"In an era like this… if they were to see a sight like this, it would probably offend their eyes."
Standing in the shadow of the clocktower, Shane gazed toward the white church in the East End hidden behind the dense fog and muttered to himself.
In order to preserve the appearance of decency and order, this so-called "civilized society" had established many regulations that would look utterly absurd to later generations.
The simplest example was the infamous Vagabonds Act.
Under that law, anyone found sleeping or begging in a public place—such as on a street, in a doorway, or on a park bench—while having "no visible means of support" could be labeled by the police as a "disorderly person."
In Shane's mind surfaced descriptions from sociology books and documentary literature from his past life:
[If you were exhausted and merely sat down on the side of the road to catch your breath,]
[within minutes, a policeman would walk over expressionlessly and jab your ribs hard with a rigid baton, then coldly say:]
["Move on!"]
That harsh law meant that the poor had to possess some nominal "place to stay" at night. Otherwise, they would be directly sent to a freezing workhouse for forced labor.
And so, something grotesque was born in response—the "hanging dormitory."
Really, it could hardly even be called a room.
Usually it was just some abandoned drafty warehouse, a damp cellar, or an overcrowded corridor lined with makeshift sleeping spaces.
As for the conditions…
Just imagine it.
There were no beds. There wasn't even straw spread out on the floor.
Only rows of hard wooden benches set against the wall.
And in front of those benches, a rough hemp rope was stretched across.
For the precious price of two pence, a poor person could sit on one of those benches.
But they couldn't lie down, because that would take up space meant for others.
So instead, they had to drape their upper body over the rope like laundry hung out to dry, their arms dangling limply or wrapped around it, their foreheads resting on their sleeves.
A whole row of people, hanging side by side like livestock, half-asleep and barely supported.
And then, in the morning—
the attendant would walk straight to one end of the rope and cut it with a knife, like harvesting crops.
The moment the support vanished, the whole row of sleeping bodies would lose balance all at once and crash face-first onto the filthy, freezing floor with a heavy thud.
Pain and humiliation would wake them.
And thus, a new day began for the poor.
Compared to that, the crude, crowded, self-built shacks in the East End could actually count as "luxury homes" by the standards of the time.
Shane couldn't help shaking his head, feeling nothing but irony.
"Thankfully, whether it was the era before I transmigrated or the current age of Fiore, even if there are all kinds of problems…"
"at least both have already left behind this kind of naked cruelty and achieved a basic level of stability."
"Besides, I'm no longer on Earth now. It's not really my place to stand here mourning history."
With a self-mocking tug at the corner of his mouth, Shane shook those thoughts out of his head.
He jumped down lightly from the tall clocktower and started walking along the street toward the edge of the city.
He had already planned to test the maximum range of the Heroic Spirit Illusion's coverage in reality.
Now that he didn't need to keep thinking about Assassin's true name, this was the perfect chance to investigate during the exam.
…
Shane didn't walk quickly. Every step landed on the damp stone pavement with a steady rhythm.
But for some reason—
compared to the last time he had come here, being in this materialized city again now made his heartbeat strangely faster.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Shane stopped and pressed a hand to his chest in confusion.
There was nothing physically wrong with him. It wasn't nervousness, and it wasn't fear.
The feeling was hard to describe.
If anything, it felt more like a kind of instinctive excitement.
Like he had encountered something incredibly familiar—something of the same origin—that was resonating with his soul.
"I didn't feel like this last time…"
Shane rubbed his face and checked his condition again.
His magic flow was smooth, and his body was in peak condition—or rather, it was in surprisingly good condition.
"This is really strange."
Since he couldn't find the cause, Shane shook his head, grumbled to himself, and stopped dwelling on it.
Then he quickened his pace and sprinted toward the outskirts of the city.
Even without releasing a Heroic Spirit form, with all his stats now at D+, Shane's full-speed running was already astonishing.
And even so, it still took him about half an hour before he finally saw the rippling boundary shimmering like water.
The closer he got to the edge, the more unreal everything around him became.
There was no sign of life here. It was completely dead.
The buildings, the lamps, even the trash on the ground all wavered like reflections in water, like a fading oil painting.
Shane took one more step forward.
Whoosh—
A biting wind poured into his collar, and the world before him changed abruptly.
