The name Favia was the one Novia took upon arriving in sixteenth-century England.
This time—just like during the age of Rome and the Huns—he was born an orphan. But unlike before, there was no one to take him in.
It was, perhaps, inevitable. From the late Middle Ages onward, Europe had suffered disaster after disaster. The Hundred Years' War between England and France, lasting from 1337 to 1453, brought a century of fire and blood upon the common folk. Add to that the early fourteenth-century crop failures, great famines, and the Black Death that ravaged the continent between 1337 and 1350—and Europe had long been in a state of endless turmoil.
Such instability carried into the sixteenth century, leaving people numb to the sight of abandoned children. In an age when even protecting one's own life was a struggle, who had the strength or compassion to care for a child who brought no benefit in return?
As for the monasteries that once took in orphans under the Holy Church's care—they had long since been overwhelmed by internal strife after the great schism within the Church.
As early as 1054, the New Church centered in Constantinople, capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, clashed with Rome over doctrine and authority. Legally, the Pope in Rome remained the ultimate head of the faith, and so, over time, the two naturally drifted apart—Constantinople and Rome dividing into two great camps.
After six centuries of tension, the final confrontation came.
The Patriarch of Constantinople declared himself the "Pope of the East," burning the edict sent from Rome before the public, proclaiming himself the sole true representative of Christ's Church. Thus the East followed him—and the schism became absolute.
In retaliation, the Pope of Rome and the Patriarch of Constantinople excommunicated each other, marking the official split of the Holy Church into the Roman Catholic Church and the Greek Orthodox Church—a rift later known as the Schism of Michael.
Had the matter ended there, the Church might have remained stable—divided, perhaps, like the Roman Empire had once been, but still whole in faith. Yet three centuries later, in the fourteenth century, two humiliating events would shatter the Church's dignity.
The first was the Captivity of the Papacy from 1309 to 1376.
In 1303, French forces, joined by the three great noble houses of the Clock Tower and a coalition of European magi, launched an armed assault on the papal assembly hall in Rome—capturing the Pope and holding him prisoner in Avignon, France.
The seven popes who followed were all French, and since the Holy See itself had moved to French territory, this period of the "Roman Papacy" came to be known as The Avignon Captivity, a deliberate echo of the ancient Babylonian Captivity.
When the final Avignon pope moved the Holy See back to the Vatican, he appointed an Italian successor—but upon his death, the French-dominated College of Cardinals elected another Frenchman in Avignon, declaring him pope.
Thus came the Western Schism, when two—and at times three—popes ruled simultaneously, each claiming divine legitimacy.
After forty years of chaos, the Council of Constance in 1414 finally resolved the crisis, appointing a single true pope and ending the schism.
But by then, the damage was done. The humiliation had turned the Church's hatred toward the Clock Tower into a blood feud. Fortune's wheel had turned—those who once stood high now found themselves dragged into disgrace by their old rivals.
Yet that same act by the three great noble houses of the Clock Tower restored their waning influence against the El-Melloi family.
Since the fifth century, when Avia served as the Lord of El-Melloi, their power within the Clock Tower had grown tremendously. Given time, it was not impossible for them to dominate the Association entirely, reducing the three great houses to mere relics.
But the nobles' orchestration of the Church's humiliation had dealt El-Melloi a heavy blow—an irony, since Avia's ties to Charlemagne had once made the family friendly toward the Church.
The Captivity, the Schism, and countless scandals had long since eroded the Church's credibility. Monasteries that once survived on alms could no longer sustain themselves.
Even the Eastern Church, though sneering at Rome's disgrace, could not help but feel a pang of shared sorrow—and after the fall of Constantinople, only despair remained.
From every corner of Western Europe came cries for reform.
"We have always been one community. And the Holy Church was founded for that community—for each of its members, and for all the suffering, the lost, and the broken of this world. That was its purpose."
