Chapter 6: Lord El-Melloi II
London had fine weather today—especially for Waver.
For him, it was an important day.
Because the paper he had poured his heart and soul into, writing day and night for a long time, was finally complete—ready to be submitted by his own hands.
As he recalled the work, born of what he believed to be earthshaking brilliance, a delighted smile tugged itself onto his youthful face.
The Clock Tower where he studied was a core part of the Mages' Association. For ages it had been regarded as the holy land of Western European magecraft. Yet its internal structure was surprisingly simple—credit-based, department-based, almost no different from an ordinary university.
And today, because the Clock Tower's celebrated prodigy, Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, had abruptly announced a sudden break with no warning at all, Waver's schedule had unexpectedly opened up.
Right now, he was gripping a stack of papers—his finished thesis, which he still hadn't been able to hand in only because he hadn't seen Kayneth—walking alone down a long corridor.
Why was he alone?
If he wanted to be stubborn about it, the Waver known for outstanding theoretical knowledge and top exam scores would have liked to say proudly:
"A genius like me is naturally solitary—why would I associate with mediocre fools who do nothing but brag about family bloodlines?"
But the reality was…
His theory might have been second to none, yet it was only theory.
Because of limitations in his aptitude, countless things he could only talk about—he couldn't prove them through actual practice.
The biggest reason was painfully simple: his foundation in magecraft was too weak. Even his family's lineage amounted to only three generations.
Among students in a Lord's classroom, families with more than five generations of lineage were common as dirt—almost all scions of prestigious houses. Whether in the quality of their Magic Circuits or the inheritance of their Magic Crests, they eclipsed a commoner like Waver by a humiliating margin.
Like attracts like. People gather with those like themselves. Talented people gravitate toward talent, and mages of illustrious bloodline cluster with their peers—human nature, plain and cruel.
So the truth of the mage world was brutal: among those for whom longer inheritance meant higher Mystery and therefore greater power, the ones who stood on top—who formed the Clock Tower's "mainstream"—were the students of noble blood, along with those from thin lineages who had no choice but to flatter and cling to them.
It had always been this way.
From the moment the Clock Tower was founded until now, it had been treated as a rule—eventually becoming a "truth," a value system mages accepted as natural.
Those who boasted deep lineages and "noble blood" looked down on students like Waver, whose background was shallow. They mocked him, ridiculed him, even insulted him outright. Some said it plainly:
"What right does a lowly thing like him have to stand alongside us?"
They wanted to crush him with words until he bent his neck.
But Waver wasn't the type to accept reality and bow his head.
Because he refused to go with the flow, he naturally drifted away from the crowd—and used his own methods to strike back.
Over this stretch of time, he carried his resentment and frustration forward, pushing himself harder. And to retaliate against what he saw as the Mages' Association's decayed system and mistaken approach, he put pen to paper and wrote a sensational treatise titled "On the Development Direction of Mages in the New Century."
It took him more than a year to gather material, another year to draft and refine—until only recently, when he finally declared it complete.
During that year, he wrote obsessively, shutting out the world. Even during study and lectures, he kept creating—so absorbed he barely knew day from night.
Only after he had reread his "masterpiece" again and again—patiently checking it, confirming the logic was clear and the arguments distinctive—did he finally feel at ease.
And to strengthen the credibility of this crucial paper, Waver had carefully chosen a reviewer:
His teacher, Kayneth, the prodigy currently riding high at the Clock Tower, hailed as a genius of magecraft.
From Waver's long observation, Kayneth might have been aristocracy-first, but compared to "noble blood," he valued ability more. He taught even students from common lineages seriously, never treating them differently—enough for Waver to sincerely believe his teacher's character was, at least, decent.
Just imagining the scene of handing the thesis to Kayneth made Waver's lips curve upward again. Surely Kayneth would be shocked—then acknowledge it.
After all, Waver's work overturned old conventions. It was a shockwave to the world of magecraft—perhaps even a landmark that could guide magecraft's progress.
And yet, when he arrived today with anxious anticipation, ready to submit it in class…
For reasons unknown, Kayneth suddenly announced a break, leaving Waver with nothing but empty air.
That uncertainty left him wandering, pacing, lingering nearby—waiting for Kayneth to return.
Where had Kayneth gone?
He had never missed class before.
The idea that his strict, serious teacher would suddenly cancel everything only stoked Waver's curiosity.
But Lord-level matters were beyond him, so all he could do was loiter near Kayneth's office.
No matter what happened, Kayneth would surely come back eventually.
And when he did, Waver would ask him to review it.
"Heh heh… I can't wait to see Kayneth-sensei's face when he reads my paper… He'll definitely be stunned…"
The fantasy of being recognized, of overturning the Clock Tower's rotten rules, of finally holding his head high—
Waver's grin kept widening, so wide he didn't even notice the strange laugh that slipped out.
