[Simulation Summary: Born into the royal family of the Kingdom of the Huns, bearing the most exalted lineage of the rising nomadic peoples, in this life you began already at the peak, and from there forged even greater glory, leaving behind the legend of the "Emperor for a Day." You founded the knightly military class, directly and indirectly creating an eternal nation, one that lives forever in people's hearts and never falls into dusk. You were hailed as the first and the purest Grand Duke of Knights, and regarded as the cold and merciless founder and guardian of the knightly codes—your life was magnificent, full of killing, breaking armies, destroying nations, slaying dragons, contending against the heavens. Though there were regrets, there was also fulfillment.]
[Simulation Cooldown: 30 days]
[Settlement Evaluation: SS]
[Inheritance Crest (Mystery): Crown of War (Spirit Dress)]
[Inherited Magic Circuits: 544]
[Default Activation Confirmed]
[...]
The train from Fuyuki City to Kyoto thundered across the land beneath the heavens, like a white flood dragon racing through fertile fields.
Within a private carriage, Lucan slowly opened his eyes. The life of more than a hundred years flowed through his mind like a revolving lantern—from birth to growth, from meeting to parting with the Hunnic king Attila, to his first encounter with the young Morgan.
And then, after forging eternity, the decades of peaceful seclusion in Avalon—quiet, yet serene.
Lucan's expression was calm. He silently gathered together the flood of memories obtained from the true projection of his soul. More than that, he could feel the radiance of a crown that had taken form decades ago within his spirit—the "Crown of War: Michael," shining brilliantly in the depths of his soul.
It hung beside the Crown of Metatron—slightly lower, yet standing equal in brilliance.
In specification, it was inferior, yet in essence, it was its equal.
One condensed from the manifold faith of contemporary mystery cults, the other forged from the martial arts of an entire era, refined into the "Knightly Spirit" of an age.
Though the latter ultimately relied upon the abilities of the former to assume its angelic form and emerge, in essence, both were condensations of the highest purity of spiritual thought—derivatives of Lucan's soul, the "Crowns" of the soul.
"Metatron, the vice-regent of Heaven recorded in the non-canonical Book of Enoch, unacknowledged by the Church mainstream—the Heavenly Scribe, the Little Yahweh."
"Michael, recorded in the Church's canon, the Archangel recognized by orthodoxy, the angel of battle who commands the dawn."
This was Lucan's thought from the beginning.
Yet now, it seemed he was indeed drawing closer step by step to the very institution that occupied the majority of modern mankind's spiritual faith—the powerful Church.
He had no doubt at all—
That if one day he were to reveal "Michael" before the clergy, he would harvest yet another wave of "faith."
Further splitting the foundation of the Church, and gathering it into the Crown of Metatron.
To make one thing serve many purposes, to kill two birds with one stone—such was the design.
Though bound by the form of his soul, at present he could wear only one crown at a time, perhaps in the future, should he forge more crowns, he could recreate one by one the myriad Archangels of Church myth, and eventually "fuse" them together.
Of course, it remained as ever—though the "Crown of Michael" was powerful, bearing an unquestionably divine specification, even in the divine realm ranking at least as mid-tier, this accomplishment was not enough to grant Lucan a great vertical breakthrough. It was instead a horizontal expansion.
His threefold circulation system, upon inscribing a mystery of an ancient era, naturally advanced—not a small leap in truth, but it merely allowed him to stand firmly in the tier of the "Upper Divinities."
From having merely reached it—
To now truly setting foot within.
And standing there firm!
This was already strength enough. After all, even in the age before the Common Era, when the gods still manifested, beings of "Upper Divinity" rank were not often seen. Even the greatest of humanity's mythic heroes in their prime could not easily surpass this boundary.
From what Lucan knew, even in the mythic age, such beings were the main pillars of a divine pantheon.
Though not a vast breakthrough, the steady advance was entirely in line with Lucan's pursuit.
"Now upon my soul are engraved Mysteries spanning nearly two thousand years!"
Thickness was not equal to the mere length of years lived.
It was tied to the nature of the era.
In some ages, a single year's mystery was equal to decades or centuries of another.
