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

Paris bustled with returning life. Though the northern army had divided into six fronts and marched outward, the city itself felt nearly empty—yet not from abandonment. The nobles who once fled south, and the common folk who had escaped centuries-old conflict, now returned from the south without fear. The English sword no longer loomed.

Everyone now knew: the English had been crushed.

Everyone now knew: under the command of Jeanne and Victoire, the French army had secured victory.

And everyone knew: the one who had crushed ten thousand English soldiers with just three hundred cavalry—the "Victor," the "Miraclemaker," Victoire—was right here in Paris.

More secure than even the towering walls of Charles V, he was the equal to the Holy Maiden herself: the Shield of France, and its Unstoppable Sword.

Lucan and Jeanne had once more parted ways.

[Though separated, you still fought as one—bound by a vow of "miracle," a link transcending distance and time.]

[Thus—]

[Though Jeanne longed to remain by your side, sharing each meal and night as you once had, she had not let emotion cloud her reason. Still the Holy Maiden of France, she turned her feelings into strength and marched forward.]

[She made her vow—and her promise:]

[As comrades-in-arms, you would trust one another.]

[Together, you would end this long war.]

[And after that—whether lovers or eternal partners—the outcome would follow naturally.]

[Jeanne's war was worldly.]

[Yours remained on the inside.]

Lucan stood in the depths of Paris, deep within the familiar streets he had once wandered as a child. The old alchemy shop, adorned with antique decorations, remained unchanged—as if the master alchemist Nicolas Flamel still lived, still anchoring France's magical world.

But Nicolas had long passed on, his final act a glorious death.

And the child he once favored now stood where he once had.

To hold up a new sky.

[You pushed open the long-shut door. Within, you waited in silence for the magi of France to gather.]

[One after another, they arrived.]

[They debated.]

[They quarreled.]

...

"Lord Lautrec, if you've come only to showcase your silver tongue—so much sharper than your actual magecraft—to grasp what was never yours, then kindly leave."

A young man's voice rang sharp in the depths of Flamel's shop, directed at an aging noble: "If you had even a shred of backbone, you'd have fought when England came with sword and spell, not bowed and scraped."

The white-bearded gentleman froze, indignant fury twisting his face.

"Fool! The English back then weren't just armed—they had the Trambellio clan of the Clock Tower at their backs. If I hadn't bent the knee, none of you would be here today!"

"So it was all thanks to you?" someone else interrupted before the youth could answer. "You dare claim Victoire's achievements as your own now?"

The new speaker, another elderly magus, stood tall.

"Have you forgotten, Orton? Twenty years ago, right here in this room—you challenged Master Flamel with just as much arrogance."

This was Concent Molto, head of a central French noble family whose lands now stood under Jeanne's protection. Once cowed by Orton Lautrec, he now openly denounced him.

"You—!"

Orton trembled with anger and shame. True, his family lived in the northern territories and had been among the first to bend the knee when England arrived. Self-preservation had always outweighed principle for most magi—but that never excused betrayal.

Right or wrong, morality still mattered.

In the world of men—and in the world of mystery.

So Orton fell silent.

His ambition to expand his influence fell with him.

The arguments continued without pause.

Not just Orton—all these magi, all these mystic families, came seeking new land and leyline stewardship.

More land meant more resources.

More resources meant stronger heirs.

And stronger heirs meant dynastic survival for the mystic lineage.

To them, this conference was a postwar division of spoils.

Even if Victoire had never said as much.

Dozens of magi took part. Only a few abstained.

Isabelle de Rais watched in silence.

She, who knew Lucan best, never believed this to be a mere land grab.

He was different. He always had been.

She believed he would lead France down a new mystic path, one unlike the old ways Flamel had built.

She hoped he would.

Even if she could not follow him.

None of them knew—

Lucan was there.

He said nothing.

Only watched.

Then he stood.

Silently, he left.

And with a heavy sound—

He shut the door.

Closing the world of mystics behind him.

...

[You sealed away the lingering "Mystery" across France.]

[That was your goal.]

[You had no desire to rule France's mystic society, no care for their disputes over land and ley lines.]

[None of that mattered.]

[You needed to keep them from interfering.]

[You needed to prevent disruption.]

[You had a miracle to face.]

With a final thud, the world fell silent.

Yet outside—

A figure stood, tall and faintly serpentine, across from Flamel's shop.

He raised eyes that shimmered like a serpent's.

"So… you've come to greet me personally?"

"Victoire—"

"Or should I say... the nameless Transmigrant?"

The Serpent of Akasha, Michael Roa Valdamjong, smiled faintly.

[He is the miracle you must now face.]

[The strongest force within the Church of this era.]

[The miracle made flesh.]