Some time earlier, when Avia had just succeeded in erasing Crimson Moon's Operational Concept—
The Marshal of Magecraft stood watching the runic thunder swirling in vortices along the edge of the great gate. His lips curved ever so slightly, and with a smile far too young for his age, he told those present:
"It's over. Completely over."
Without sparing a glance for the astonishment on everyone's faces, the vigorous old man tilted his head back to gaze at the "moon" above the heavens.
At this moment, the White Flower blooming over the Thousand-Year City was far more beautiful than that "moon."
The creature that only moments ago could have turned this method to its advantage was gone. Vanished like a trick, leaving behind not even a single dying word.
Though the Marshal had expected this outcome, a sigh still escaped him.
He was no Magician, yet what she had accomplished had equaled—or even surpassed—their miracles. She had shown him something that could only be called the unique brilliance belonging to humanity alone.
"Seems another dazzling entry has been added to the most spectacular scenes of my life. Hah, not bad at all."
"Every time I see you, Kischur, you never fail to give me a shock," teased Van-Fem.
"Indeed," Caubac added dryly.
Their jests were met with a hearty laugh. The Marshal of Magecraft accepted them all in good humor.
"You two should make ready as well. It won't be long before we're forced to fight side by side again. This time will be our battle for life and death. The Association—I'll persuade them. Not that they'll have much choice but to fight."
The old man spoke with relish. Both in principle and in pragmatism, the Association had to join this war. Not merely to shake off the yoke of the Church, but also because the ruins beneath Britain they now occupied were in fact filled with the rotting flesh of some creature a Roman emperor, back in the first century, had transported from elsewhere to bury below ground.
"...Will we really win?" Van-Fem asked.
"Who can say." Kischur's expression remained calm. "The Holy Scripture's power surpasses any magic I've attained. After that battle, my soul was shackled by it, and it has been hard to sustain myself since. But we've run out of time.
"And according to Prince Zagreus—the one who barely survived by hiding within the False Sea's occult concealment—Mabel Kiara's psyche carries within it both Atë, the mad goddess who mingled with humanity since the Age of Gods, and—"
As his words fell, a clay tablet surfaced in his hand, inscribed with characters of a long-lost tongue.
"The R'lyeh Codex," he intoned.
Merry, for once suppressing her usual cheer, named the artifact with quiet gravity.
The R'lyeh Codex, also called the Canon of Y'ha-nthlei. Its manuscripts were said to be bound in human skin, and it prophesied that when the stars came into alignment, the city of R'lyeh would rise from the sea and Cthulhu would awaken.
"So you mean Kiara became what she is because of Atë—and this foreign abomination recorded in the Codex?" Caubac asked.
The Marshal shook his head.
"I cannot say. Zagreus insisted that, as a Greek god, he felt no trace of Atë within Mabel. Rather, Atë was something she wielded. As for this Codex—it is but a phantom shadow, never used to summon the cosmic evil rejected by the planet. Instead, what is inscribed upon it reeks of something else entirely—an undying hatred for the God of the Church."
At that, Kischur lifted his eyes skyward. Though he was King Solomon's disciple, he was not a believer like Van-Fem and Caubac.
"It is a being like Zeus, King of the Greek gods, or Odin, All-Father of the North—a sovereign deity of its pantheon. Yet by some twist of fate, it fell from the heavens to the earth below. In Scripture, he is named the Lord of Demons—Beelzebub."
Beelzebub, once Baal of Canaanite myth, "Lord of the Heavens." In Rabbinic texts, the name came to mean "Lord of the Flies," a demon blamed for spreading plague.
Among the Phoenicians he was worshipped as a solar deity; later the Canaanites reviled him as "Lord of the Dung Heap." Even in Greek myth his shadow remained—for Zeus himself bore the epithet "Fly-Averter."
In other words, a sovereign god whose image was blackened by shifting faith, demonized and reduced to a devil.
Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, the undying Second Magician, stood in stark contrast to the other long-lived Magician— the Fifth, a bodyless ancient in the Far East who had so blurred the concept of "self" that he would grant any request within his power without question.
Kischur was not so merciful. Quick to rage at evil, quicker still to sneer at good, he would never casually promise, "No problem." For as a sage striving for humanity's greater future, he accepted that the grand design sometimes demanded sacrifice.
And so, when all had settled, the old man rubbed his chin and spoke, softly:
"My friends. Be still."
The words were quiet, so very quiet—yet they silenced the entire city. True Ancestors, magi, Dead Apostles alike felt that uncanny aura. Older than this era, older than memory, it was the breath of the far shore.
"Most of you know me already. But allow me to introduce myself once more."
His voice was rasped, but it thundered across the Thousand-Year City.
"I am Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg. Disciple of the King of Magecraft, the Second Magician. Founder of the Clock Tower's Department of Mineralogy. And beloved of my peers as the Marshal of Magecraft."
It was no jest. If anything, his tone was all conviction.
As though he truly believed that by forcing these solitary, army-less magi into unity, he had earned the title of Marshal—and that their fear was only natural.
Yet none could object. His power dwarfed them all, in every respect.
"From today, after a hundred years, we shall unite once again. Not against the Enemy of the Planet, but against our own enemy—the Holy Church. For a century they have leeched off you, warped and corrupted beyond recognition."
All present nodded deeply.
With a scholar's grace and a trickster's grin, the Marshal of Magecraft rasped on:
"And this time, the Supreme Commander of our coalition will not be me—"
"—but the new Head of the Department of Mineralogy."
His smile widened.
"Avia."