Battles between magi are always battles of preparation. A proper magus never fights unprepared.
Even the most reclusive, research-oriented magi will always inscribe mystic rituals onto the most accessible parts of their bodies or garments—like between the hands, or on their robes—before leaving their workshops. This ensures they can instantly pour prana into those engravings in an emergency, like fueling an engine with gasoline, triggering ancient and mysterious phenomena for combat or self-defense.
The former is the foundation of storing magecraft.
The latter—more complex—requires a solid knowledge base in thaumaturgy and is referred to as a mystic code.
As a magus himself, Rasputin was of course well aware of this—and had made preparations.
But no matter how much he prepared, what he expected were simple enchantments, isolated rituals—not an integrated array formed from countless linked circuits... a ritual that would normally only appear inside a mage's workshop, exploiting territorial advantage!
And that's exactly what he now faced.
At the moment when blinding light flared, the boy gripping his face—Lucan—was suddenly bathed in flowing light from the once pitch-black weighty robes he wore.
Those complex silver-white lines carved across the fabric resembled, from a distance, the protective scales of some ancient creature—or perhaps the immaculate feathers of a divine being.
His robe billowed outward, like wings being spread—like a divine herald descending upon the earth.
God…!
From the throne, Tsar Nicholas II, still frozen, felt his gaze consumed by the radiance.
As the sovereign of the Russian Empire, he had always been a devout believer in God—why else would he have invited so many theological masters to the palace after his son fell ill?
Now, seeing Lucan in this angelic light, he was naturally awed.
To him, Lucan truly seemed like an emissary of heaven—an angel descended to earth!
Nicholas believed it.
The steward beside him believed it too—if he weren't immobilized, he'd probably fall to his knees on the spot.
And if Lucan was an angel…
Then surely, the one standing against him must be a demon.
"Mr. Demon, are you ready… to go to hell?" Lucan smiled at Rasputin, his holy glow accentuating the divine facade. This was exactly the impression he wanted to leave.
He had come here precisely for this reason—to make Nicholas revere him.
"You…" Rasputin, sensing the shift in Nicholas's perception, grew furious.
If Lucan succeeded in imprinting the image of a "heavenly angel" onto the Tsar's mind, then all the painstaking efforts Rasputin had put into this—his illusions, his enchantments, his workshop—his grand plan to seize control of the Russian Empire would crumble to dust.
That was something he could not tolerate.
Could not accept.
And so—even with Lucan's hand pressed to his face—Rasputin acted.
He moved instantly.
A black shape shot out from beneath his ragged robes, accompanied by a sharp shriek like metal scraping stone.
Crows.
Several pitch-black crows burst from Rasputin's body.
They were familiars—non-human entities nurtured by thaumaturgy, the loyal servants of magi.
Under Rasputin's mental command, the crows shot up toward the palace ceiling. Their small bodies moved like lightning, wings sharp as blades, shimmering with a deadly gleam.
These were Rasputin's weapons—perfect for assassinating enemies without a sound, or delivering surprise attacks even in head-on combat.
"Kill him!" Rasputin roared, his deep voice thundering across the throne room.
The crows dove like lightning, then swooped—faster than thought, as if thunder and wind had merged into black flashes. Their passage tore the red carpet into a storm of crimson threads—like falling blood rain.
Caught between that rain and those blades of shadow, Lucan stood still.
Unmoving.
It was as if he hadn't reacted in time.
Rasputin's heart leapt—he could already envision Lucan's head separated from his body.
Lucan may have caught him off guard with that "portable workshop" trick…
But surely, this—his secret weapon, crows hidden within his body—this would be the end.
He was confident.
Even if Lucan tried to respond, he wouldn't be fast enough.
Because this was too fast—
So fast that—
The black lightning struck.
So fast that metal rang out sharply.
So fast that, in the very next instant, the crows crashed to the floor and lay still.
Dead.
Rasputin's lips had already begun to curl with a triumphant smirk—even as Lucan continued holding him down.
"You're dreaming, Grigori Rasputin," Lucan said flatly.
He hadn't budged an inch.
As if those blade-winged familiars had been no more than gnats.
How? Rasputin's eyes went wide. He hadn't even had time to process what had happened. The crows had simply crashed into Lucan… and been crushed.
They were supposed to slice through him like tofu.
But instead, it was like slamming into a steel wall—clang!—and shattering themselves.
Lucan's voice fell again.
And as it did, his grip on Rasputin's face tightened.
In that moment—
Patterns similar to those on his robe—yet not quite the same—emerged from Lucan's sleeve and spread across his hand. Fine lines, like threads, wrapped tightly around his palm.
Rasputin understood immediately.
"A second workshop?!" he gasped in disbelief.
"Surprised?" Lucan's radiant face looked truly angelic—but also slightly amused.
It wasn't just his robe that was etched with workshop enchantments.
His skin was also a workshop.
A self-contained system—for both offense and defense.
Two overlapping workshops.
Two sanctums.
Lucan's ace was far more than just a "costume."
That's why he didn't dodge.
Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't need to.
Shock. Stupor. Panic. Dread.
Rasputin realized—he'd encountered a monster. A true genius of Grand caliber.
He wanted to beg for mercy.
But Lucan didn't give him the chance.
The angelic wings of his coat folded shut, radiant with a heat like a divine furnace. The light surged—and in the blink of an eye—
Rasputin was gone.
Completely and utterly vaporized.
From body to soul, from physical form to magical concept, he was erased by that blinding radiance.
Only ash and tattered golden carpet remained.
A slow-dissipating trail of silver-white light.
Rasputin was dead.
And from this moment forward, Lucan would assume the path that Rasputin was meant to walk—
He would become the new court thaumaturge.
"The demon has been exorcised."
Lucan's priestly robes fell silent and black once more.
He stood, hands lowered, facing Nicholas II above him.
And he smiled.
A false smile.
But in Nicholas's eyes, it looked utterly holy—like the true smile of a saint.