"Grandfather?!"
When Frankenstein uttered those words, the one who reacted most violently wasn't Favia, but Abigail.
The pink-haired girl's sudden declaration left her completely stunned. For a moment, Abigail's brain overloaded trying to process it.
She tried to analyze who this Frankenstein's so-called "grandmother" could be, but the more she thought about it, the less sense it made. Her brother couldn't possibly have any descendants. After all, they'd spent eighteen years imprisoned together. No one could have been closer to him than she was.
Then, suddenly, a terrifying possibility flashed across Abigail's mind—the red-haired fairy from that island long ago. But that was centuries in the past. Unless… unless that woman had been pregnant at the time—
Her golden eyes widened. Her hands clenched involuntarily. A heavy shadow fell across her expression, dark as storm clouds. The air in the cell turned frigid, thick with unspoken tension. Even Frankenstein instinctively raised an eyebrow, a faint shiver rippling through her body.
"What a strange feeling," the girl murmured innocently. "Grandfather, is there some kind of spirit in this place? Should I deal with it for you? Frankenstein knows magic, you know."
The neighboring prisoner, Edmond, who had been lost in memories of his father, snapped back to awareness upon hearing that word—magic.
After years of studying under Faria, he naturally understood what it meant. Almost unconsciously, his thoughts began to drift toward what Faria had once taught him.
Magic was mystery. The collective term for acts in which humans artificially recreated the miraculous.
Ever since the dawn of the Common Era, human history had steadily driven out mystery. The spread of scientific light was inversely proportional to the retreat of the mystical dark.
No matter how much magi struggled to resist it, this fate could not be overturned.
The mysteries of the Age of Gods had long since been banished to distant realms. Even the temporary reappearance of such phenomena in the modern age was nearly impossible.
Moreover, the root of the word mystery came from the Greek for "closed"—to conceal, to seal, to be self-contained. Mystery's essence was to remain hidden.
The fewer who could reach it, the stronger magic became.
In Western Europe, there existed three major magical associations, along with countless smaller families. Yet all of them were built around one fundamental principle: the transformation of the magical energy flowing through or surrounding the magus.
Following the structure defined by their organization, a magus would send forth a command, activating a pre-constructed mechanism. The current required to transmit that command was what they called mana.
Though magic was often imagined to be omnipotent, it was, at its core, a means of invoking mystery through equivalent exchange. It could never turn the impossible into the possible.
Magic was simply a technique that shortened "processes" and allowed "methods" to be performed by individuals alone.
"To conjure fire from your hand may look impressive," Faria had once said, "but isn't it far more efficient to use a lighter?"
Even the magics that interfered with the mind—altering thoughts or manipulating emotion—carried their own price. Such interference twisted the caster's own psyche in turn. To curse another was always to wound oneself.
Edmond also remembered Faria explaining another form of magic: sorcery.
The London Association didn't even recognize it as a true academic art. They called it primitive, obsolete—most common across the Ottoman Empire and the Middle East.
"The Association looks down on practitioners from other lands," Faria had said in his calm, lecture-like tone. "They see sorcery as provincial custom—crude, self-serving, focused on harming others for one's own gain. But that very purity makes it one of the oldest and most fundamental forms of mystery."
He had smiled faintly, his voice measured and rhythmic, as if lecturing in a quiet classroom.
"The real reason for their disdain," he continued, "is that when the Ottoman Empire was at its height, its sorcery orders were powerful enough to threaten the balance of the European associations. The Western magi learned from that experience how to suppress others without direct confrontation—to erode them gradually, piece by piece."
"So, it's like subtle, invisible oppression?" Edmond had asked.
"Not exactly," Faria replied, tapping the damp stone wall with his finger. "Sorcery is chaotic. It lacks structure. Its expressions are blunt, unrefined. Even so, it might still hold the potential to survive—if someone remembers it."
In the world of Fate, sorcery thrived mainly in the Middle East, though variations existed. Japanese-style sorcery—known as Shinto sorcery—was one such branch. It involved forging contracts with gods to wield divine authority.
By invoking remnants of divinity left behind from the Age of Gods, one could obtain extraordinary power.
For instance, Nagao Kagetora, who was said to have embodied Bishamonten, the god of war, through such divine possession.
Western sorcery, on the other hand, was closer to what people imagined when they heard the word "magic."
Having recalled all this silently, Edmond refocused on the conversation next door between the girl named Fran and Favia.
"Ahem... probably not," Favia said after a brief cough. "Maybe it's just the weather."
The cough wasn't from illness—it was a signal, a quiet reminder to Abigail.
Realizing her hostility, the blonde girl took a slow breath and lightly patted her cheeks.
