Wayland walked for a few minutes before finding a sun-drenched spot to settle down. He sat cross-legged, lazily licking his paw with a rhythmic motion.
In the next heartbeat, he screeched, his back arching as he sensed a sudden, overwhelming wave of malice crashing toward him.
He remained in a tense, defensive crouch for half a minute. Then, just as abruptly as it had appeared, the strange sensation vanished.
Wayland slowly relaxed. He rested for a moment longer before leaping off the balcony, intent on finding a scrap of food in the nearby trash. He sprinted across the road, his movements lithe and agile.
A split-second later, a sickening red haze filled his vision. Blood sprayed in every direction as his body was mangled into a pulpy, unrecognizable mess.
"Ah!"
The sensation had felt so vivid, so visceral, that Wayland bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. A raw, tearing pain radiated from his throat to every corner of his body.
"What... what just happened?"
He stood up and staggered over to the table, gulping down water with frantic intensity. The icy touch of the liquid against his throat was a sharp reminder that it had all been a nightmare.
"Irigal, did anything happen while I was asleep?"
Wayland rubbed his forehead, his heart still hammering against his ribs. That dream was no accident. He knew enough about the Type-Moon world to know that magi had countless ways to inflict such psychological torment.
["What's wrong, Master? I was sound asleep."]
"?"
["Hang on a second. Let me pull up the system logs."]
Wayland suppressed the urge to lash out and focused on the golden letters appearing before him.
[2:33 AM: Malicious prana fluctuations detected. Master, please exercise caution.]
"Your sense of responsibility is absolutely non-existent, isn't it?" Wayland snapped. He waited for a reply, but Irigal remained silent. "Hey! Come out! Stop playing dead!"
["Dear Master, your lovely Irigal is heading back to sleep. Please do not disturb."]
"Wait, what?"
Wayland called out several more times, but he was met with the same looped message.
"You damn system!"
Infuriated, Wayland slammed his hand onto the table. There was no way he could go back to sleep now. He picked up An Introduction to the Twelve Departments of the Clock Tower and began to read, losing himself in the text.
It wasn't until the cool autumn breeze drifted into the room along with the morning sun that he finally looked up, catching a glimpse of the vast, azure sky.
Before long, there was a knock at the door.
"Who is it?"
A man in a sharp, tailored suit stood in the doorway. He adjusted his glasses and gave a polite smile. "I am Larkin Nick, a teacher from the Department of Policies. I've been assigned to guide you through your enrollment process today."
The "upperclassman" from the previous day had mentioned someone from the Astronomy Department would be coming. While he didn't know what had caused the change in plans, Wayland bowed respectfully. "Thank you for your help, Professor Larkin."
"Follow me."
Five minutes later, Wayland followed Larkin into a quiet office.
Amid the rich aroma of black tea, Larkin asked, "Student Wayland, which department do you intend to join?"
"The Department of Modern Magecraft," Wayland replied without a moment's hesitation.
Larkin looked surprised. Within the Clock Tower, the Department of Modern Magecraft was often looked down upon by the prominent mage families. It was seen as a catch-all for the shallow, general-purpose magecraft of the last century--a department focused on "ease of use" rather than true depth.
Because it was so poorly regarded, many Lords saw it merely as a tool to drive the Clock Tower's economy. Before Waver, no Lord had been willing to serve as its dean. Its buildings were the smallest of the twelve departments, often disguised as mundane facilities of a local university.
Regardless, Larkin didn't ask for his reasoning. "Under normal circumstances, magi joining the Clock Tower must first spend five years in General Fundamentals. You would study the common consciousness of magecraft, sympathetic and contagious magic, ley lines, and the study of the Greater Source. However, given your unique circumstances, the Clock Tower has decided to designate a personal instructor for your tutelage. Since you've chosen Modern Magecraft, I assume you've read the department guide. Please choose an instructor."
"I choose Lord El-Melloi II."
"One moment."
Larkin pulled a black folder from his drawer, flipped to the latest page, and wrote a few lines with a fountain pen. He handed the paper to Wayland. "A letter of recommendation."
While Wayland scanned the letter, Larkin reached for an old-fashioned, hand-cranked telephone.
"Hello? Krisy, please come to the office. We have a new student for Modern Magecraft... Why the sudden admission? That isn't something you need to concern yourself with."
He hung up the phone. Once Wayland finished reading, Larkin spoke again. "Wait here. Krisy, the manager for the Modern Magecraft dormitories, will take you to see Lord El-Melloi II. Since it's still morning, the Lord should be at his rented apartment on Druid Street."
Wayland didn't have to wait long before a knock sounded at the door. He stood up, bid Larkin farewell, and left the office with Krisy.
Krisy was a talkative, friendly man. He chattered incessantly as they left the Policies building, crossed London Bridge, and made their way through the red-brick viaducts into Druid Street.
By the time Wayland snapped out of his thoughts, the bustling crowds had faded away, and an old apartment building stood before them.
Climbing ivy was tangled with wild, overgrown weeds, yet even the thick greenery couldn't hide the cracks in the reddish-brown brick walls. A chimney nestled among the roof tiles looked as though it might collapse at any moment. The entire structure looked half-dead and utterly dilapidated.
'He really is a Lord of debt.'
Krisy stopped talking and pushed open the front door.
Through a haze of cigar smoke, Wayland saw a man reclining on a sofa.
He had long, black hair that reached past his waist and was wearing a familiar red-and-black trench coat. This was Professor Zhuge Liang, the man who had worked endless overtime in Wayland's Chaldea. For the first time, he was seeing him in the flesh.
Hearing the knock, Waver pushed himself upright. He glanced at Krisy and took a slow, deep draw from his cigar.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.
"Lord, we have a new student for the Department of Modern Magecraft."
"And why did you bring him here?" Waver picked up a teacup from the coffee table and took a sip. "Just have him attend classes as scheduled."
"He's... different," Krisy said, stepping forward.
Waver took the recommendation letter. As he read it, his expression soured. "Are you kidding me? These troublesome nobles!"
[Translated and Rewritten by Shika_Kagura]