The air felt heavy, pressing down on the lungs. Outside the window, London lay smothered beneath a blanket of smog.
This was London—the seat of the Mage's Association, home of the Clock Tower. The city had shed its old reputation as a fog-choked capital decades ago, yet its peculiar geography trapped exhaust and industrial fumes with stubborn persistence.
Office workers scraping by in this city never considered leaving over something as trivial as bad air. The magi dwelling on the outskirts—those who made up the Mage's Association—were even less inclined to abandon a city where Arcane Magic flourished so densely.
Still—
"Do I really have to leave this place now?"
The young man stood before the dim window, murmuring to himself. Dark red hair fell in disordered strands, contrasting with his immaculate white, tailor-made suit. Something unreadable lingered in his voice.
On the aged wooden desk beside him lay yellowed stationery. By candlelight, the words were unmistakable.
The Yggdmillennia declare war on the Mage's Association.
That alone sealed his fate. He was, at best, a negligible magus—a shut-in by temperament and reputation—but he belonged to a cadet branch of Yggdmillennia, the Frain Family. That fact stripped him of any excuse to remain at the Clock Tower.
—Assuming he could even escape the Department of Law once they closed in.
Rhodes Frain Yggdmillennia.
That was the name pressed upon him. From childhood, he had been sent to the Clock Tower as little more than a hostage. His Magic Circuits were pathetically underdeveloped. He lost his status as eldest son, his claim to the family fortune, even the basic assurance of survival.
And yet, Rhodes bore no resentment.
From the moment he was born into this body, he had been something else entirely.
As was tradition, what inhabited "Rhodes" had never been an ignorant infant—but an ancient monster who had already endured dozens of centuries.
A Lich.
Yes. This was his second transmigration. Long ago, he had been an ordinary man in a modern world without magic or transcendent technology. That fleeting peace ended the moment he crossed into a realm ruled by Arcanists.
He arrived in Faerûn.
A world known to countless others through tabletop games—Baldur's Gate, Neverwinter Nights, Icewind Dale, and more. But he had not arrived in an age of heroic narratives. He had come earlier, to a far crueler era.
Netheril.
In that disastrous age, he was hailed as Ioulaum. Mentor to innumerable Arcanists. Architect of expansion for the Empire of Magic. Then came the catastrophe—the fall that shattered Netheril itself.
Before his lifespan ended, he transformed himself into a Mind Flayer Elder Brain Lich.
Afterward came centuries of isolation in a lightless underground realm. Endless silence, endless hunger—punctuated only by the presence of Drow with slender waists and dangerous smiles. He endured. He waited.
And now—
He had arrived in this world.
The so-called Type-Moon universe. A parallel branch, distant from the main Fate/stay night timeline, yet overflowing with magical knowledge. And more importantly, it held the Swirl of the Root.
That alone made it worth everything.
Well, that and the simple pleasure of inhabiting a young body again.
After centuries underground and the sheer weight of time itself, Rhodes had long since abandoned crude tastes. He had embraced a far subtler joy.
A connoisseur of delight.
And now, the most exquisite prey was about to walk straight into his snare.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The thunderous knock rattled the door of his workshop.
Rhodes shrugged, his voice drifting lazily toward the entrance.
"What is it? I made it clear—no interruptions while I'm conducting magical experiments."
"Tch… You're not in there slicing magnetic field lines again, are you?" The voice carried clear disdain, yet its lightness made it oddly pleasant.
"Hardly. I have plenty of Pleasure Golems. No reason to dirty my hands personally." Rhodes pinched the bridge of his nose. "What is it this time? If it's a petty thief, deal with it yourself, RyuZU."
"Oh? So in your eyes, even Sealing Designation enforcers count as petty thieves?" The girl sounded amused, her tone sharp as a blade. "If that's the case, I'll take care of them. Also—your inflatable girlfriends were sturdier than I expected. Still, I broke several last night…"
"…So it was you." Rhodes sighed, recalling the mutilated remains of his golems. His voice hardened. "Handle it however you like. Sealing Designation agents, Lords from the Creation Department—if even Lord El-Melloi II shows up, send them away."
"Or cut them to pieces."
"As you command, Master."
The voice remained cheerful. The killing intent beneath it did not.
Her footsteps bounced away, light and rhythmic.
Rhodes narrowed his eyes, sinking into thought. At his side, in the dim candlelight, a werewolf lay disemboweled, still twitching.
Minutes later, several figures advanced through the flower-filled courtyard before the workshop. At their head walked a blond magus in a red coat, his expression twisted with hostility.
As he opened his mouth to speak, a voice came from behind them.
"Mr. Cornelius Alba, is it? I'm afraid my master is in the middle of an experiment and has no intention of receiving guests."
The speaker was a petite girl, no taller than one meter sixty. Her gaze was lofty, as though she were looking down on everyone present.
"Oh? One of Rhodes' Pleasure Golems?" A spiky-haired magus sneered. "Then I'll be taking that."
He stepped forward—
—and Alba raised a hand, stopping him.
"At least wait until after Rhodes is dead before discussing the spoils." Alba smiled elegantly. He lifted his palm toward the girl, chanting in a low voice that echoed through the antique courtyard.
He clearly saw no need to converse with a mere golem.
"Go away, the shadow—"
"Attacking a lady is dreadfully unchivalrous."
The girl smiled, pure and innocent.
"I am RyuZU. Self-regulating Automaton, Unit One. The only one."
"Gah—!"
Alba screamed.
His raised arm fell to the ground, severed cleanly at the shoulder. Thick blood poured from the stump.
"Oh dear~ You've dirtied the soil." RyuZU tilted her head. "Well, I suppose it counts as fertilizer for the flowers."
Her voice carried no hint of cruelty.
A faint slicing sound whispered through the courtyard.
In the blink of an eye, the Sealing Designation enforcers collapsed into scattered pieces.
"What did you do?!" Alba roared, Rune defenses flaring around him. Terror flickered in his eyes.
"Nothing special," RyuZU replied calmly.
Her skirt lifted.
From beneath it emerged two great treasures—
—or rather, two curved, jet-black scythes.
"I merely cut time."
Alba's head slid from his shoulders, his face frozen in disbelief.
Blood rained down upon the garden.