She looked at Favia's profile in silence. Perhaps because of the conditions in Château d'If, his health was not what it once had been. Outwardly unchanged, perhaps—but she could tell. She'd known him too long not to notice the quiet toll on his body.
Without thinking, Abigail reached out her hand. Yet, just before her fingertips brushed his cheek, she hesitated and stopped.
It was only a few centimeters away. But even that distance felt like a line she couldn't cross.
Perhaps because it felt too sudden, too unguarded.
But Favia, noticing her hesitation, didn't seem to mind at all. He gently took her retreating hand and placed it against his face.
"I see now," he said softly. "You're right. This place really isn't good. If Fran stays here too long, her parts might rust. It must be hard for you to remain here, grandfather. Would you like me to take you outside?"
"Let's put that aside for now. Fran, I have a question for you."
"Mm! Alright, ask away!"
The pink-haired girl perked up, her tone bright and lively.
"How did you get hurt?" Favia rested his chin on one hand as he asked.
To be honest, he didn't care much that she kept calling him grandfather. After all, he already had a "surrogate daughter" working in Caubac's café. As for Fran's "father," judging from her earlier words, it wasn't hard to guess—James Moriarty and Charles Babbage.
"...I'm not hurt, Grandpa."
"Then how come your bangs are cut clean off at the front? Tell me what happened."
Frankenstein fell silent for a moment.
It wasn't just hesitation—it felt like fear, or maybe guilt.
"...Ah, I remember hearing that magi aren't supposed to pry into one another's affairs. We leave it to the stars, the blade, and fate!"
Fran gave no real answer—only a strained smile.
Maybe she thought the one she'd encountered, Count Cagliostro, was stronger than both Moriarty and Babbage, and that Favia—at least in her eyes—was just an ordinary man. So telling him would only worry them for no reason.
"Not gonna tell me, huh? Don't be fooled by how I look. I'm actually quite strong, you know."
Instead of pressing her, Favia's voice carried a faint, amused curiosity.
"If Grandpa were really that strong, he wouldn't be stuck in here."
Fran couldn't help but giggle at her own cheekiness.
"Well, that's true enough," Favia admitted calmly. "But even so, some situations call for patience. Special circumstances need special handling."
He paused, exhaled lightly.
"And besides, I'm not actually related to Moriarty. We're merely acquaintances. Which means I'm not really your grandfather, and you don't need to call me that."
Then, with a faint smile, he added, "Still… consider my answering to that name my way of repaying your kindness."
"Is that so?"
The girl tilted her head.
"Then I guess I'll just have to call you 'old man'? Yeah, old man. Old geezer. Fran said it, so now we're even."
Favia's expression didn't change—he simply frowned slightly and said, "What I meant was that when a child gets hurt, an adult should step in."
Fran froze. For a moment, she thought he was genuinely angry.
That would be bad. If he was angry, it'd only make things worse. So, rather than explain, she decided to stay quiet.
She fought to suppress the nervous twitch that threatened to show on her face and finally blurted out—
"Please forgive Fran! I shouldn't have called you those awful things, Grandpa!"
The shout came out louder than she intended.
Startled by her own voice, she shrank back again, flustered and embarrassed, fumbling with her fingers.
"On the way here, Fran met a man named Alessandro Cagliostro. I almost got killed by him. He said something about sensing the aura of the 'Storm King' in Gévaudan... then left. But before he did, he said the Church should dismantle me for parts and throw me into the Mediterranean... I'm really sorry. Fran's just too weak..."
"I see. Alessandro Cagliostro... Braga... Tarateron."
Those were the very men Edmond was destined to confront as the Count of Monte Cristo.
Alessandro Cagliostro—also known as Count Cagliostro—was a legendary eccentric who roamed the courts of 18th-century Europe. A great magus active in the French salons before the Revolution, he secretly practiced alchemy and healing among the poor, earning the admiration of the people.
Even after being arrested as the supposed mastermind behind the "Affair of the Diamond Necklace"—a scandal that even ensnared Queen Marie Antoinette—he was ultimately released and hailed as a hero by the public. Yet the nobles and the Church despised him. Banished from France, he was eventually captured in Rome.
His influence had indirectly led to the establishment of a new field within the Clock Tower: Modern Magecraft Theory. Formally recognized in the early 20th century, it became the twelfth official department, filling the void left when the Department of Law and Politics was separated.
If Favia's deductions were correct, the "Storm King of Gévaudan" Cagliostro mentioned must refer to Theodoric Alter, a being whose magical energy reached the level of a mechanical god—the second "Beast of Gévaudan."
The first Beast's story took place from 1764 to 1767, while Edmond himself defeated the rogue Roi in 1837 and resolved the Gévaudan incident the following year, in 1838.