Yet that noble declaration had been drowned—beaten down by storm and darkness. In the dawn of a new age, the Church's lament echoed—a wail of sorrow swallowed by the light.
And what of Favia, the orphan with no one to take him in?
The answer was simple—
He was raised by animals.
By the sixteenth century, the island of Britain—once the land of the King of Knights—had long since lost all traces of the phantasmal species. In the year 1500, only beasts remained, mindless creatures ruled by instinct and the law of tooth and claw, roaming the desolate corners of the isle.
By then, England's human population had concentrated in London, and the pastoral landscapes of old had vanished with time, leaving only barren wilderness.
Then, one morning, the sun rose again over the edge of the world.
To humanity, it was an ordinary day—a fine morning, perhaps good for work.
But to the beasts, it was something wondrous.
Sunlight pierced the horizon like rays ascending from the depths of the earth, bathing the wildflowers in a golden warmth. Buds opened gently in their shallow slumber, rejoicing in the morning's embrace, as beams of light filtered through the trembling leaves—an awakening painted in light and shadow across the land.
Although the summer sun is the same everywhere, in that moment, its light shone fiercer than anywhere else.
The colors of the horizon melted into blue, flooding the sky. No one knew that what they saw was the result of countless miracles stacked upon one another—each one allowing the world to greet another tomorrow.
It is through countless acts of devotion that the world continues to turn: those who kindle hidden lights within mystery, and those who openly safeguard the lives of others.
In the mundane world, too, there are those who, driven by fearless conviction, push humanity forward. Even if these people never meet or speak, their actions ripple outward, weaving unseen connections.
They do not act to be thanked; they are thanked because they act.
Each person's devotion becomes a light within the world, helping others live their lives—and so, tomorrow arrives again.
That is how the world turns, and how today came to be.
Though the world now belongs to humankind, the ones who sustain it are not only human.
Across a land left barren by human absence, a cry rang out—some nameless roar echoing through the still air, breaking the silence.
The forest stirred. Along the riverbank, birds gathered in flocks, circling above as though keeping vigil. Dogs barked. Cats lined up in rows. Crows wheeled in the sky. All eyes were fixed upon the same spot.
At last, a she-wolf stepped forward and lifted a child who had been abandoned there. Only then did the other animals disperse.
Yes—just like Romulus of legend, the one who first nursed Favia was a she-wolf. Over time, other beasts would care for him as well.
"Mm! Time for me to go!"
And so, at the age of seven, Favia bid farewell to the animals who had raised him. With small, steady steps, he set out to explore the island he both knew and did not know.
He eventually reached London, where his keen eyes observed the city's bustling trade and wool industry—the weaving houses, the shipwrights, the merchants' stalls. At times, he used a touch of illusion to make others believe he was an adult, allowing him to move more freely among them.
After all, how could one understand the world without touching it with one's own hands? Solitude, he knew, had its limits.
He lived among the poor of London for about four years before being discovered by a man who had come to the slums to treat the sick. The man extended an invitation:
"If you have time, come visit the Clock Tower.
I may not be able to teach you much—but I'll help however I can."
The man walked among ordinary people, healing with arts not of the mundane world, saving countless weak and dying souls. For a magus, such acts were rare—but to him, each life restored deepened his understanding of what it truly meant to be human.
His name was Von Hohenheim Paracelsus—the pride and rebuilder of his lineage, a genius in whom the world of magecraft had placed its hopes, and a teacher deeply trusted by his students at the Clock Tower.
––1515, the Clock Tower.
"Of course not," Favia sighed, answering Paracelsus's question with a small shrug. "I don't even have a goal yet."
He spread his hands, revealing the silver-engraved pendant hanging at his chest.
From the moment of his birth, Favia had worn it. He didn't know how it had followed him into this era, but he suspected its presence was no coincidence. Perhaps the reason he had been called to this time was to find the missing fragments and restore it.
Even so, he had no real idea what the object truly was—only that he had to keep searching.
