First Arc done
...
This space is a complete world.
Pitch-black and specks of light.
In the wide spherical room, where the night sky is stained black, a wooden chair floats in the center.
Although its shape alone would be enough to call it luxurious, the faded appearance of the wood gives it a charming appeal, an aged elegance that doesn't evoke a sense of distaste. Instead, its mere presence transforms the surrounding atmosphere into one of solemnity.
At first glance, it looks like the seat reserved for some noble or aristocrat. However, if that were the case, this chair shouldn't exude such a powerful presence. It's so strong that even if a head of state were to sit on this chair, they would be considered an accessory to the chair, not its owner. If an ordinary person were to sit on this chair, they would likely be instantly swallowed up by the overwhelming presence emanating from it.
This is a chair that makes people think this way.
This space was prepared to exalt this chair.
The current scene forces one to accept such an evaluation even when they hear it, but—
The man enveloped in an atmosphere that surpasses the solemnity of the chair is causing the backrest of the chair to emit a loud creaking sound.
"Ugh..."
If this room were a scaled-down universe, then the man sitting on the chair in the center of the room would be wrapped in an aura befitting that of a master.
This is an elderly man, appearing to be around 50 to 60 years old. Despite his white hair, his posture remains upright, and his robust physique exudes a sense of strength that surpasses that of a middle-aged person in their prime. The wrinkles on his forehead, eyebrows, and the corners of his eyes add a touch of the accumulated weight of time, the mark of experience, but without the signs of frailty that typically come with old age.
The most striking feature of the old man is his eyes. It has nothing to do with the color of his irises or any particular distinguishing characteristic but rather their depth, their profoundness. They are like the starry sky surrounding the old man, extending endlessly as if these eyes hold countless mysteries within them.
The old man's name is Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg.
In the mundane world, his fame is not prominent, but in the mystical realm, he is known by everyone.
His name itself represents a legend, and people admire, fear, or have various motives for him, bestowing upon him various titles: the Second Magician, the Grand Magus, the Marshal of the Mage's Association, the Old Man of the Jewels, the Fourth Seat of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors. He is a man who truly stands at the pinnacle of the mysterious side.
"This axis seems off..."
The old man glides his finger through the air, causing the celestial bodies projected on the surrounding walls to rotate.
"And is this polarized light completely extinguished?"
"Oh, this incision is quite good..."
Following that, the pages of the floating book in front of the old man flip with a rustling sound, recording various "information" in real-time as he moves.
The front page of the book is adorned with strange patterns, as if countless concentric circles are layered upon each other, with intricate lines radiating outward from the center.
Some of these lines extend to the outermost circle and continue to radiate outward, while others stop at one of the layers.
The thickness of the book is approximately that of a regular encyclopedia.
Despite its massive size, whenever the old man glides his finger, thousands or even tens of thousands of pages appear and disappear.
The elderly man continues this work for a while, seemingly discovering something, and his finger pauses.
"Hmm? This is—"
The rapidly flipping pages come to a halt, and the previously subtle expression finally undergoes a noticeable change.
On the opened page, there is a boy who appears to be of mixed Eastern and Western heritage.
A cloak envelops his body, and his short, curly hair is deep blue. The most distinctive feature of the boy is his deep blue eyes.
In the empty space of the page, there is a red annotation—Subject of Project I, Number 13.
The old man quietly gazes at the boy on the page, motionless. The entire spherical space seems to come to a standstill.
It is unknown how much time has passed, perhaps a few minutes or even several hours. In this spherical space, the passage of time cannot be discerned.
The old man exhales slowly, and the stagnant space finally resumes its movement.
"Finally, one of the subjects has shown some results. Of the thirteen subjects in Project I, only three remain observable. The rest either died prematurely due to accidents or lost their futures due to quantum fixation."
"The soul that the young man claiming to be from Semlya specifically brought, a soul that was not originally part of my plans... Is this the variable he found to change that future?"
"Number 13, let me see how far you can go. But before that—"
The old man diverts his gaze from the concentrated focus on the pages and moves it to his left hand.
On the thumb of his left hand, he wears a ring with a gem containing immense magical power as its face.
Accompanied by a radiant dispersion of magical light, a deep, magnetic female voice emanates from the ring.
"I suppose it's time for you to contact me, Zelretch."
"You're still as perceptive as ever, Queen Scáthach."
A long-lost smile appears on the old man's face, and his laughter, transmitted through the gem ring, crosses the barriers of time and space.
"So you should already know the purpose of my contact."
"Regarding the creation of the Third Magic, the 'Heaven's Cup'? Or is it about one of the disciples I recently acquired?"
"Both. The Third Magic and that child are both experiments."
An indescribable resonance and melancholy can be heard in the old man's voice. Only Scáthach, who has grasped the causality of the world and has lived through countless ages, can understand that emotion. She refrains from saying more and gets straight to the point.
"The 'Heaven's Cup' is indeed a power that can influence the world, much like your Second Magic. However, the 'Heaven's Cup' alone is not enough. It is just power, and without a magus like you to wield it, it will inevitably be tainted with other colors. If things continue to develop in this way, the power of miracles will eventually disappear."
"You're right, that's why purification is necessary."
Upon hearing the old man's response, Scáthach softly murmurs, "Ah, I see."
"It seems you have grasped some kind of key," she continues.
"Yes," the old man calmly nods. "But I cannot directly intervene in this matter. If I interfere too much, the world is likely to become completely fixed. Therefore, I need to choose a suitable executor."
"No need to choose. He is more than capable."
The old man is well aware that the person referred to is the character spread open on the pages before them.
"Are you sure he can handle it? It's not an easy task."
"That's precisely why it should be him. He said he would fulfill my wish. If he cannot overcome even this obstacle, how can he bring an end to my eternity?"
Scáthach's attitude provides the old man with the answer to another question.
"It seems I no longer need to inquire about his evaluation."
"Let me make this clear. You can have him do the work, but you are not allowed to take him as your disciple. Becoming your disciple is no different from becoming a wrecked person. I've finally seen a glimmer of hope, and if it shatters because of you, be prepared for my 'Thorn of Annihilation.'"
"Understood, Your Majesty Scáthach."
The old man maintains a composed demeanor. With a wave of his right hand, the red annotation on the pages changes accordingly—
"Executor of Project H, Subject of Project I—Shinji Matou!"
PS: Its HIM Again Guys! It's his fault why we have this fanfic. XD
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