But even after that, the influence of the "Storm King," also known as the "King of the Wild Hunt," hadn't completely faded. By 1889, echoes of his legend resurfaced—the monstrous hound in The Hound of the Baskervilles case was not only linked to Britain's mythic "Black Dog" but also connected to the Storm King himself. It was highly likely that Cagliostro's hand had been involved.
Moreover, given his peculiar nature, it wasn't impossible that Alessandro Cagliostro was still alive, even in the modern day. There were records of him conversing with Tsarist Princess Anastasia—he might even have met Helena, who in her youth had contracted with the spirit known as "V."
As for Angelo Braga of the Eighth Sacrament Society, he was one of the three "wise men" who betrayed and framed Father Faria, and later met his end at the barrel of Edmond's gun when the Count sought vengeance.
The Fate/Strange Fake-style audio chronicle "Heroic Legacy: Edmond's Tale" told that very story—how the Count avenged his beloved mentor. Tarateron, meanwhile, was none other than the reincarnation of Roi.
In the original chain of events, after Edmond killed Braga, Tarateron, realizing that the elusive Count of Monte Cristo had begun to move, struck first. He murdered one of Edmond's own informants and even killed Captain Morrel's child—the man who had once saved Edmond's life—all to lure the Count into battle.
Wait... if Cagliostro had never met Moriarty, but Moriarty was now building an organization... then when Edmond escaped, would he use Moriarty's intelligence network? And if so... could that informant who was killed have actually been Frankenstein herself?
Impossible, in theory. In the original course of history, Fran should've been in Antarctica by now, chasing after her creator, Victor. But since history had already diverged—and she'd been taken in by Moriarty—maybe... just maybe, this was the version of her connected to that chain of events.
As Favia silently contemplated, the dungeon fell quiet again.
Then Fran's soft voice broke the stillness.
"Um... you're really not angry?"
Her words echoed faintly in the cold, stone chamber.
"Angry?" Favia looked puzzled. "Why would I be angry?"
"For being called old and stuff. You're not mad at all?" Fran asked incredulously. "If someone said that about Moriarty or Babbage, I'd probably twist their head clean off."
"That's... a bit extreme, don't you think?" Favia winced, imagining the gruesome scene. "No, I'm not that fragile."
He sighed lightly. "Besides, she wasn't wrong."
He smiled wryly. "I really am old now. Being called that isn't unreasonable."
"I suppose that's true..."
Fran nodded in quiet agreement. Indeed, in this whole prison, there wasn't anyone older than him.
"By the way," she asked suddenly, "can I help you escape?"
"Oh? I'm not really your grandfather, so you don't have to risk that for me."
"No. No matter what anyone says, you're still Fran's grandpa!" The homunculus shook her head hard. "It was you who told Moriarty to go to Geneva and save me. If not for you, I'd be dead."
"...And how do you know that?"
"Moriarty wrote it in his letters. He wrote so many... they were practically diaries."
That, in truth, was why she'd come to see him.
Yes, Moriarty and Babbage had saved her—but without Faria's actions behind the scenes, it never would've happened. That's why the homunculus girl truly, sincerely called him Grandfather.
"Alright then. Don't worry about me, Grandfather. The people outside aren't a big deal for Fran. Let's go. This place isn't good for you."
To be honest, if this were before he met Edmond—or before he learned what would happen if he left—Favia might have accepted.
But now, things were different. If he stepped outside, his illness would return. And more importantly, there was Edmond. As his teacher, his work wasn't finished yet. The student hadn't graduated. He couldn't just walk away.
Eighteen years had already passed—what was a little more hardship?
So—
"I'm sorry, Fran," he said with a faint smile. "I can't leave yet. There's still something I have to do."
"But... but..."
As the girl's voice trembled with confusion, Favia gently placed a hand on her head, like a kind elder comforting a child.
"You really won't come out?"
"No. I've already decided."
"I see..."
"By the way, Fran—if someday that guy Moriarty decides to go off on his own and do something reckless, promise me you'll secretly follow him. Otherwise, something terrible might happen."
"Moriarty? No way. He's like a sneaky spider—he'd never wander off unprepared."
"Maybe. But sometimes, even spiders get restless. Just promise me you'll keep an eye on him."
Favia's gaze drifted toward the faint light filtering through the dungeon bars.
"Alright. Fran will remember. Please take care of yourself, Grandpa."
She nodded firmly, then stood watching him for a long moment. When he smiled and shook his head, she let out a soft, reluctant sigh and turned toward the stairway leading out of the dungeon.
Favia watched her go. He knew Edmond must already be filled with questions—but tonight, he would answer them all.
And most importantly—he would finally tell him about the Treasure of Monte Cristo.