. I have to make the Father proud of me…
That thought never left his heart.
A few days later, strange footsteps echoed through the dungeon—footsteps neither Favia nor Edmond had ever heard before.
They immediately stopped what they were doing and returned to their cells, waiting to see who it was.
The newcomer turned out to be a pink-haired girl. She glanced at Edmond, shook her head, and then walked straight toward Favia's cell.
Finally, she stopped in front of it.
"Um… are you the old geezer mentioned in Moriarty's letter?"
The question sounded absurd, yet her tone was perfectly serious—like someone telling a joke with a completely straight face.
"…In the letter Moriarty sent, he did call me that," Favia replied calmly. "Though it's been quite some time since I last heard from him."
The moment Favia laid eyes on the pink-haired girl, he recognized her identity at once—
An artificial human. Frankenstein.
It was also something Moriarty had once mentioned when they first met.
Back then, Favia had told Moriarty to remember the name of the Steam King, Charles Babbage, and to visit Geneva, Switzerland, in the year 1818—to witness a certain event. The event where Victor Frankenstein brought his creation to life.
At the time, Moriarty had shown little reaction, but apparently, he had followed through after all.
"Oh." Frankenstein nodded, then tilted her head. "So you're also that 'old man' Moriarty's always talking about?"
Her voice carried clearly to Edmond in the neighboring cell—and he nearly burst out laughing.
"Probably," Favia replied calmly.
"Great! So you are that old geezer—and an old man too!"
Frankenstein's words sounded odd, but her voice was filled with barely contained excitement.
Before Favia could respond, the pink-haired girl spoke again, her tone unusually serious.
"Mm, that settles it. Fran's decided."
"Decided what?" Favia asked, confused about why this girl had come to find him.
"You're Fran's grandpa."
At that moment, from the next cell, Edmond let out a long sigh.
He narrowed his eyes slightly—
As if envious.
As if jealous.
As if gazing longingly at distant stars.
"How nice," he murmured softly.
A faint bitterness drifted through the dungeon air.
——
Some time earlier, in a certain London townhouse—
One day, Fran suddenly found herself wondering about this "old man" whom Moriarty so often mentioned.
Every time she asked, both Babbage and Moriarty would brush her off with vague answers.
At first, she didn't pry any further. If they didn't want to tell her, she'd learn the truth someday anyway.
But that day, the house was empty—both Babbage and Moriarty were out. So, curiosity got the better of her, and she secretly began rummaging through Moriarty's hidden archive.
The password was intricate, but for Fran, it was laughably easy to bypass.
She sifted through the towering piles of letters, skimming past Moriarty's endless stream of useless nonsense until her eyes caught on something peculiar: references to "the old man."
Who exactly was this "old man" he kept mentioning? The same one he always talked about? Or someone different?
Maybe… a relative? Moriarty tended to speak that way only when he was in a good mood. If so… then that "old man" must be my grandpa, right?
It was the year 1828. Ten years had passed since Fran had been taken to London and adopted by Moriarty and Babbage.
Over those years, Frankenstein had come to embody three roles: an adopted daughter, an apprentice assisting her "fathers," and an "intelligence officer" for their organization.
The last two titles were Moriarty's idea, of course. Still, for a homunculus like her, neither job was particularly exhausting.
As for her "intelligence work," most of it consisted of casually asking university students what they thought of Moriarty's lectures...
In short, curiosity eventually won. One day, Fran left a short note saying she was going out to take a look for herself—and then disappeared.
She knew exactly where she was heading. After all, it wasn't hard to discover the one place Moriarty visited every year—Château d'If.
But on the way there, trouble found her.
——
"My, my, what a delightful surprise," a voice drawled suddenly, smooth yet chilling. "All life is a miracle, after all. To create life—that is the most sacred of acts, a deed worthy only of the divine…"
The words rang in Fran's ears like a curse.
Instantly, she dropped into a combat stance.
From the shadows stepped a white-haired man radiating an intense magical presence. Strange sigils rippled across his body like living patterns, glowing faintly as power surged through him—wild, alive, serpentine.
Fran recognized it immediately.