Leaving aside the late Tsarist era with its closeness to modernity—before that, the French Hundred Years' War, the Heian era when gods and demons thronged, and Britain's Camelot when faerie fantasy lingered—especially the latter two, each had granted Lucan hundreds upon hundreds of years' worth of mystery.
Perhaps precisely because of the weight of these two eras, the Simulator's cooldown had been extremely long—both for the last Heian era and now for this Britain.
This time even longer than before.
It seemed the older and more crucial the era, the more so it became.
But his flaws and shortcomings were steadily being mended.
Every thousand years' worth of Mystery was itself a threshold.
Two thousand years—a still greater gate!
After all, two thousand years past from modernity brought one to the very twilight of the Age of Gods.
The phenomenon of the "Return of the Age of Gods."
Just as the golden wolf Beowulf, possessing over two thousand years of Mystery, could nullify the majority of modern magecraft outright.
And now Lucan, setting aside the vast Mystery of quality and quantity borne of his triple circulation alone—merely by the thickness of accumulation, he could already brush against the Divine Realm.
A triple Divine Realm, quintuple linkage, a crown magnified fiftyfold.
And upon this, the nearly two thousand years of Mystery.
This was the foundation upon which he stood firm within the "Divine Realm," the bedrock of his ability to contend with "Upper Divinities."
Such a harvest was not great—but it was by no means small!
And with another round, Lucan would truly surpass the two-thousand-year mark.
At that time, if not a vast breakthrough, there would at least be a stagewise rise in Mystery's specification.
In a sense, this was why Lucan lived out only the natural span of a human life in each cycle, never prolonging himself with Mystery.
To live in an era of high Mystery, and die in it, experiencing a full human lifetime, gained him more Mystery than extending himself into years of decline, when Mystery waned.
Thus, Lucan's harvest of this life came to its perfect conclusion and collection. Quietly, together with the surging of his magical circuits—which had doubled to over five hundred—everything extraneous was counterbalanced and absorbed. Even without considering the supreme quality and quantity of True Ether they produced, five hundred circuits was monstrous, over twenty times the average of a modern magus.
Five hundred "Circuits of Divine Thought" further raised his computational power immensely!
Thus:
More magical circuits meant the divine vessel's higher output, granting him a flood of strength upon his already vast base.
More formulas inscribed within his divine soul nearly gathered into a whirlpool, like a miniature Root, pregnant with all creation. With such a vortex, he could attempt the inscription of yet higher Mysteries—for instance, "Authority-class Grand Thaumaturgy."
An even greater scale of Divine Thought endowed Lucan with the wisdom to perfectly govern this mass of Mystery.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
And in the span of an instant's fluctuation of Mystery—he stood firm upon his "foundation"!
In the midst of this, he noted the passing of real time. The dawn at departure had become dusk outside the train. Five to six hours had passed.
And in this span—he perceived an anomaly in the external aura.
That was—
With a sudden crash!
The sealed carriage door was thrown open. A voice rang out, a figure pressed in.
"Ahh… dear honored passenger, might you be in need of some special service?"
The newcomer's voice was crisp, its trailing notes lilting, carrying a charm that drew the heart into intoxication.
Pressed against him with soft weight, Lucan sat still, only casting her a sidelong glance and saying:
"You're rather at leisure."
"Even cosplaying as a stewardess now—"
"What, has the 'war' already ended?"
His gaze rested on the figure pressing upon him—
Straddling his lap, the deep-blue uniform skirt taut over rounded curves, black stockings sunk into the seams of the leather seat along full thighs. The stewardess's tie was crooked between the fullness of her chest, white blouse buttons strained to their limit.
The skirt hem rode up tight over her hips in her kneeling straddle, sheer black stocking bands biting into the soft flesh of her thighs, knees braced against the seat at either side of him.
Pale jade fingers rested on his shoulder, from beneath the brim of the stewardess's cap, shadows fell across her violet eyes glimmering with the carriage lights.
She smiled at Lucan with sultry grace. A beauty with a crimson mark between her brows, at once bewitching and suffused with the serene mercy of a Madonna.
And she was, beyond doubt—
The very "Beast" who, only that morning, Lucan had received news of: in Kyoto, she had declared a war of Mysteries against the Six Houses of "Divine Organ Forging."
Kiara Sessyoin.