Solomon.
This is a name that neither the surface world nor the Reverse Side, neither magi nor the Church of later generations, could ever bypass—
He was the king who ruled the nation of Israel in the Middle East a thousand years before Christ. In a dream, he received revelation from the one and only God that the Church of later ages would revere. From that revelation, he inherited divine authority and glory, and came to command the mysteries of the world through the Ten Rings. In doing so, he became the one and only figure of his time who stood closest to divinity: the King of Saints.
In his entire life, the mysteries and miracles granted to him by God were only displayed twice.
The first was before the multitudes, to let the people know of his sanctity.
The second—was on the eve of his death.
Then, he returned the divine mysteries he had inherited, back to the Lord, Jehovah.
And it was precisely these two revelations alone that influenced the mysteries of the next several thousand years.
His first revelation gave birth to the ritual formula known as the 72 Demon Pillars. With it, he collected and contained what remained of the Age of Gods' mysteries, laying the foundation for post-divine magi—the theoretical and structural basis of the oldest era of thaumaturgy.
His second, hastened the decline of Mystery itself.
Thus, Solomon became both the progenitor of all modern magecraft, and the true architect of the Church's global foundation.
All bases that preserve Mystery trace their origin back to him.
His existence was the absolute peak that no Western magus of later generations could ever surpass— the so-called Magecraft King, the Father of Magecraft.
Facing the figure that appeared before him, Lucan was surprised—yet found it entirely natural.
If the Seven Guardians had proven powerless against him, then of course what came next would be something stronger.
Though he had mastered endless martial disciplines through his "Armory," Lucan was, in essence, still a magus of the post-divine era. And against such a magus, none could be more fated a foe than Solomon—especially Solomon's divine inheritance: the Ten Rings, which command all mysteries of the post-divine era. Especially his miracles, gifted directly from God Himself.
—In theory, Solomon had returned the Rings to Jehovah upon his death. Which meant that if summoned into a Holy Grail War, he would not have them.
But this summoning was different. Suppression invoked him not through ritual but through the world's record, reviving his origin-self written deep into the Throne.
As information, such mysteries could be reproduced.
And the power of Suppression surpassed that of any mere human summoner.
From the viewpoint of Alaya, it was only natural—if one sought to quell the source of era-breaking upheaval, then who more suited than Solomon?
Yet still, what truly surprised Lucan was—
"So even the great King of Magecraft would serve the will of Suppression?"
The seven before may have been Guardians of Alaya, forced into its employ. But Solomon? Impossible.
As a faithful of God, as the fountainhead of all magecraft, he could never be bound by Suppression. His arrival could only be by his own will.
At this, Solomon—his long, white hair disheveled, clad in a silver robe etched with red—did not answer. He simply opened his golden eyes, calm yet stern, his tall frame solemn and silent.
On his hand, the light of the Ten Rings flared brighter.
And then he spoke, his voice tranquil:
"Thy very existence… is contradiction."
"I come neither by the command of Suppression, nor to mend human history—"
"What I witness is thee, a man of post-divine flesh, yet bearing the powers of the Age of Gods. This—before I returned the Rings to Jehovah—was a variable I never foresaw."
Translated simply: Solomon was here out of personal interest in Lucan.
In his triple-cycle mystery.
In his construction of a new system born from, yet beyond, the foundations of magecraft.
Lucan only grinned.
Though his achievements had come through countless lives accumulated by the "Simulator," though he had gained much through repetition—none of it had been by divine favor. All by his own hand.
To earn Solomon's recognition was already proof enough.
To draw Solomon himself down from the Throne—inevitable.
"Very well then. O ancient Magecraft King, Solomon—bear witness to the glory I have wrought for the age to come!"
No further words were needed.
Whether by his own will or through Alaya's pull, Solomon was here. And his sole purpose: to erase Lucan—the root of distortion in history.
Thus, battle was inevitable.
Incantation stirred, magic flared. Silver-liquid incantations wove around Lucan, condensing in an instant into a vast, high-order grand thaumaturgy.
