Facing their unanimous anger and resolute refusal, Steve merely frowned slightly—not the least bit upset, instead observing them like an old teacher watching a group of students with deeply skewed learning.
He immediately understood. The memories imported via the class cards were immense, yet the deepest and most painful ones—like Lev's betrayal—completely overshadowed everything else. The more ambiguous details that followed remained poorly digested and understood.
So he decided to give them a hint.
"Your anger is understandable. I fully understand," Steve's voice was gentle, calming as ever. "But—I urge you to recall that journey through the Bleached Earth in detail, as completely as you can. From the moment you first set foot in the Wandering Sea, all the way to the final battle… Did you really get all the way to Chaldea on the power of the New Chaldea alone?"
He paused, his gaze sharp and piercing as he looked at them one by one.
"During your travels across the Lostbelts, who was it that offered indirect assistance? And, at the most crucial moment in the grand finale, who—under the name Chaldean—opened the sole path leading you into Chaldea's very heart?"
Though Steve's voice was quiet, every word struck like a hammer. To the three in front of him, his words became keys, opening dusty corners of their memories.
Mash responded first—a sudden realization flashing through her eyes. Her capacity for rational analysis in non-combat situations, unique to a paladin, came to life. She remembered how, during several brushes with death, some coincidence had always saved them. Some abnormal assistance; unfamiliar paths opening up. Back then, they'd attributed these things to backup plans from Leonardo da Vinci or other close allies. But in hindsight, those actions, rather than Da Vinci's passion or Sherlock Holmes' meticulousness, were marked by a kind of calm detachment and extraordinary calculation.
Olga Marie's expression turned yet more complicated. At best, the helper's actions could be called benevolence performed maliciously—yet without that series of seemingly incidental deeds, Chaldea would never have reached the place her memories described.
Fujimaru closed his eyes in pain, recalling the man who'd posed as Dr. Roman, calling himself a Chaldean Pretender. With the guise of the doctor Fujimaru most respected, he'd spoken cold, remote words, yet on the journey, worked silently behind the scenes to clear obstacles from their path, as if seeking atonement.
He hated Lev, loathed Flauros. But—even he could not deny that, without that so-called Chaldean, they might never have made it to the end.
As the long silence stretched, the tension in the operations room began to thaw, ice and snow slowly melting. Pure hatred faded, replaced by emotions more complex and painful. They were forced to admit that, at some point in the distant future, the enemy they once despised above all had become, from another vantage, an indispensable ally.
At last Mash stepped forward, lowering her shield and bowing deeply.
"…I understand, Caster. If…if it's necessary for victory—I support your proposal."
Led by Mash, Olga Marie let out a long, exhausted sigh. Turning away, she spoke coldly, without anger: "…I will never forgive him on a personal level. But as acting director of Chaldea, I acknowledge his strategic value. That's all."
All eyes fell on Fujimaru. He was quiet for a long while before finally nodding, hoarsely: "…Please, Caster."
With that internal rift resolved, their actions immediately became efficient and straightforward.
…
Six more hours passed.
During that time, Steve activated a space-time magic rivaling Merlin's Clairvoyance. Causal lines around the world appeared to him as clear as a map, and the coordinates of this era's Lev Lainur—currently working in a private university laboratory in London—were easily located.
In the blink of an eye, the Shadow Border's hatch opened without a sound, and Steve slipped away.
In a sunlit study awash in the gold of dusk, a thirty-something brown-haired mage in a green silk top hat worked casually through ancient tomes. This was Lev Lainur.
No warning, no presage.
Suddenly, the space around Lev shattered like glass. A hand reached out, grabbed the back of his neck, and before he could cast any spell, an infinite, stellar power instantly sealed every magic circuit in his body and hauled him into a rift in space.
When Lev came to, he found himself in a futuristic room. Before he could make sense of anything, a man with black hair appeared in front of him, smiling, and—without a word—slid an ominously glowing golden card into his pocket.
"—Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!"
The golden Pretender class card overwhelming his mind became a torrent of memories—over a decade's worth of his own future, as a traitor, as the Demon Pillar Flauros, and finally as the Chaldean who, in the end, vanished in that great war.
At that moment, all pain and understanding fused into a single stream. Bathed in golden light, his soul forcibly reconstructed and sublimated by cosmic sorcery itself, Lev was no longer the mere mage he'd been.
He was now a pseudo-servant—Solomon in disguise. Lev Goetia.
When the light faded, his head still fuzzy, he looked up and saw three faces: a black-haired, youthful Master whose eyes, though still young, held the shape of iron-willed resolve; a girl in shining silver armor wielding a massive shield—her real self from the distant future; and, at last, the silver-haired woman who should have died by his hand, yet now stood unscathed before him.
In that instant, the newly born Pretender—the future Chaldean—understood with a bittersweet clarity the absurd yet undeniable reality he faced.
…