1993, London, England.
The Mages' Association headquarters, the Clock Tower, Spirit Evocation Department's main lecture hall.
The hall was arranged in a quarter-circle, with tiered student seats rising like steps toward the curved dome's apex. At the corner of the arc, on the podium, a young, handsome, and impeccably mannered lecturer held a pointer, his voice rising and falling with measured cadence.
The students sat ramrod straight, bathed in the clear, all-encompassing light. To an outsider, the scene would evoke awe—a testament to the Clock Tower's status as the pinnacle of Western European magical power, a venerable institution steeped in ancient mysteries.
Yet, drawing closer revealed the merciless, even venomous, criticism hidden within the lecturer's refined cadence...
"Mystery is ancient, Magic is inherited. The older the family, the denser the mystery crystallized within their Magic Crests. Their descendants naturally possess more numerous and higher-quality Magic Circuits, granting them greater innate talent as Magicians. This remains the only proven method for preserving dwindling mysteries since the end of the Age of Gods."
"As all Magicians know, the assignments I set last term were completed admirably by all of you. The essays you submitted perfectly validated this fundamental principle." The lecturer surveyed the classroom, his hand resting on a thick stack of documents on the desk. As he spoke, he withdrew a single paper from the pile, his tone shifting abruptly from praise to rebuke.
"However, reality proves that the world will never be free of fools, not even within the highest echelons of mystical academia!" he declared.
"Denying the significance of bloodline origins, believing that mere effort can surpass the innate advantages conferred by family lineage—"
"Waver Velvet!" the lecturer raised his voice.
"Present!"
A student responded instantly, straightening his posture in the corner of the room. He braced himself not only for the lecturer's stern gaze but also for the covert glances from his classmates.
The English youth with shoulder-length, smooth black hair quietly clenched his fist beneath the desk. He opened his mouth, about to speak—perhaps to defend his essay or argue his case. In this Magician's world, where bloodlines and family traditions held paramount importance, he genuinely believed that many things could be achieved through the efforts of a single generation.
The lecturer gave him no chance to speak. "Shut your mouth and use your brain—if you can even call that underdeveloped organ of yours a brain. What conclusions could it possibly reach?
"Mystery is inheritance. If you can't even face this fundamental truth—if you can't even grasp this basic concept—then I suggest you crawl out of this lecture hall and return to your backwater family's hut, where you can daydream about your three generations of lineage. Or, you could learn from your neighbor, Lucas Whitelock. As fellow rural Magicians and fledglings, he's doing far better than you. His theory, 'The older, the more powerful,' perfectly explains the hierarchy of Mystery. Even I can't help but admire it!
"Enough. I've said all I need to say.
"Class dismissed!"
Under the young lecturer's thunderous voice, the black-haired youth's open mouth remained frozen, unable to utter a sound. His face flushed crimson, making him resemble a monkey on display in a zoo.
Amidst the curious or mocking glances from his classmates, the lecturer rapped the podium one last time. As the resonant bell signaled the end of class, he strode away with steady steps.
The lamps remained bright as the lecturer departed, and only then did the young Magician apprentices begin to stir, one by one leaving their seats.
Waver Velvet, however, remained rooted to his spot, his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly until the entire lecture hall had emptied. Finally, he burst out, "Damn lemon-headed bastard!"
He slammed his fist against the desk as if it were the lecturer's face.
Just then, a voice drifted from beside him, laced with indolence: "If I were you, I'd choose a less... crude way to vent. Doesn't your hand hurt?"
Waver stopped pounding the desk, crossed his arms, and snorted. "Of course it hurts."
"Unlike you, Mr. Perfect Student, always praised by the lecturers!"
"Are you sulking?" the other man asked, completely unfazed. "Men who sulk are pathetic."
Realizing he had lost his composure, Waver took a deep breath and forced himself to regain his composure.
He turned to look beside him, meeting the dark brown eyes of the speaker.
The man's voice was young and languid, and his appearance matched—youthful and indolent.
Beneath his disheveled hair lay a handsome face, though slightly pale. His features weren't as sharply defined as those of typical Europeans; instead, his subtly softened features hinted at mixed Western heritage.
His tall, slender frame, accentuated by the Clock Tower student uniform, gave him the air of a young nobleman from a bygone era.
Such striking looks would naturally be considered captivating—if one overlooked the sleep creases still visible on his face.
"How did you fall asleep in class again?" Waver couldn't help but ask.
"If I hadn't been sleeping, I wouldn't have stayed this late!" Lucas smoothed his messy hair. "You didn't even wake me up after class, and now we're going to miss dinner at the cafeteria—"
"So what if we miss it? Skipping one meal won't kill us," Waver said, shaking his head.
He suspected Lucas Whitelock was one of those legendary 'geniuses.'
Despite coming from an ordinary family with only two or three generations of magical heritage, just like Waver himself, Lucas possessed an extraordinary brilliance, like a mutated prodigy. He never paid attention in class yet effortlessly memorized every detail of magical theory. He never submitted assignments on time, yet his last-minute submissions consistently earned praise from all quarters—including the very assignment they had just received.
"But I still don't understand," Waver muttered, packing his backpack. He stuffed his Spirit Evocation Department textbooks into the bag, grumbling under his breath.
"Didn't you agree with me that a person's life shouldn't be determined by their family's bloodline?" he asked.
"Then why did you write that nonsense without a shred of conviction?" This was the real reason for his sulking. As fellow outsiders from small families, shouldn't they share the same beliefs?
"That just proves Director El-Melloi's assessment of you was spot-on," Lucas replied, leaning back in his chair. Having brought nothing, he had nothing to pack. His still-sleepy eyes gradually focused, as if awakening from a deep slumber. "Whether you're a person or a Magician, it's best to mature a little."
"Keyneth El-Melloi Archibald, Director of the Mineralogy Department, First-Tier Lecturer in Spirit Evocation, and one of the Clock Tower's twelve Lords of the Factions. He ascended to the second-highest Color Rank at just twenty-six years old. Offending someone like that won't do us any good!"
Though he would soon die in the Far East... Lucas didn't voice this thought. As he gazed at the young man before him, his consciousness finally breaking free from its slumber, he felt a sudden wave of emotion.
'This world is truly fucking bizarre!' he thought ruefully. 'Even something as absurd as transmigrating, I can't even decide if it's science or pure fantasy happened to me.'
He also suspected he was one of the least successful transmigrators out there.
He had no earth-shattering background, just a Magician from the countryside with a family lineage tracing back only two or three generations of mystical practitioners. In this world, he was undoubtedly at the bottom of the social hierarchy. As a transmigrator, he hadn't even regained his memories from before his arrival until he entered the Clock Tower, finally reclaiming his true self.
Fortunately, once his memories returned, so did his knowledge of this world. Compared to ordinary people, he now possessed a slight advantage!
Waver's expression softened slightly as he understood his like-minded partner's motives. Though he couldn't grasp the full depth of Lucas's inner thoughts, he empathized deeply. Still, a sense of injustice lingered.
"So, for your own advancement, you're willing to say things you don't truly believe?"
"Of course not, Student Waver," Lucas said, straightening his posture, his expression serious. "What I said, I truly believe."
"However, we need to adjust the order of interpretation slightly not 'the older, the stronger,' but 'the stronger, the older'!"
"This is what I firmly believe as long as I am powerful enough, then I am the oldest!"
Yes, the stronger, the older.
This was Lucas's conviction, and he was confident he could achieve it—relying on the "advantage" he had gained as a Transmigrator, which had resurfaced alongside his own revival—or rather, what should be called a cheat!