Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

"I see… So that's your request."

Quickly recovering from her initial shock, Shiali raised her hand, and microscopic threads of Ether trickled forth, burrowing into the body hidden beneath the soil.

"Since the brain is gone, I can't see any memories. Without a brain, there's no way to probe for thought traces… all I can extract is surface-level biological information."

"Troublesome?"

The silver-haired boy blinked. Shiali, meanwhile, drew in the air, sketching diagrams. She first wrote down the words Tomb of Albion, then drew a diagram of two opposing triangles, roughly outlining the remains of the Dragon of Albion.

"As you said, this so-called pure-blooded Dragon of Albion, even as a corpse, remains a superlative existence by human standards. Its two-thousand-meter-long body is buried underground. Based on my calculations, assuming no major geological shifts, establishing a workshop here and using necro-alchemy… conservatively estimated… would take… around twenty years."

"Twenty years, huh…"

Novia murmured softly. To be fair, for Shiali to need only twenty years to refine the remains of the Dragon of Albion was a testament to her worthiness as the next Head of the Atlas Institute. After all, this was a dragon whose body alone nearly tunneled its way to the Reverse Side of the World.

However, Novia knew all too well—if it truly took that long, who could say what accidents might occur? If another magus discovered this place, it could easily ignite a new storm within Europe's Magecraft circles. Objectively speaking, magi were self-serving and ruthlessly efficient. Most who found such a treasure would first think to claim it for themselves, only cooperating if secrecy became impossible.

The Clock Tower of later generations would amass vast magical resources thanks to Albion's Tomb, becoming a beacon of hope in the declining world of Magecraft. Alongside the Wandering Sea and the Atlas Institute, it would stand as one of the Three Great Magecraft Organizations. Albion's corpse was, quite literally, treasure incarnate.

Yet, both Novia and Shiali were far from typical magi. Novia was a transmigrator; Shiali, though not originally human, was undeniably a good person—her moral compass constructed from the emotions and ethics she absorbed through Ether lines.

Even now, the purple-haired girl, still learning to face her own nature, furrowed her brows at Novia's silence. In her voice was a faint—but real—impatience, her tone turning sharp.

"I can only guarantee twenty years. And since the Dragon of Albion's soul has completely dissipated, the necro-alchemy process won't leave behind any lingering 'resentment' or 'regret.' Beyond that, I can't make any promises."

Necro-alchemy—an Atlas Institute technique combining necromancy and alchemy—capitalized on the fact that the bodies of magi and Phantasmal Species, even without souls, still brimmed with magical energy. The resulting Mystic Codes could be tremendously powerful.

"I understand. Twenty years is already the fastest we could hope for."

Novia nodded. But in his heart, he had already decided to proceed with his alternative plan.

"In that case, can you just refine the Dragon of Albion's skull into a weapon? Forget about the rest of the body."

Though he couldn't obtain a loyal, living dragon, crafting a weapon from the skull was the next best thing. Novia had already settled on the form: modeled after that very same spear wielded by the Fairy Knight Lancelot, born from the dragon's left claw.

"The… skull? But didn't the dragon's head…"

Shiali trailed off, watching Novia with confusion. But before she could finish, Novia dug into the opposite side of the mound, revealing the dragon's skull, buried even deeper.

"The Dragon of Albion died with its tongue still lolling out…?"

Shiali mused silently, inserting her Ether threads into the colossal skull to begin calculations.

"Still can't access any memories, but if it's just the skull… the refinement process should only take a year."

"Then I leave it to you, Shiali."

"Fine. What weapon do you want? Sword? Spear? Bow—"

"This."

Novia produced a design schematic with a distinctly futuristic flair. Despite her status as an alchemist of the Atlas Institute—where wild, fantastical designs were commonplace—Shiali couldn't help but admit the weapon sketched before her looked genuinely impressive.

"I'll forge it exactly as you've designed."

Her response was crisp and confident. Wasting no time, she began constructing a magical workshop on the spot with astonishing speed.

"You're starting now? Don't you want to rest? Or maybe I could show you around Britain for a few days?"

Arms crossed, Novia smiled and offered the invitation.

"No need. That means nothing to me. Oh, but… your design isn't bad. If you wanted, you might actually qualify to join the Atlas Institute."

Shiali said it casually, then quickly added:

"Ah, right. Forgot you're already mixed up with Christianity. Anyway, a year from now, I'll deliver exactly what you asked for."

...

"All done?"

Emerging from the cavern, Novia found Lucius, stationed at the entrance, warming himself beside a small campfire. Novia approached casually.

"Yeah. Should be ready in a year."

"Just a year, huh? That little girl's really something… I thought it'd take decades, considering how massive that dragon is."

"That's your misunderstanding. I only gave Shiali the Dragon of Albion's skull."

The crimson flames illuminated the desolate grasslands as the two men exchanged idle conversation.

"Y'know… you're only sixteen, and you've already done so much. Still determined to keep going?"

Lucius spoke with quiet sentimentality. Perhaps, as someone older, he felt frustrated that he couldn't do more for the youth before him.

"It's my name, isn't it? Novia. It was Paul and the others who raised me. I owe them that much. And crying about the way things are doesn't change reality. If I'm the only one who can do something about it, then I'll face it head-on. Even if it wasn't my choice. Even if I have to become the experiment myself… I'll do what must be done."

Just as he had on the day they met, the boy's words carried an emotion Lucius couldn't quite place. Yet, undeniably, woven into his every syllable was a sincere, unwavering prayer.

Lucius chuckled, scratching at the old, cross-shaped scar etched into his cheek.

"Then keep at it, Lord Novia."

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