Then—
Smack!
"Ow!"
Still wrapped in his pleasant daydream, Waver collided with something. He lost his balance and fell hard to the floor.
Rubbing his head, he looked up.
Standing there was a middle-aged man in a black suit, a black shirt beneath, black gloves, a cigar held between his fingers. He carried an air of mature composure—cold, distant, aristocratic. Long, smooth black hair added an extra layer of elegance and mystery.
"Hm?"
The instant Waver saw him, he felt a vague hostility—pressure—bearing down from nowhere. Combined with the man's dress and presence, it wasn't hard to guess he was someone important at the Clock Tower.
Waver's stomach dropped.
"I'm sorry!"
He apologized in a rush, scrambling to his feet, trying to flee before the man could get angry.
"Hold it, brat."
The man's voice stopped him in place.
"W-what…?" Waver stiffened, frozen mid-step.
"You dropped your thesis."
"Huh?"
Waver turned back—and saw the black-haired man already holding his unpublished debut work, reading it.
"No—don't!"
Waver's face turned bright red.
He'd braced himself to submit it to Kayneth, yes, but it was still unpublished—private in the way a diary was private.
To have it fall into someone's hands like this—and be read openly—was disastrous. If this man spread it before Waver could submit it properly…
It would be unbearable.
Shame and regret detonated inside him. His eyes sharpened, and without thinking, he made a reckless decision:
He would snatch the paper back and run.
But he forgot one thing.
This was the Clock Tower.
And the man in front of him was clearly far stronger than he was.
The result was inevitable.
"Hmph."
A contemptuous snort.
The man saw through Waver's little trick instantly, planted a large hand on Waver's forehead, and shoved him back with casual force.
"Idiot. You can't even read the difference in strength, and you still act on impulse. Have you thrown away the brain a mage is supposed to have?"
He scolded Waver as though addressing something beneath notice.
Waver opened his mouth to retort—
But the next words left him even more unsettled.
"'As long as one accumulates enough knowledge, deepens one's understanding and development of one's specialized magecraft, and compensates for differences in Magic Circuits and Magic Crests through more precise control and usage—one can defeat the strong while weak, and even transcend bloodline inheritance'…?"
The man's tone was openly sardonic.
"Honestly… I could already predict it. But reading it again myself—once more—I'm still struck by how absurdly stupid I used to be…"
Hearing his thesis read aloud like a public mockery, Waver—who had just been bristling—went slack, like a punctured balloon, rooted to the spot.
The humiliation was so intense he barely registered the latter half of the man's muttered words.
"Brat," the man asked after a brief scan of the paper he had just called trash, "are you saying that even mages with shallow lineages can surpass geniuses and reach the top tier?"
"Of course!" Waver shot back, emboldened by his own belief. "If you know your formulae better, work harder on the details of magecraft, understand causality and procedures—then even a commoner mage doesn't necessarily lose to those nobles!"
That was the moment the man's patience snapped.
"Idiot! Yes, education after birth matters for a mage—but to me, your thesis is still garbage!"
He crushed the cigar in his fingers and unleashed a furious tirade.
"No results—just empty talk. You know how childish that is. Do you really think you can surpass first-rate mages with this? Your entire paper is nothing but trash—nothing but the whining of an ignorant boy!"
"Instead of complaining endlessly, put your mind to something else—like your coursework. Have some self-awareness, understand? Dreaming brat."
"Y-you… who the hell are you, acting like this the moment we meet—?!"
"Shut up first."
Waver's indignation flared, but the man had no intention of indulging him. He continued tearing into him with merciless precision.
"Whether in the past or now, every time you survive anything, it's because of luck. A bit of good fortune—and you naïvely mistake it for your own strength."
"That's why you still haven't improved at all. Don't tell me you haven't noticed that? Child."
Waver clenched his teeth, eyes burning.
"Who are you? What gives you the right to lecture me like this?!"
His painstaking work had been called garbage, and every word was a barb aimed straight at his pride—denying everything he had endured and fought for.
The man exhaled.
"What gives me the right? Because I am—"
He stopped.
For some reason, he fell silent, looked at Waver, and slowly loosened the fist he'd been clenching.
"…Because I'm a fool who already made mistakes. And even if what I do now is pointless, I still can't tolerate watching the same mistakes happen again."
"Hah? What kind of answer is that?!"
Waver's expression twisted. The man spoke like a riddle.
The Clock Tower was full of geniuses and lunatics, but someone like this—Waver had never met.
And yet, from the first glance, Waver had felt an inexplicable familiarity… as if the man knew him, while Waver had never seen him before. The contradiction left him uneasy.