"But that aside," he said, glancing up, "if you keep this up, the Association's bound to send someone after you eventually. You know that, right?"
Paracelsus smiled faintly. Of course he understood. In fact, he understood better than anyone.
For a magus to dedicate himself to the lives of the poor was to invite unwanted attention. His compassion had long drawn criticism from his family and peers, but he refused to turn away. He continued his work, publishing medical texts filled with all his discoveries—holding nothing back from his students or the world.
To bring true reform to medicine by enlightening the people—he was, in doing so, committing the greatest taboo of a magus. He mixed the secrets of mystery into public knowledge, violating the Clock Tower's First Principle:
"Mystery must remain hidden."
For that crime, he would one day be executed. It was inevitable.
Even if the three great noble houses and the El-Melloi faction were locked in power struggles, they still shared one understanding—the foundation of secrecy must never be broken.
"I see. Well, I don't have many friends," Paracelsus said softly, "but there is at least one person I can entrust things to."
"You mean Da Vinci?"
He chuckled. "The man can hardly walk without wobbling at his age. Let's spare him the trouble, shall we?"
"You're mistaken," Favia replied. "Though he was invited to Rome under the Church's patronage, he's been utterly rejected by their circles. The nobles and cardinals there worship luxury and splendor—Da Vinci refused to flatter their tastes. They've mocked him ever since. The Pope himself called his research 'sorcery.' Everyone in the Association knows by now."
Favia spoke plainly, revealing Da Vinci's current plight.
Paracelsus and Da Vinci were friends; Favia had met the famed polymath a few times through him. Unlike Paracelsus, Da Vinci had once tried to take Favia as a pupil—but Favia had declined.
Even so, the memory made him smile. Thinking of that eccentric old man later appearing in the image of Mona Lisa was almost too much to bear without laughing.
"So that's how it is… I didn't realize Da Vinci's situation had gotten that bad," Paracelsus sighed. "He still writes to me, boasting that he's become the most brilliant man in Rome… Good thing I lent him money back then.
"Well then, Favia—what about you? It may sound irresponsible, but right now, you're the only one I can rely on."
"…So the whole reason you invited me to the Clock Tower was for this?" Favia groaned. Seeing Paracelsus's ever-gentle smile, he sighed again. "Fine, fine. If you really do write it all down, I'll help you this once."
To Favia, there were still twenty-six years before Paracelsus's death in 1541. Plenty of time.
Da Vinci, by comparison, would pass away in 1519—just four years away.
"Thank you, Favia. May Aether's blessings be with you." Paracelsus smiled, then added, "Ah, one more thing—someone from Scotland contacted me. It seems the hunters there have run into trouble. Rumor says they've encountered a blood-drinking phantasmal species… or perhaps even a Dead Apostle. They want me to investigate."
"…And you're telling me this because?"
"Well, I already agreed to go," Paracelsus admitted, scratching his cheek, "but now I've been forbidden to leave the Tower. And since you're here…"
For once, the alchemist looked almost embarrassed. "Would you mind going in my place?"
Favia exhaled through his nose. "…You really are something else. Fine, fine. Since things aren't easy for you right now, I'll take care of it."
"Thank you."
The magus watched the boy depart, a gentle smile lingering on his lips.
Favia… my friend. If it's you, perhaps you'll accomplish the greatness that I could not.
Even now, he remembered the words the boy had spoken to him four years earlier:
"Magicians need friends too. Because magicians are still human.
And it's only by being human that we can grow—
from children into adults."
That day, the man who healed the poor and the sick realized something profound.
The youth before him—no, all children like him, those still lost in death and sorrow—
They were the true light of Aether.
And so, he abandoned the single desire of all magi—the pursuit of the Root—and chose instead to heal and serve, even knowing it would one day cost him his life.
Because the world will always move forward, carried by those who act with fearless conviction.
Even the smallest act of kindness becomes a light in the darkness.
And through such lights, humanity is helped, and the world continues to turn—ever onward, into another tomorrow.