The autumn air was cool.
Lucan stood before the Kremlin Palace in Moscow.
Memories of his seventeen years in this simulated life flashed rapidly through his mind like a montage—an oddly surreal sensation, as if he had lived through a long span of time in an instant, yet without any real effect on himself. Like a dream—only one that was undeniably real.
The seventeen-year-old youth steadied his thoughts and looked ahead—
"Mr. Lucan, His Majesty is already waiting in the palace," said an elderly man in a butler's uniform, standing straight and tall at the top of the steps.
The steps led up to a resplendent palace.
Its towering dome shimmered as if dusted with gold powder, glinting under the sunlight. Massive golden columns framed the wide doors at the entrance.
Armed guards stood solemnly at attention near the pillars, rifles in hand and towering in stature. Their presence extended down the steps, encircling the spacious plaza where Lucan now stood.
Expressionless, Lucan gave a small nod.
He adjusted the black priest's robe he wore and lightly touched the silver cross hanging on his chest. Inwardly, he mused that this final Tsar of Russia was indeed as extravagantly ostentatious as the legends claimed.
Yes—Nicholas II, the last Tsar.
Information about this emperor flickered through Lucan's thoughts—without a doubt, a ruler marked in history... though not remembered fondly.
Nicholas II had been overthrown by the revolutionaries of a new era. He was a tyrant whose ignorance and brutality had led the Russian Empire into collapse.
But that was the future. For now, in this moment of 1912, he remained the ruler.
And because of that, Lucan's next steps were simple.
He needed to earn this Tsar's trust.
He needed the wealth and resources of this twilight empire.
With that, he could construct his own mystic lineage in this world—establishing a firm foundation of the arcane, and passing it on to future generations. Only by successfully creating a proper magical heritage could he be said to have completed the simulation as a head of house—and reap the rewards in reality.
Only with a successful transmission of the legacy could the simulation be deemed a success.
Having sorted out his thoughts, Lucan also adjusted his clothing and appearance.
A deep, knowing smile—one that suggested wisdom beyond his years—appeared on his handsome young face.
"Lead the way, sir steward," he said.
The elegantly dressed official gave a respectful nod and turned to ascend the steps. Lucan followed behind, maintaining a calm and composed posture, his eyes downcast in solemnity. From the corner of his vision, he observed the shifting shadows around him as wind rustled the trees lining the long stairway, their leaves brushing gently against the rare and exotic plants arranged along the sides.
The silhouettes of soldiers loomed under the swaying shade.
They passed the staircase...
And then crossed the broad, tiled platform leading to the palace's main entrance.
At last, Lucan met the ruler of Imperial Russia—Nicholas II.
The opulence inside the palace far surpassed the grandeur of its exterior.
Golden embellishments covered the halls, yet they did not dazzle the eyes. Instead, they radiated a gentle brilliance like the rising sun.
Layer upon layer of sheer curtains fell between the red, gold-trimmed carpets. As Lucan stepped upon them, he felt the soft texture under his shoes. The steward who led him stepped aside, but Lucan's gaze remained fixed at the very end of the gilded carpeted path—
"I greet Your Majesty!" he declared, bowing slightly toward the throne—symbol of the still-standing empire's highest authority.
Seated on the throne, behind layers of sheer curtain, was a tall, indistinct figure. He stirred slightly at the sound of Lucan's voice, but said nothing.
Lucan continued, "Has Your Majesty been feeling unwell recently? For example, have you been experiencing dizziness... or perhaps difficulty recalling certain important matters or events?"
"Unwell?" the steward beside him looked up in confusion. He wondered if this young "Little Sage" had made a mistake. Wasn't it common knowledge throughout Russia that Nicholas II had summoned many masters to the court to treat his youngest son, the Tsarevich Alexei?
Behind the curtains, the shadowed figure on the throne shifted slightly again.
A warm breeze blew in from outside, stirring the curtains. For a brief moment, the entire hall seemed to fall into a hushed stillness.
Just as the steward prepared to plead leniency, thinking that the famously short-tempered Tsar was about to erupt in anger—
The emperor above spoke.
"How did you know that?"
His Majesty... truly is unwell?!
The steward was taken aback. A surge of unease rose within him—if the Tsar was truly ill, and he had failed to notice it as the personal steward, it would surely be a capital offense.
But Nicholas II clearly wasn't focused on him.
He slowly raised a hand and gently swept aside the layers of curtain. The gauzy veils fell away like dust being brushed aside, revealing the grand interior of the hall in crisp clarity—no longer shrouded in haze.
Lucan now stood tall in the very center of the throne room, as though he stood at the center of the world, directly facing the supreme ruler of the empire.
Nicholas II sat upon his imperial throne, clad in a black military uniform adorned with gleaming medals. His imposing frame radiated majesty. His face was handsome, pale, and framed by a thick beard. His narrow eyes shone with an icy blue light that would send shivers down any ordinary man's spine.
But not Lucan.
He met the Tsar's gaze with calm composure, having already prepared his script.
If he merely spoke of Alexei's illness, he would be no different from the other so-called "mystic masters" or court doctors.
So he took the opposite approach—by starting with Nicholas himself.
"Your Majesty is ill," Lucan declared, his tone brimming with confidence. "And gravely so. You've been placed under hypnosis."
In layman's terms—he was "not in his right mind."
"Hypnosis?" Nicholas II paused, visibly stunned by the unexpected diagnosis.
"Yes, hypnosis. All of Your Majesty's symptoms—dizziness, forgetfulness—are caused by it. This kind of hypnosis can only be performed by someone extremely close to you," Lucan said with a serious expression.
"Someone extremely close? And... performed?" A mixture of shock and doubt flickered across Nicholas II's face. He didn't fully believe Lucan's claim—but the symptoms were real. In the past few days, he had felt strange spells of dizziness and forgetfulness—things that had never happened before.
Moreover, there had indeed been a new arrival recently…
Those in power often guarded their lives with utmost care.
And so, almost instinctively, Nicholas II thought of someone.
A person who had also been introduced as a "mystic master," and who had arrived only a few days before Lucan… someone he had trusted at first glance and received with the highest honors.
"Grigori Rasputin?"
Before the name was fully spoken, the once-lifted curtains suddenly fell as if time had rewound. A burst of light shimmered in the air—then scattered like stardust or splashes of shattered water, all surging toward Lucan!
This was the power of mystery.
This was the manifestation of magecraft!
But the wave of light froze in place—stopping three feet from Lucan, suspended in the air.
Because Lucan had raised his hand.
Between his fingers, a glow began to form—his own mystery, unleashed.
The magic circuits in his body activated, all twenty-three channels instantly flooding with pure prana.
The spell engraved on his hand—an ancient formula condensing the essence of the arcane—was infused with mana and activated in the blink of an eye.
Mystic Art: Dispel.
He countered the assault—
Mystery met mystery.
And they annihilated each other.
Nicholas was stunned.
So was the steward.
But Lucan stood firm.
He didn't flinch.
He fixed his gaze—not on the Tsar himself, but on the shadow emerging from behind the throne.
Stepping slowly from the darkness came a tall figure—
"The mad monk… Rasputin. I knew it," Lucan grinned.
Just as expected.