Before Waver could say anything, the man seemed to remember something. He checked his watch, a trace of urgency flashing in his eyes, and clearly decided he didn't want any more conversation.
But just as he turned to leave, he paused—then looked back at the confused boy.
"Hey. Brat."
"What now?" Waver forced himself to meet his gaze.
The man lowered his head, his face swallowed by shadow. After a moment's contemplation, he lit another cigar and spoke heavily, like someone forcing words out through old pain.
"I know you won't listen to a bunch of life advice right now. But as someone who's been there… there are things I want to tell you."
"…Like what?"
Waver was increasingly certain he'd run into some kind of madman, and was already thinking about how to escape.
The man seemed to anticipate the indifference. He didn't care. He simply continued.
"Instead of wasting your time on meaningless daydreams, pay attention to what's right in front of you—people and things. Winning an argument proves nothing. You need results. If you insist on going your own way, all you'll earn is regret."
"And also…"
His voice slowed.
"Reply properly to the love letter you receive. Don't miss it again because of your own stupidity—don't leave regrets for either of you."
"What…?"
A chill crawled up Waver's spine. He reached out, trying to catch the man and demand an explanation—
But in the blink of an eye, the figure melted into the shadows and vanished.
Only the empty corridor remained.
And on the floor, the thick stack of papers he had been told were "trash."
On top of them lay an envelope—old, but intact.
On it was written a single word:
[Photo]
And a name—
Camus.
In an instant, Waver thought of a girl in his class who always wore a gentle smile.
She had handed him an envelope like this just yesterday.
So why…
Why was it here?
Outside the Clock Tower.
"Is it finished, Master Kongming…? No—Lord El-Melloi II would be more accurate."
After delivering the envelope into Waver's hands, the middle-aged man—still carrying a weight in his eyes—finally showed a trace of relief.
At the next corner, an orange-haired girl appeared, as if she had been waiting for a long time.
"Yes," El-Melloi II replied, a small smile forming. "It's all over."
"This time, everything I wanted to say… I've said. There's nothing left worth regretting."
At that moment, the watch on the orange-haired girl's wrist chimed. A projection of a young man appeared before them.
"Doctor Roman."
[Yes. It's me.]
The man called Doctor Roman hesitated, then spoke to El-Melloi II.
[Um… El-Melloi II. The things you said just now can't truly change anything. Just like last time—when you lied to your former self. A lie is still a lie. You understand that better than anyone, don't you?]
"I do."
El-Melloi II sighed.
"Chaldea's Rayshift was never a time machine. This Singularity is merely a bubble floating on the surface of Humanity's Incineration. In other words, this place is only a bounded domain—an unreal dream, as far as proper history is concerned."
"So what you want to say is: no matter how hard I try, the ending won't change. Just like the time I tried to persuade Kayneth-sensei before. Even if he abandons the Holy Grail War, he'll still die an unnatural death—to ensure the birth of Lord El-Melloi II."
"That is the correction of history. A fact witnessed by the world and causality. Something that cannot be overturned."
[Exactly.]
"I know," El-Melloi II said quietly. "But… so what?"
[No. I only wanted to confirm you understand that this is all futile.]
"Futile… for others, perhaps. But for me, it matters."
El-Melloi II smiled—relieved, almost gentle.
"Even if I can't truly save anyone, I want to do everything I can. Not to repay some past failure—only because I don't want to repeat the same mistakes again."
"It's nothing more than self-satisfaction. Laugh if you like."
"And of course, this regret is mine alone. It has nothing to do with Fujimaru Ritsuka, Tachibana, or anyone else. And for causing Chaldea so much trouble, I am truly sorry."
"No," the orange-haired girl—Fujimaru Tachibana—shook her head. "Choosing to ignore past regrets is not something a normal person could do. I support your plan too, Lord El-Melloi."
"My thanks for your understanding, Lady Tachibana."
El-Melloi II nodded.
"Then as agreed: in response to Chaldea's summoning, I will fulfill my obligations. I will find a way to help Chaldea recover the Holy Grail, resolve this Singularity—and…"
"I will also find a way to break this repeating cycle, and help you rescue your younger brother from this troublesome world."
"Thank you, Lord El-Melloi II."
Tachibana clenched her fist, her eyes filled with determination.
"Please—no matter what it takes—help me bring my little brother, Fujimaru Ritsuka, out of this false world. I can't bear to watch him die in front of me again."
"Yes. I understand. I swear I will do everything I can."
El-Melloi II offered his own vow.
"However, based on what we learned last time… if we want to truly resolve this Singularity, we still need the right opportunity. For now, our top priority is to determine the true root cause that gave birth to this Singularity in the first place."
Join here to read ahead.
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