A Magic Crest.
Moriarty had taught her about those—artificial magical organs inherited through generations of magi. The crest carried the legacy of a family's craft, both a priceless heirloom and a binding curse—passed from parent to child, a crystallization of ancient mystery.
And this man's crest… was powerful enough that a single spell could kill an ordinary magus outright.
Yet Fran felt no fear.
Her body, enhanced and reinforced by Babbage's engineering, had already begun calculating how to neutralize the threat.
"If the object of creation is as complex as a human," the white-haired man continued, his green mana flaring around him, "then indeed… it may be called the most sacred act of all."
His mismatched eyes—one red, one green—gleamed as he slowly advanced, smiling still.
"Even for someone like me, who blends science and sorcery, such transgression is unthinkable. To create life so crudely… ah, what a pitiful magician, unworthy of the title. Has he no fear of the Church's wrath?"
Just from that brief exchange, Fran could tell how formidable this magus was.
"...What did you just say? Don't you dare insult my father!"
Though her opponent was undeniably strong, Fran's aura surged with anger rather than fear.
Moriarty might be strange—utterly different from Babbage—and yes, she'd sometimes complained about him in private. But she could not tolerate anyone speaking ill of them. They had both been kind to her in their own ways.
"The Church may have faded with time," the man mused, "but its mysteries remain. And I doubt it would ever approve of such defilement—of a magician presuming to play god, crafting life with his own hands."
"Who are you?" Fran demanded. "You feel... similar to me somehow. Were you created too? Are you... a friend?"
"Me?" The man chuckled. "No, child. I am a dead man reborn, yet quite different from you. I was forged from the very legends of the Church—born of the Great Illusion of the eighteenth century, the tireless wanderer known as the Great Hero."
He smiled faintly, lifted a glass of water, and drank it in one slow swallow.
"—Alessandro Cagliostro."
At that name, a sharp metallic tang filled the air.
Fran could sense his magic pressure spiking—the density of his aura thickening until it felt suffocating. If he unleashed that power, it could become a storm of unpredictable sorcery.
This man was powerful—stronger than Moriarty, stronger than Babbage. Even Fran wasn't sure she could win.
Still, she didn't avert her gaze. She refused to show fear.
"Where is your core?"
Cagliostro's question came barely two seconds before he attacked.
Mocking her defiance, the white-haired man raised his hand and clenched it in the air.
A violent tearing sound split the silence as the massive hammer in Fran's grip shattered—green mana bursting out like a swarm of serpents.
The next sound was like a cup shattering on the floor.
Crack.
With that faint noise, the weapon forged by the Steam King himself was obliterated—crushed by magic far beyond his craftsmanship.
And in that exact instant—
Cagliostro froze.
As if hearing something only he could perceive, he turned sharply, eyes narrowing.
From somewhere in France, he sensed a wind—cold, cutting, and reeking of blood—howling across the land.
"How strange… something interesting seems to have awakened in Gévaudan," he murmured, lips curling into a grin. "Could it be that the so-called Sleeping Storm King truly exists?"
He chuckled softly, then made his decision.
"In that case, I'll leave you to Father Angelo Braga and Tarantelon. Consider it my apology gift for missing their banquet."
The two names he mentioned belonged to the very same trio who had framed Father Faria:
Father Angelo Braga of the Eighth Mystery Society, and Tarantelon—the current vessel of the infinitely reincarnating Roa.
It seemed Cagliostro had accepted an invitation from them—only to stumble upon Frankenstein en route to see her "grandfather."
"I don't understand what you're saying. So you're not going to fight me?" Fran tilted her head, puzzled.
"Heh. Non-human creature," Cagliostro said, his voice smooth as silk. "You may tell your so-called father—and the ancient predecessors before him this…"
He stood, the tails of his green coat fluttering as his long hair danced in the wind.
"I'll be waiting. When the Church brands you as heretics, your precious body will be torn apart and scattered into the Mediterranean—your remains serving as their offering to God."
And with that, the Great Magus Cagliostro strode away, his laughter fading into the distance, leaving the pink-haired homunculus alone among the ruin of her shattered weapon.