The oppressive London night vanished, replaced by a white expanse of snowfield and the harsh brightness of daylight.
"The illusion even covers this whole snowfield?"
Shane turned around and looked back.
That vast fog-shrouded city lay there on the mountain like some enormous beast, stretching farther than the eye could see.
"This area of influence… it's probably close to half of London, isn't it?"
Along with the shock, a trace of worry also rose in Shane's heart.
If the illusion kept expanding at this rate in the future and one day covered the entire world…
"I'd probably get labeled an apocalyptic black mage even worse than Zeref in an instant."
At that point, Fairy Tail would probably be naturally reclassified as the largest dark guild in the world too.
Shane sighed. He honestly had no idea what expression he'd wear if that day ever came.
That little old man Makarov would definitely burst into tears on the spot, wouldn't he?
Just imagining such a dark future made Shane tired.
After testing the difference in magical composition between the illusion's edge and its core, and confirming that there were no signs of instability from overexpansion, he finally relaxed and looked out across the distant snowfield.
"Those two idiots… should be here soon too, right?"
Shane actually had quite a bit of faith in Natsu and Gray's tenacity.
Even if they had to crawl, those two would crawl their way into the exam site.
"Still, it'd be nice if I could completely control the illusion."
Rubbing his chin, Shane thought regretfully:
If he could do that, he'd basically have a god's-eye view of everything—he'd know exactly who entered the illusion and who left it, instead of standing here like an idiot waiting with his eyes peeled.
As things stood, all he could really do was "release" the illusion contained in the Book.
In terms of actual control, aside from knowing a little more background information than anyone else, he didn't really have any great privilege.
Just as he was thinking that—
two familiar figures finally appeared at the far edge of the snowfield.
"Huff… huff… haa…"
Natsu staggered forward like a dog with its tongue hanging out, bent over with both hands on his knees and barely able to stay upright.
He looked completely drained—out of magic, unable even to use fire propulsion anymore, reduced to running on foot alone.
Gray, by contrast, had been much smarter.
Somewhere along the way, he'd discovered the icy track Ur had left behind and used it to slide along most of the distance. He was exhausted too, but at least he'd managed to preserve the dignity of staying on his feet.
"So that's why they didn't get lost?"
Looking at the long icy trail stretching all the way here, Shane fell into thought.
And behind those two half-dead boys—
came Makarov and Ultear, moving at an unhurried pace and even chatting along the way.
The moment they approached the boundary of the illusion, both were immediately captivated by the grand city that had appeared out of nowhere before them.
Especially Makarov.
When he saw those gloomy but clearly non-Fiore-style red-brick buildings, his entire body visibly relaxed with relief.
"S-so this is the city you meant for the exam?"
The old man looked up at the towering smokestacks, patting his chest. His expression was less shock than total post-disaster relief.
"You scared me half to death… I really thought you little brat was actually going to tear apart some unfortunate real town."
"So you created it yourself. Good. Good…"
"Master…"
Arms folded, Shane asked calmly,
"You didn't seriously think I'd go so crazy as to throw that pack of demolition-crew problem children into a real, populated city for the exam, did you?"
"…"
Makarov silently lowered his gaze to stare at the snow around his feet.
The answer was obvious.
After all, on the way here, he had already started mentally drafting up the compensation bills.
Meanwhile, Ultear paid no attention whatsoever to their exchange.
Standing at the edge of the illusion, she extended a hand, let her fingertip pass through the boundary and withdraw again, her eyes shining with curiosity.
Back in that "Time of Memories" world, Shane had already shown this kind of power before—an ability that could change heaven and earth themselves.
He had conjured torrential rain and streets covered in corpses out of nothing.
At the time, though, Ultear had been completely consumed by her obsession with reviving her mother, Ur, and had had no spare attention to examine it closely.
Now that her wish had already been fulfilled, her state of mind was entirely different.
As a mage and researcher with an extremely high level of magical understanding, Ultear's greatest interest at the moment was precisely in dissecting the principles behind unknown magic like this.
"This construction…"
She murmured to herself, eyes glittering with fascination.
"It's not a simple illusion… and it's not Arc of Embodiment either…"
"How very interesting."
~~~
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