Chapter 3: The Terrified Lord El-Melloi II
Rin gazed at the Clock Tower, her eyes filled with a touch of nostalgia.
"We've finally arrived. Let's go see about the magecraft my father registered."
"Let's go."
Shirou nodded and walked in alongside Rin.
Compared to ten years ago, this tower seemed to have gained an even greater sense of history; the moss and vines climbing the walls were covered in a thin layer of frost in the winter air. Occasionally, students could be seen walking past, but they were almost never seen in groups. The atmosphere of this mage academy was quite distinct from that of a school for ordinary people.
Of course, perhaps this was because the Clock Tower was a mage organization that placed the utmost importance on noble bloodlines; families without sufficient historical foundation held an extremely low status within its walls. One could imagine how difficult it was for a student like Waver—whose family status was low and whose magical talent was extremely crude—to elevate his position in a mage society that placed such heavy emphasis on class hierarchy. It was as difficult as ascending to heaven.
Waver was a third-generation mage of the Velvet family, but his first-generation aunt had only been the mistress of some mage, learning basic magecraft only through whispers on a pillow; his second-generation mother had inherited the magecraft with only the mindset of "cherishing mother's important memories." Thus, the pursuit of magecraft in earnest had only begun with Waver's generation. Both his Magic Circuits and the quality of his Crest were incredibly poor. If his parents hadn't passed away due to illness, Waver surely wouldn't have been able to spend all his family fortune to gather enough tuition to enter the Clock Tower penniless. And if not for that, Waver might never have been able to witness such a colorful, fantastic, and extraordinary world in his lifetime.
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"Can anyone tell me what this is?"
In the large classroom, the man with long black hair was seriously holding up a photograph and placing it on the blackboard.
It appeared to be part of a religious painting. The main subject of the photo was the sky, full of sanctity and solemnity, but the focus was on a "burning wheel" that seemed entirely out of place with the scenery. That wheel hung in the air with blatant presence, as if it were a guardian of the sky, its outer edge covered with countless eyes, staring intensely at whoever looked at it.
"I don't get it?"
"What an abstract painting!"
"Wheel monster?"
Listening to the students' chaotic comments, the man scratched his head in distress.
"Is there really no better way to describe it? This is one of the classic forms of an angel, you know."
Outwardly, the man looked to be nearing thirty. Although his stubble was not well-groomed, giving the impression that he was usually slovenly, his long, freely grown hair unexpectedly looked quite neat. His taste in clothing was eccentric but not vulgar; from that perspective, he had something of a "young master" air about him.
"That's an angel?"
"Where does it look like an angel?"
"I only see a wheel."
The boisterous voices of the students gave Waver a headache. He rubbed his temples and continued to explain to them.
"Angels appearing in paintings became fixed in the image of winged humans largely due to the influence of the Greek goddess of victory, Nike, during the fourth century. In reality, other systems of angels exist—or perhaps I should say, it was later generations who arbitrarily interpreted them as angels."
The man touched his chin and continued.
"Reinterpreting creatures that originally existed in mythology as angels is one scenario. Another is separating powers that belonged to God and treating them as independent angels. While there are various hypotheses, this Throne (Throni) you are looking at is closer to the former. It is an angel that uses its own body to transport the divine power of God."
"Because it has to transport things, is that why it's a wheel?"
"Rather, it is considered an angel that transports God's power because it is a wheel. In the Holy Book written by the prophet Ezekiel, the angel he saw in his vision was described as: 'a wheel shining with beryl, with eyes on one side.' There is another strange hypothesis that believes it was actually an Unidentified Flying Object (UFO)."
"Angels are UFOs!?"
The students let out sounds of surprise. Seeing their reaction, the man wore a satisfied smile.
"In the twentieth century, there was a faction of people who insisted on linking everything to UFOs. After all, whether it's Christian baptism or Egyptian murals, one can find connections to UFOs in the minutiae. While one cannot say that a wheel flying in the sky has any profound
significance, doesn't it stimulate one's romantic sentiments and imagination? Though, part of them were just hippies smoking hallucinogenic drugs; in reality, all that was flying in the sky was their own brains..."
The man rambled on, explaining fluently. On that smug face, mischief and childishness coexisted in contradiction.
The man was known as Lord El-Melloi II, the head of the El-Melloi branch—one of the few prestigious families among the twelve noble houses of the Clock Tower that had been granted the rank of 'Lord.' From the topic of angels, he extended the lecture all the way to the relationship between the Origin and the Source in magecraft, and the mystery used to invoke phenomena occurring in this world by appealing to the base of the world.
"The Origin refers to personal life force, while the Source refers to the magical energy filling this world..."
The bell rang. Although the progress of the course was interrupted, the man announced the end of the class with a look of relief. As the students began to wander out, the man followed them out of the El-Melloi classroom.
"Phew..."
Waver Velvet, who had inherited the name Lord El-Melloi II, had just finished a lesson and stretched his sore arms in the corridor outside the classroom. His bones creaked, a reminder that his current physical condition was slightly worrying.
"...Time to go home."
Waver walked toward the stairs. While looking at the scenery outside the corridor window—a view that never seemed to change no matter how many times he looked at it—he opened a metal cigar case and took out a cigar.
However, before Waver could even cut the tip of the cigar, the figure walking up the stairs from below made his breathing stall.
The red-haired youth—the nightmare that had haunted his sleep countless times—appeared before his eyes, as if he had stepped out of a bad dream. He was walking slowly toward him, like a grim reaper wielding a scythe to harvest a life.
Inside Waver's mind, a storm of dramatic, adolescent-level brainstorming erupted, and the hand holding the cigar trembled slightly in tune with that turbulent emotional tempest.
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