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

January 1917. With the appearance of the Moscow phantasm, the dawn of this day saw the Menshevik Party storming the Kremlin. They broke through the palace gates—only to fall to the "beast" within.

It was a failed uprising.

Yet the Emperor of the Empire died that very day.

Some say he died because of that vision. Some say he died of sudden hysteria. Others say he was killed by Lucan Luvist, his soul claimed by a demon.

He—and his vanished family—shared the same fate.

—Excerpt from The Death of Nicholas II

...

[You killed Nicholas II]

[As the imperial saber pierced his chest, crimson blood dripped from the blade, soaking the red carpet with an even darker hue]

[In that moment, countless thoughts flooded your mind—this emperor's mediocrity, his cowardice hidden beneath arrogance, and most of all, the choice he finally made at the end of his life]

[That is your judgment of him]

Lucan stepped back as Nicholas II slowly closed his eyes.

The ground trembled—the Phantom Spirit of the Tsars, now without a vessel, shook violently atop the palace dome. Its tusks raised high in a final, deafening roar—as if unwilling to accept the empire's inevitable collapse, yet utterly powerless to stop it.

It trembled. It shuddered. It crumbled like dust—and along with it vanished the evil spread across this land.

All sin. All karma.

And a mediocre, cowardly monarch—

The sky cleared.

The sun broke through the snow.

Lucan, leaning on his sword before the throne, gazed at the lifeless emperor.

He thought: This emperor probably never understood what I meant. By "legacy," I meant his daughter…

Lucan was no saint. He never did anything without gain.

Clap clap clap...

At that moment, crisp applause echoed through the grand hall. Under the glittering chandelier and behind veils of fine drapery, boots echoed as a figure stepped forward.

The one leading the group clapped as they walked, voice ringing clear:

"A cowardly emperor finally found his resolve at the end. A demon, masquerading as a sage, took his reward—"

"Pity Shakespeare's been dead for centuries. Had he seen this, he could've penned a masterpiece."

Lucan turned.

Figures emerged from all sides, surrounding the throne—and him.

But he focused only on the woman who had spoken.

Reddish-brown hair…

"Mage's Association?" Lucan wasn't surprised. This was the palace. He could sense anyone who entered—sense their aura, their alignment.

"Clock Tower. Executor of Sealing Designation." The woman wore a black overcoat over her uniform. A knee-length skirt, tall boots clicking. A whip in hand. Her high ponytail revealed a face brimming with queenly vigor.

"Vivian Barthomeloi."

"A Lord of the Clock Tower?" Lucan chuckled. "What an illustrious name."

"The Barthomeloi family—one of the three great noble houses of the Clock Tower, over a thousand years of history. Their heads have always overseen the Department of Law and Politics."

"I never thought I'd see such a 'big shot' come in person."

"You don't seem surprised," Vivian noted, watching the man calmly banter despite being surrounded.

She knew he had just repelled a Burial Agency member.

"You've dealt with the Church often. But if you think we're the same, you're mistaken."

"Lucan Luvist, your magecraft stems from the Clock Tower. Yet your actions defy the Laws of Solomon."

"Do you plead guilty?"

"Church and Clock Tower—truly worthy rivals," Lucan laughed. "Same tone. Same lofty air of judgment."

"And if I plead guilty, would you pickle me in formalin as a specimen?"

"That's Sealing Designation—a way to preserve forbidden mysteries," Vivian replied coldly. "A magus like you should never have had such qualifications. You should feel honored."

"Sure, sure. Right, right."

Lucan slipped his hands into his coat pockets, smile fading. His deep brown eyes turned still.

So still, it unsettled her.

She didn't have time to consider why.

Then Lucan spoke, voice low:

"It's time."

He stepped forward.

Vivian instinctively tried to shout—to stop him—

But everything felt… slow.

Opening her mouth felt like an eternity. Raising a hand took a thousand times longer than usual.

She couldn't stop him.

Lucan climbed the steps.

She couldn't reach him.

He stood before them—

It felt like being inside his workshop, under a delay spell.

But they had scanned this palace thoroughly.

No traces of magecraft. No miracles.

Vivian's eyes slowly turned to the window.

And froze.

She watched a bird flap its wings—agonizingly slow.

This wasn't just within the palace. It was outside too.

Sunlight fell. Dust floated.

Everything slowed down.

And then she understood.

There were no rituals in this palace—

Because Lucan had engraved his magecraft… onto the entire nation!

Yes.

A year. Three hundred sixty-five days of preparation. Lucan didn't just prepare the Tsars' Phantom Spirit—he had distributed books inscribed with his mysteries across the empire.

Each person who read them carried a seed.

A seed of Mental Magecraft.

Every reader became part of Lucan's power.

To root his mystery into this new age—

"Now, the Tsar is dead." "The Empire crumbles." "The shift from old to new has arrived."

Lucan chanted softly.

Vivian's heart pounded.

As Lord of Law and Politics, she was no stranger to advanced magecraft.

And now she understood—

Lucan wasn't just creating a system of magecraft.

He was building a new mystery.

The fall of the old world had cleansed the land.

Nicholas II, using the concept of the Tsars, had taken away all this world's evil.

Leaving behind a blank slate.

Fertile soil.

A purified land.

And Lucan's pen had already touched it.

His seeds were already buried.

Just waiting to sprout.

And when the time came—

His mystery would flourish.

He would dominate the mysteries of the new age.

But this was no ordinary mystery.

He had used the minds of millions to shape it.

Their thoughts to forge its power.

This was no standard system.

Vivian couldn't ignore the change in the land.

Couldn't ignore the evil that had vanished.

Couldn't ignore the purified minds of the people.

Countless minds.

No longer chaotic. No longer corrupt.

Pure. Controllable.

Like the faith of a million worshippers.

A vast, pure power—

Enough to create a god!

Not mere a phantom. Not an angel or demon.

A true god.

The origin of mystery.

A god in the truest sense!

He was creating a god!

Immature, perhaps. Weak, for now. But full of potential—

A real god!

Washed clean of evil,

With purified thought—

Vivian felt a chill crawl down her spine.

She couldn't understand how Lucan could see the entire empire from within the palace.

But he could.

With Anastasia—

The girl who had made a pact with a spirit.

She was his eye.

Even far away, this did not change.

And so, in this life, Lucan revealed mystery before the world for the second time.

To cleanse the world. To take away the Empire's sins.

And to take one step forward—

To create… a god.

...

He had shown his mystery twice in this life.

The first time—he became the King of Mankind, gaining the Wisdom of Kings.

The second—he became the King of Magecraft.

He forged the root of mystery.

He created the 72 Demon Gods.

—Excerpt from The Book of Solomon