The palace was ancient and towering, but in many places it was dim and damp, the perfect breeding ground for insects and vermin.
That problem, however, was easy enough to solve—simply install more light-emitting lacrima. These crystals consumed little energy, were cheap to produce, and even ordinary families could afford them.
But to set an example of conserving magic, the royal palace had long used oil lamps instead. Their glow was weak; only since the resurgence of magic had the lamps grown more numerous, and the lacrima brighter, shining with a faint warmth.
In the grand hall, Mystogan paced back and forth, his face heavy with worry. He kept glancing anxiously toward the door.
Soon, a figure entered. Mystogan immediately stepped forward.
"How is it?" he pressed.
"Your Highness, His Majesty awaits you in the throne hall," Byro replied, unhurried, completing a formal bow before continuing. "The king also asked me to tell you: he can answer every question you wish to ask."
Mystogan didn't wait another second. He left Byro standing and vanished like smoke.
The Royal Hall
From the great doors to the far end stretched a long aisle. At its end sat Faust upon the throne, upright and solemn.
A faint breeze stirred. Smoke rose in the air, shifting colors, forming the outline of a man.
"You've come," Faust murmured. Countless futures streamed past his sight—futures of his son.
In some, Mystogan was the pioneer, the blind prophet who rejected both monarchy and magic, groping through the laws of heaven and earth, founding a civilization of prosperity rivaling that of magic itself—a progenitor, honored eternally in history.
In others, he was the inheritor of magic, the one who, with his power alone, stirred the world, the strongest of all.
And yet in others, he was the sinner who slew his own father, annihilated all life, and in the end chose to perish with the masses in vain repentance.
Or a mere spectator—scarred by the destruction of the world of his birth, driven to extremes in pursuit of power, walking with dragons and gods, and remembered only as a shadow in history.
Each vision was hazy and indistinct, branching forward like a great river of possibilities.
"…Mm."
For some reason, Mystogan suddenly felt that the man before him was utterly unfamiliar—not the distance of time, but a strangeness beyond race, beyond era, even beyond comprehension.
He bowed his head slightly, awkward under that gaze.
"You came here searching for someone," Faust said calmly, his eyes still fixed on the unseen distance. "That man is powerful, but shrouded. I cannot see him clearly."
"You know?!" Mystogan was stunned. Again, this unreasoned foresight. Just what had happened to this world?
"This world holds far more secrets than you imagine." Faust's tone remained tranquil as his gaze drifted through fragments of futures, separating the common threads from the deviations.
As he did, faint motes of light glimmered from his aged frame—his body becoming slightly translucent.
"Are you all right?" Mystogan exclaimed, worry flashing in his eyes.
"It is nothing. Merely the price of wielding a power not my own." Faust raised a hand, inspecting it. The transparency was still faint; for the next few months, there was no cause for alarm.
"A power not your own?!"
"The one you seek has indeed been here," Faust continued, ignoring the question. "In truth, the kingdom's rebellion, the resurgence of magic—both directly or indirectly trace back to him."
Mystogan's mind reeled. Circles he had once marked as separate events now linked together, bold lines connecting them. He felt as though he had grasped the edge of a revelation.
"What connection? Tell me—what ties them together? Did the old man discover this world's Magic Wells? Or is he draining another world's?"
Over these weeks, Mystogan had pieced together the rebellion's causes, but his focus remained on the magic's resurgence. If he could uncover the link, he could find him—and convince him to leave.
Magic Wells—a theory as old as Edolas itself.
Most of Edolas's magic lay buried within the earth, slowly vanishing over time. Some scholars proposed that all magic in the world was constant: it could not increase or decrease. What seemed to vanish was expelled into the atmosphere, circulating with the winds, and then sinking deeper into the ground—into the planet's core—beyond reach.
But there existed channels—the "Magic Wells"—that connected the earth's depths to the surface, maintaining the flow of magic. Humanity's unchecked consumption had clogged these wells, breaking the cycle.
If the wells could be found and reopened, magic would return endlessly.
If not, accumulated magic beneath the earth could one day explode—a natural cannon of magic, unleashing extinction.
Once, nobles and scholars alike had embraced this theory, spending fortunes to find the wells. In the end, nothing was discovered, and the idea was discarded as superstition.
Yet Mystogan remained one of its rare believers, influenced in his youth by Pantha Lily, already branded a heretic. With scarce resources, he clung to what he had.
"He is devouring this world," Faust said suddenly, cutting through Mystogan's thoughts, "and the pace will only quicken. In two months, a plague will erupt among the Exceed—madness, death, their entire race wiped out.
"In eight months, new forms of life will emerge. Humanity will face extinction."
"What are you saying?!"
A chilling sensation swept Mystogan's nape, like invisible fingers brushing his skin. The dread did not fade—it thickened. Rage flared in him; his eyes blazed red as he glared at the throne.
"You're not normal."
Like a thunderclap, the icy presence surged into his mind, shocking him awake. Mystogan stared blankly at his own trembling hands.
"Just now… what happened to me?"
"This world's secrets are far deeper than you think," Faust said evenly. "Just as the other world has its special individuals, so too does this one." His voice was calm, but his body's translucence had grown by a third—proof of the toll his revelation had taken.
"Jellal, my son," Faust said softly, "only you have the power to find a way to end this."
"Me? Why me? How could I possibly—!"
Mystogan's heart was in turmoil. That silent, creeping corruption he had just felt weighed heavier than anything he dared admit.
"Natsu Dragneel. Natsu Doragon."
"These two names hold the key."
"Natsu… and Doragon?" Mystogan repeated, dazed.
"Find them," Faust said, his voice echoing like prophecy. "Bring them together, and they will end this. Then, all will return to its true course."
Why?