Morning, on the outskirts of London—the Clock Tower.
Once, this supreme academy of magi had been a place of elegance and dignity. Now, its mornings were nothing but noise and chaos.
Yes—chaos. A word that shouldn't belong anywhere near the Clock Tower, yet described the Mage's Association's headquarters perfectly at this hour.
Mercenary magi, reeking of the battlefield, clogged the streets like shut-in otaku lining up overnight for Comiket in Tokyo. But these weren't frail nerds—they were killers-for-hire who wielded Magecraft.
Dozens crowded the street, lugging heavy-caliber firearms. A few even carried rocket launchers and plastic explosives, as if marching to war. And to them, this morning truly was a battlefield.
Their goal? To act as diligent scalpers, buying up Mystic Codes from Rhodes' Arcane Garden at bargain prices, then reselling them to comrades fighting for their lives in the deserts.
To secure their "business," they'd armed themselves to the teeth, ready to fend off rival middlemen.
"Out of the way, you filthy rabble!"
A deep, imperious voice cut through the din. The mercenaries blocking the storefront turned sharply, like a pack of wolves catching a scent, their eyes flashing with hungry green light.
"U-ugh…" The nobleman with a lemon-shaped haircut—an El-Melloi—flinched.
Though he was a Lord, the current head of a distinguished lineage—Lord Kenneth El-Melloi Archibald—he was not a man of battle.
Kenneth was a pampered aristocrat, one who left the dirty work to his subordinates. The toughest fights he'd ever faced were against other nobles in regulated duels, nothing like a life-or-death battlefield.
So yes, he was afraid. And the moment he realized his fear, it curdled into anger.
"You curs! Do you want to be dragged off by the Association's enforcers for disturbing the peace?!" Kenneth shouted, his voice shaking with fury.
The mercenaries ignored him. They recognized his name, of course, but to them Kenneth was just a weakling. No matter how much power he supposedly possessed, he lacked the will to wield it. And that made him no threat at all.
"Damn it…" His face twisted. He reached for his Mystic Code, the handy Volumen Hydrargyrum—but before he could, the gilded double doors before him swung open.
"Oh? Isn't this Lord Kenneth himself? Why linger at the door? Come in, have a seat."
The speaker was a boy of fifteen or sixteen. His voice was still unripe, yet it carried a weight one could not ignore.
"I…" Kenneth faltered. Looking at Rhodes' youthful face, he felt a pang of humiliation. Still, he forced himself to step into Rhodes' Arcane Garden.
He was a proper magus, after all. He knew better than to let petty feelings cloud his reason.
"Excellent." Seeing Kenneth swallow his pride, Rhodes grinned brilliantly. Settled on the soft sofa, he put on a serious face and asked, "So then, Lord Kenneth—what brings you to my little shop?"
"I require Mystic Codes. Not cheap trash, and not those gaudy constructs with permanent enchantments. Only single-use expendables."
Kenneth's voice carried the stiff cadence of nobility. Rhodes, ever the merchant, matched his tone.
"Of course. But surely the Archibalds and their branch families can supply you with expendables? Why come to me?"
Bang! Kenneth slammed the table, his expression fierce—but wholly lacking menace. "Damn them! Those wretched, base branch families! They dare question my authority as head of house!"
"…I see." Rhodes blinked, as though a thought had struck him. Perhaps something about a certain Subcategory Holy Grail War, where the threads of fate converged.
"This purchase must remain confidential. And I won't tolerate the sight of crude, vulgar firearms in the stock." Kenneth's tone was sharp, dripping with aristocratic arrogance.
"Of course. Money speaks, and I deliver—that's my creed." Rhodes slid over a parchment, a Self-Geas Scroll. "Now then, if there's nothing else, kindly sign the contract. The Mystic Codes you've requested total eighty-six million pounds. Shall we arrange a Royal Bank of Scotland draft? Or will you be paying in cash…?"
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Later, in the grand showroom of Rhodes' Arcane Garden, Rhodes lounged on a leather sofa, deep in thought amid the luxury.
"Marianne…" he murmured. A shadow rippled across the floor, and a crude cloth doll sprang out.
"Master." It was a shoddy, rough-made doll, but she could slip through shadows with ease.
"Deliver the 'Sword of Azoth' and Queen Medb's Catalyst to Senior Waver Velvet."
"Yes, Master." The ragged doll didn't ask why. She simply obeyed.
"Hopefully Senior Waver gets along well with that bitch Medb. Really, I'm only doing him a favor. Better to be crowned King of Cuckolds than ride into battle as one of the 'buddy cavalry,' don't you think?"
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