In the Nasuverse (TYPE-MOON), I Created a Magical Family Lineage

On the high tower, the howling winds carried more than just the stormy breath of the sea—they whirled and twisted between the two men like a rising tempest. At the very moment Edmond Tremberio rose with furious eyes and Lucan stood with calm poise, their inner mana—refined from deep within their magic circuits—erupted outward like twin tidal waves, clashing in the air.

It was a collision of mysteries not yet unleashed. A test of magical foundations before the battle began.

Both were giving it their all. Neither underestimated the other.

Despite Lucan's relaxed demeanor, this wasn't his first time facing a Grand-ranked Magus of the Clock Tower. But the older the era, the thicker the mystery; and the more powerful the magi. He knew that even the Lord of Political Affairs from his past, Vivian Bathomello, herself a Grand, might not have even surpassed the figure standing before him now.

Even Lucan, in his prime during the Tsarist era—when his power shook both Mage's Association and Church alike—might not have even surpassed the Grand of this era.

That was why Lucan had come here alone.

To stand before this Mage King.

To prove whether his accumulated growth through this simulation had pushed him beyond his former peak.

The initial mana clash was just the beginning.

Crackling sounds echoed between the towering, lion-like figure of Edmond and the dignified, holy-yet-mortal bearing of Lucan. It felt like the air itself was breaking. Like something unseen was being torn asunder.

It wasn't just wind—it was the very elements themselves, agitated by the mysteries clashing within.

Lucan's simulated body still hadn't reached the absolute apex; his forty-six magic circuits were a rare talent but not miraculous. Against Edmond—who bore hundreds of circuits and had single-handedly repaired his family's ancient magic foundation—Lucan was completely outmatched in magical output.

And yet, in this raw magical clash, they were evenly matched.

Lucan's mastery of mind-based magecraft, his spiritual magic refined through his modern legacy, allowed him to use each drop of mana with divine efficiency. One unit of power yielded a hundredfold result.

The air swirled, pressure rising.

And then the test ended.

Edmond struck first.

With barely a syllable of incantation, he activated an ancient mystery etched into his magic crest—an art passed down through a thousand years.

The tempest around him flared into a blade-storm. Every gust of wind, laced with his mana, became a sharpened edge, cleaving through air and even space, all aimed at the interloper who dared face a Mage King.

No convoluted concepts. No elaborate rituals.

Just pure elemental power, erupting from the vast mana within his body.

The Tremberio magic crest was rooted in "Fundamentals."

It descended from the mythic era's Mistil lineage—a secret divine art of the ancient god-magi. A single drop of water could become a flood; a breeze, a storm; a spark, a blazing sun. It was mystery injected into the mundane, magnified infinitely.

In theory, such magic couldn't function in the post-A.D. world. Not without the mana-rich environment of the Age of Gods.

And yet, here and now, Lucan witnessed it.

He saw Edmond inject divine mystery into wind, manifesting godlike power in an era a millennium removed from the divine.

A glimpse into the ancient age of myths.

This was what the title of "Grand" truly meant: the recreation of mythic mysteries in the modern world. A supreme honor first defined centuries ago by the Bathomellos.

Lucan was awed. Not just by the strength—but by the vision and will it took to manifest it.

And yet—

"This alone isn't enough to bring me down."

"I have a foundation too."

The winds howled. His robes flared. He let the storm reach him—made no attempt to shield himself from the godlike gusts Edmond conjured.

And then—

Brilliant light.

From Lucan's seemingly plain scholar's robes, hundreds of mystic formations erupted. With his will as their core, they wove themselves into a towering magical palace.

His mind-magecraft, born from the future, was no less powerful than ancient mystery.

Though not sourced from the Age of Gods, this magic too was descended from a Magus of divine nature.

Even Edmond, unable to identify its exact origin, felt its weight and acknowledged it.

And then—

The fire began.

A spark. A trail of heat. A flame ignited by wind, fueled by friction, intensified by magical flow.

A crimson lotus bloomed like hellfire. Heat distorted the air. Thousands of degrees in temperature surged in an instant, forming a blazing sun atop the tower.

Edmond's mastery was elemental—but he had specialties: wind and fire.

Together, they formed a sun.

Even Lucan's magical sanctuary began to melt.

His once-unshakable bastion wavered under the searing pressure. But it didn't fall. Thanks to his mind-magecraft—driven by his unyielding will—it kept regenerating. Melting and reforming in an endless cycle.

The battle on the distant field had ended. But atop this tower, the true war had just begun.

Mystery clashed with mystery.

And Edmond's true strategy became clear:

Drag Lucan into a war of attrition.

He'd long known of Toval's capabilities—from spies who barely escaped Lucan's wrath. He knew Lucan had the talent and magical flexibility to match even the highest Color Ranks. He knew Lucan could likely become a Grand himself.

So he prepared.

His own mana capacity dwarfed most magi by hundreds of times.

Lucan might be powerful. But his bloodline was new. He lacked the ancient accumulation.

Tremberio had existed for over a thousand years.

To Edmond, the outcome was clear.

"You're a monster among monsters, Toval. But in the end, you're still a commoner. Your foundation is shallow. Your legacy—weak."

"I'll take your head, then spread your legend—using your death as my stepping stone."

"And step over your corpse on my path to the Root."

The wind howled. The flames burned.

Edmond's power surged higher and higher.

Lucan faltered.

His mana conservation meant little without fuel.

Through the blinding light, Lucan could almost see the countless circuits within Edmond blazing like stars.

If this continued, he would lose.

If he had no other cards left.

But—

"Magic warfare isn't just about intel," Lucan said. "It's about trump cards too."

"You've played yours."

"Now it's my turn."

Lucan stepped forward.

And dropped all defenses.

He let go of his sanctuary, allowed it to dissolve.

Then—

He walked into the fire.

A raw, unshielded body stepping into thousands of degrees of scorching heat.

Edmond's eyes widened.

And widened further—

Lucan walked through the inferno unscathed.

No aura. No magic barrier. No visible protection.

Only—

Pure flesh. Pure power.

Simulated Mystic Cores had transformed his body—

Into something near-divine.

"This body is a product of Mystic Core simulation," Lucan said.

"Right now, it is a complete foundation—akin to a living magic crest from the Age of Gods."

"This—"

"Is my other foundation."

[The Grand Foundation Is Not Singular]

[Simulated Core — A Godlike Body]

[This is your true trump card]

[This is what allows you to surpass even your future self!]