The year was 1515 A.D.
Sixty-two years had passed since the fall of Constantinople—the symbol of Eastern Rome's final destruction—and the death of Constantine XI.
That vast empire, which had endured for millennia, had at last met its inevitable end—first divided, then conquered, first West, then East, and finally erased from history.
This was not merely the end of Rome. It marked the death of the Middle Ages and the birth of the Renaissance—the end of Europe's old religious order, and the dawn of an era of cannon and gunpowder.
Meanwhile, on the distant island of Britain, sixty-two years had also passed since the end of the Hundred Years' War.
Once dominant, the English army had been driven into chaos by a peasant-born girl who rallied France with divine conviction.
Though she was betrayed and burned at the stake, her tragic death ignited the flames of French nationalism.
And when Burgundy abandoned England and rejoined France, that alliance sealed England's defeat.
France emerged victorious—its unity achieved, its ambitions on the European continent renewed.
England, stripped of nearly all its French territories, instead saw the rise of its own national consciousness.
And now, in the year 1515, there was a city in England—
The kind of city that every continent, every nation, inevitably possesses.
A place where young dreamers, burdened with little more than a small satchel and a few coins, left home behind—
To chase a vision of the future, to throw themselves into the battle called life.
Indeed, whether one knew the details or not, people would always say the same thing:
"If you want to make your dreams come true, go there."
"To chase your dreams—then go."
And for England in this era, that place was none other than its capital:
London.
Not yet known to history as the Foggy City.
The streets bustled with life—the greasy scent of the air, gentlemen in long coats, women wrapped in scarves or silk shawls, children shouting and playing as they darted between carriages.
Amid this, a silver-haired boy walked with quiet purpose, his eyes observing everything as his steps carried him forward.
He gazed out across the Thames River, his boots echoing softly as he set foot upon London Bridge.
Crossing south over the bridge, the atmosphere of the city changed in an instant.
Beyond the red-bricked arches of soot and grime, the streets narrowed and quieted.
Turning down a side road, the crowds disappeared entirely, until at last he stood on the outskirts of London.
The mixture of old and new buildings was uncanny—disjointed, almost stitched together, giving the place a strangely artificial feeling.
Yet this quiet, neglected district was not as empty as it appeared.
It was, in truth, the current headquarters of the Clock Tower, the central bastion of the Mage's Association.
London, still only a small city of barely a hundred thousand souls, had not yet expanded into the sprawling metropolis it would one day become.
The various departments of the Association had not yet been scattered across the city's satellite districts.
Instead, they gathered tightly around a single landmark structure—
the edifice marked by the great clock face that would one day be known as Big Ben.
The surrounding area was covered by layers of concealment barriers—some erased the place from maps altogether, others merely distorted human perception.
That said, it was not as though these wards were maintained by constant supernatural effort.
In the world of magecraft, a barrier need not always rely on magic.
A naturally-formed boundary was often the strongest kind.
Perhaps that was why the Association had chosen this site—to take advantage of that natural enclosure.
Five minutes later, as the silver-haired boy stepped through the barrier and into the slowly thinning mist surrounding the Clock Tower—
He was greeted by warm sunlight, soft enough to lull one to sleep, and by a bulletin posted nearby:
"The lectures of Von Hohenheim Paracelsus will be suspended for one month.
During this time, all coursework related to his magical disciplines shall be paused."
The notice bore the official seal of the Clock Tower. It had likely been posted only recently.
"Did the professor go off somewhere?"
"No idea. Doesn't seem like him. He's not the type to leave without saying a word."
"Maybe it's because of that argument he had with the medical guild… hard to imagine him losing his temper like that, though. He's always so composed. Why he refused to compromise over something so trivial—I'll never understand."
"I heard some people started calling him a madman because of it…"
"Whatever. Let's just go to another instructor's class. Doesn't matter to me."
The announcement had shocked the students who had been looking forward to his lectures, but few in the Association cared enough to question it.
They weren't concerned about what would become of Paracelsus—only that their time had been wasted.
As the noisy students chattered down the hall, they noticed the silver-haired boy standing silently before the notice board.
Their laughter faded.
Instinctively, they grew quiet—as though unwilling to disturb him.
For the students of the Clock Tower, their relationship with the lecturers was more fear than reverence.
And when it came to those with the title of Lord, that fear bordered on awe.
Even the most approachable of them—the Lord of Creation—could not inspire this kind of wordless warmth.
Yet for the silver-haired boy, such a reaction was natural—inevitable.
It had nothing to do with magic or mystery.
Simply by being there, he radiated a gentle presence, a warmth that settled in the hearts of those around him.
Regardless of gender, every student who looked upon him felt the same quiet conviction:
I think I could get along with him.
And when someone finally gathered the courage to greet him, he responded with kind words and a friendly smile—
Never once showing arrogance or distance.
When the hallway had finally emptied and the last of the students departed, the boy turned and walked away.
Before long, a red-and-white building came into view.
At first glance, it seemed out of place—its walls tangled with ivy and overgrown weeds, the brickwork cracked and crumbling, as if a strong wind could send the fragments tumbling down.
It was difficult to imagine such a derelict house standing within the territory of the Mage's Association—unless its owner had a particular fondness for antiquity.
"Paracelsus, what have you done this time?"
The silver-haired boy kicked open the door—shattering the weak magical ward upon it—and stepped inside.
A man sat by the window in a wooden chair, a recently closed book resting in his hands.
He turned his head, meeting the boy's gaze with a gentle smile.
"I thought it would be someone from the Department of Policies."
Paracelsus rose lightly, brushing the dust from his slightly wrinkled white coat.
"It hasn't come to that yet," the boy replied. "But when they do arrive, you'd better be ready for the worst… though, knowing you, you'll probably just sit there and accept it quietly, without resisting."
"Perhaps you're right," the man answered softly, still smiling like spring sunlight.
He looked upon the silver-haired boy—barely fifteen years old—with an expression of calm fondness.
"By the way," he asked gently,
"have you found what you were looking for, Favian?"