In the Nasuverse (TYPE-MOON), I Created a Magical Family Lineage

The curtains fluttered at the high windows of the library, catching the slanting warmth of the setting sun.

The Executors stood before the towering bookshelves, bathed in golden light. Their backs leaned against the crimson sandalwood frames, now glowing even more brilliantly under the twilight. Their gazes were fixed, solemn, upon the boy standing alone at the center of the library's grand clearing.

Lucan's long cloak billowed, its hem etched with intricate silver spellwork—like trailing tassels, like angelic wings.

Overhead, the curved library dome loomed. The glass chandeliers suspended from it began to glow softly, like the moon slowly rising.

Lucan's final words still lingered in the air.

This scene had indeed been within the Executors' expectations. They had enacted the 'miracle' ritual to sever Lucan from the outside world and execute him within their magical confinement. They were fully aware of his mystic code, cloaked in ritual sigils like a portable workshop.

They had prepared contingencies.

Under normal circumstances, the 'miracle' would have blocked all magical workings. After all, miracle and Magecraft were opposites—mutually exclusive, irreconcilable mysteries. Just like the Church and the magi.

But what they hadn't expected—was how Lucan knew their source of intelligence.

Their knowledge of him came from the remnants of Rasputin's death—traces that had only been interpreted internally within the Church.

Rasputin was one of them, perhaps even an Executor himself. Only the highest levels of the Church knew that.

Yet Lucan, a mere priest, had spoken it aloud.

That moment of shock had broken their focus. The miracle faltered.

Lucan exploited that single crack—and unleashed his mystic code.

"The plan failed."

This time, the Executors did not speak in unison. The ritual had been broken; there was no longer any need.

The one directly before Lucan stepped forward.

"Even if we don't know where you got that intel, the result is the same," he said. "We had hoped to give you a clean death."

"To die under divine judgment is to be spared hell and rebirth as swine or cattle," said the one behind Lucan's left shoulder.

"Cleansed by the sword instead of slaughtered," added the one behind his right.

Three voices. Three directions.

As the last light of the sun vanished beyond the horizon, the library lights flickered and went out.

A sudden gust. A burst of darkness.

The Executors vanished into the gloom like phantoms, swifter than wind, their shadows swallowed by the extinguished flame.

Then—gleams of steel and streaks of silver.

A sword flashed. A gauntlet gleamed. A chain-cross glinted like a falling star.

Three assaults.

Three vectors.

In that single moment between light and dark, their movements stretched like eternity. Mystery, after all, was that which defied reason.

They didn't move—they appeared. Reappearing nearer, each brandishing different weapons.

The first bore a knight's longsword. It split the air cleanly, cleaving through the lingering shadows with the decisiveness of a battlefield veteran.

The second launched a silver-knuckled fist like a crashing wave. His motion was spring-loaded, his body a cannon, his blow an arcane thunder.

One was a weapon master. One was a martial artist.

As Executors, they needed more than ritual—they were executioners trained in combat.

Their weapons, known as Gray Guns, were designed to channel divine mystery and neutralize Magecraft.

The third, even as the others struck, flipped into the air. His silver cross pendant swung violently in front of a chandelier—catching the fading light and sparking like a distant star.

A second later, the chandelier flared back to life.

From above, divine light rained down.

It soaked the floor, the walls, the bookshelves—every book's cover.

And once again, it severed Lucan's connection to the surrounding mysteries.

It lasted only an instant—but that was all they needed.

"Receive divine judgment, priest who forsakes faith—sinner who practices the devil's craft!" they cried together.

Sword. Fist. Light—all fell toward Lucan.

Wind roared. Shelves trembled. Books flew.

The floor quaked. Gravel danced.

Shadows twisted. Figures blurred.

Then—the books opened.

Lucan opened his eyes.

Time stretched.

This time, it wasn't just perception. Time itself slowed.

The Executors felt it. Their speed dulled. Movement resisted. Reality skewed.

Lucan saw the sword. Saw the fist.

So slow.

He sighed. "Honestly... It's a pity the Burial Agency didn't show up themselves."

"A shame, really," he added with a grin. "I even prepared a gift."

"You think I turned this library into my workshop over those fifty-three days?"

He looked up—directly at the airborne Executor, who'd used miracle light to sever his connection.

Indeed, the man had used that miracle to sever Lucan's ties to the library structure: walls, ceiling, shelves, and book covers.

It was a proven tactic. Time-tested by Executors forced to battle magi inside their workshops.

It should've worked.

But it hadn't.

Lucan stepped effortlessly through the slowed strikes.

His robe shimmered with ritual runes, trailing silver light. He reached a shelf and picked up a fallen book.

He opened it.

Yellowed pages.

Glowing words.

Each line, a recorded mystery.

Yes.

The Executors had guessed wrong.

He hadn't modified the library.

He had rewritten the books.

He'd engraved his own magic into every page.

Each book—a microcosmic Magecraft.

Together—they formed a temple of magic.

Lucan's third sanctum.

His cloak, his body, his books—they resonated in harmony.

Time slowed around them, but not for him.

He moved like lightning.

"You sealed the walls, the shelves, the covers," Lucan said, closing the book.

Snap.

With that sound, the outermost layer of sanctum closed.

Time returned.

The sword and fist struck empty air.

The chandelier's miracle reached its limit.

The third Executor landed.

All three froze, staring at the youth framed by infinite books.

Lucan still wore his silver-etched cloak.

Still cradled a book in his hands.

But now they felt... as if they were standing on that book. Trapped between its pages.

Lucan's Magecraft: Record Sanctum.

—Here,

—Every word holds mystery.

Mystery that belongs to him.