But Solomon only stood still. The glow of the Ten Rings shimmered faintly— and Lucan's spell collapsed, shattered into fragments like broken glass.
For most of Lucan's arts, though born of himself, still traced back to the foundation Solomon had once laid.
Yes—most, but not all.
At once, silver fragments re-knit, the spell re-formed— stronger, sharper.
The Triple Cycle turned at its highest frequency.
Again the Rings glowed to erase it.
Yet this time, the spell endured—driven not by human magecraft, but by divine ether from Lucan's god-soul. It was miracle, power rivaling the highest mysteries of the Age of Gods—authority itself.
And so—
"…I see."
For the first time, Solomon's golden eyes wavered.
As the Magecraft King, he too bore the highest clairvoyance—able not just to glimpse the present, as Merlin could, but past and future alike.
Yet even so, he had never truly seen through Lucan.
Only now, in the face of the Triple Cycle, did he understand:
"Thy god… is thyself."
The Rings could deny results. But not the origin of those results.
What stood before him was not merely magecraft—it was a parallel system, independent from and equal to his own foundation.
And so, their clash threatened to consume the space around them.
Lucan did not linger on thaumaturgy alone.
Even as light flared, he vanished, his arts woven not for offense but to reinforce his own body.
Step by step, every motion calculated by divine thought, he closed in. Not a dance, not flourish—only the purest, fastest efficiency.
Against Solomon, who was no warrior.
Sword in hand, Lucan surged forward—
But Solomon chanted a single syllable. Nine radiant rings blossomed behind him. A wall of interwoven light—an absolute defense.
Lucan's eyes narrowed. With dragon-born instinct, he dove low, sliding beneath physics itself, blade flashing.
He pierced—not the light itself, but the infinitesimal gap between rays.
The wall shuddered—cracked.
Solomon's eyes widened, surprised that anyone could cleave his bulwark with pure technique.
Through the breach, Lucan's sword aimed for his throat.
But a shadow rose—one of the seventy-two demon pillars, a roaring giant maw.
Steel clashed with abyssal roar. The blow was checked.
And in that brief pause—
"Bear witness… to my authority."
Eight more pillars erupted behind Solomon. Nine in total, roaring together, their combined might pressing like the weight of a god.
The very space folded, compressing around Lucan.
This was Solomon's true power: to forge a temporary foundation of magecraft, storing and sealing Mystery, oppressing all within.
Lucan only smiled.
"Yes… this is the pressure I sought!"
It was the same as when he faced Vortigern's dragon body.
Only under such crushing force could he break his own limits.
His "Armory" blazed to its utmost. Divine thought roared.
And in that moment—
A crown of formless brilliance emerged from within.
The Crown of Arms.
And from deep within his soul, another light answered: the Crown of Metatron.
Together they merged—granting his martial crown the form of an angel.
Yes—Metatron's Crown, which could turn all things into angels, completed his forging.
The Crown of Arms, as Archangel Michael.
A halo of pure light, woven not of metal but of countless battles.
Lucan raised his sword.
"—Crown of Arms, Archangel Michael!"
The pressure dissolved.
He swung, calm and simple. Yet within that stroke— all martial wisdom, all technique, all philosophy.
And beyond that— the Principle of Arms, a truth that could even sever space-time.
This was no longer mere training. It was a secret sword, like the legendary Tsubame Gaeshi of the Far East, yet beyond it.
With it, he cleaved through Solomon's defenses.
For the first time, the Magecraft King stepped back.
Their eyes met. Serious. Equal.
That day, Lucan stood against a King of the ancient age.
Neither victor nor vanquished.
"The Bard: Subutai."
With the Crown of Arms, with the Secret Sword, Lucan's path was complete.
And now, with his Triple Cycle engraved even upon his martial root, his magecraft too was liberated from the Ten Rings' suppression.
Thus, at last—he held the true power to stand against the Father of Magecraft himself.