Of course, though it was said he now stood free of restraint and could face the unfathomable "King of Magecraft" Solomon head-on, Lucan's confidence was still not absolute.
Even with his breakthrough.
Even after reaching the natural conclusion of his martial path—taking that last, final step.
The Crown of Arms, the radiance of Archangel Michael, shone from deep within his soul. It hovered above reality like a true crown, granting him the supreme versatility of martial prowess—an absolute peak for the age.
But in the strictest sense, this was only a breakthrough in martial arts.
A horizontal expansion, not a vertical leap.
He had indeed grown stronger—his specifications, his rank in Mystery were greater than before. But even so, he still lingered within the realm tentatively classified as "Above God."
And Solomon, manifest before him now, also stood at that very same level.
Both seemed to be fighting at full force—yet in truth, both still held back, keeping reserves in hand.
After all, in a world named by the Moon, there were never precise, absolute rankings—only vague divisions of "specification."
And ultimately, battles of Mystery were not only about raw power, but also about counteraction.
Now, Lucan had only just freed himself from Solomon's natural restraint, able for the first time to unleash the true, unshackled might of his Triple Cycle.
At last, he could display its absolute Mystery without being suppressed.
In silence, the ancient sage-king Solomon—the father of all magecraft—once more raised his hand. The glow of the Ten Rings shimmered.
And then—
The war-god sword in Lucan's hand flared, its tri-colored light weaving into a flood of magecraft, threatening to drown everything before and behind him.
It was as if his sword itself had become a prismatic wand, driving Mystery, releasing mana, proclaiming divine authority.
But in that moment, Solomon suddenly spoke:
"Thy world shall never be granted the world's recognition."
"Humanity's choice, too, has its reason."
And indeed, it did.
Facing Solomon's words, Lucan did not deny them.
Even with his distaste and resentment for Alaya's constant interference—for its endless prying and meddling—he would never deny its necessity.
He would not deny that Alaya, as the manifested survival instinct of collective human consciousness, was essential for humanity's existence. Nor would he deny its duty to safeguard human history.
Just as he would not deny Gaia, the other planetary restraint, in its role of defending against "invaders" from beyond the world.
He did not soften his view of the so-called Star's Vanguard simply because of his personal ties to Attila.
No matter his past, here and now, he was still a being born of this planet.
But—
"O King of Magecraft… dost thou deem this timeline, if left to develop, without future?"
Lucan met Solomon's golden eyes. Since the King made no move, he too was in no hurry.
If this became a battle of attrition, a war of growth through endurance, Lucan would yield to none.
Calmly, he asked:
"Dost thou believe this timeline shall be pruned away?"
Pruning.
That was the true reason the Counter Force so desperately preserved human history, keeping its frame intact.
For this world—this planet—was woven of countless timelines, overlapping parallel worlds.
But the energy sustaining these infinite branches was not itself infinite.
And so, by some unseen mechanism—one Lucan could not fully comprehend—worlds deemed without future were pruned away.
Severed from the cosmos, cast outside existence, until the energy within themselves withered, and they collapsed into nothing.
Every timeline bore its own suppression.
And in terms of stability, nothing was more reliable than "Human History Proper"—that steady, linear progress of mankind.
Yet even knowing this—Lucan still sought change.
Even understanding—he still raised his question.
Looking straight into those golden eyes that could see not only the present as Merlin did, but past and future as well—clairvoyance of the highest order.
Solomon's reply was swift, unhesitating:
"I have seen it."
"Thy time, thy nation.
The continuation of thine eternal kingdom has brought temporal distortion—
and with it, the ruin of the future."
Eternity is stasis.
Stasis is no future.
"I see…" Lucan laughed softly. "So thou movest not, because thou hast seen this?"
"Art thou pitying this world, O merciful King of Magecraft?"
"But what if I told thee—this kingdom of eternity… is not truly eternal?"
At that, Solomon's pupils contracted.
For a moment, his supreme clairvoyance reflected a spectrum of colors, as though he had indeed seen it—seen what Lucan spoke of.
Lucan smiled.
"Ah, the highest clairvoyance—how enviable."
Through magecraft, Lucan could forge Mystic Eyes of far sight. For him, it was trivial—instantaneous, even.
But the highest grade of clairvoyance? Eyes that could behold all things at once? That was not so easily attained.
Even the ability to see all of the present required rare conditions.
How much more, then, to see past and future?
Let alone these eyes—Solomon's eyes—eyes tied to the very God of the Church?
And so Lucan asked quietly:
"Thou hast truly seen it, hast thou not?"
Solomon had.
He had seen the radiant brilliance standing above Camelot, shining like a high tower—twelve pillars of light that pierced the heavens like lances.
He had seen how those twelve "spears of light" circled the kingdom, dividing it from the world, isolating Britain itself.
They were replicas of Rhongomyniad.
The "Towers of Light," magecraft forged by Morgan le Fay, Queen of the Second Spring.
Though mere replicas—though far inferior to the original Rhongomyniad—
A single Rhongomyniad could anchor the surface of Britain.
What, then, could twelve accomplish?
They fixed the world.
They severed it—forming an ideal kingdom apart.
"Camelot shall not exist forever upon this earth."
"Or rather—it shall become as though it never existed within it at all."
Separated, it would no longer affect the outside world.
Isolated, it would not disrupt the proper flow of history.
Camelot would become this generation's ideal kingdom.
An eternal Camelot, which would at last fade alongside its people, fusing with the fairies, returning to the Reverse Side—into Avalon, the source of the holy spear.
Yes.
Only until this generation passed.
Only when they all departed without regret would it be complete.
With the tendrils of materialized nature, with the fairies' existence, Camelot was bound to Britain's land, to all its living beings—then to the planet itself.
This was Lucan's ultimate design.
The true meaning of "a continent nourishing one kingdom."
This was why he urged Artoria to march, to spread the name of Camelot across Europe—so its memory would bind to the people, tying their lives to its fate.
As long as they knew the name, they were bound to it.
"Eternal, yet not eternal."
"This is our—"
"This is our triumph over heaven!"
In this, they had indeed surpassed the heavens.
They had altered history—and forged a miracle.
A history so fitting, so seamless, even the Counter Force could not deny it.
Those twelve spears of light—
To strike at them now might only bring greater collapse.
Solomon gazed at the youth before him, and at the silver-haired Fairy Queen who had appeared upon a throne behind him.
Crowned with thorns, seated regally—Morgan le Fay.
Lucan's beloved wife.
In the golden eyes of the ancient King of Magecraft, there flickered, at last, a glimmer of awe.
"So thou, with this fairy's seedling—
and with these twelve holy spears—
hast seized human history itself?"
This was the charge of knights.
This was the miracle of a magus.
As the Celtic Tales would one day recount—
It was the Grand Duke of Knights, the Witch in the Rain, the Miracle's Herald, and the Fairy Queen of the Second Spring—
Who together forged the ideal of the Eternal Kingdom.