The news that Pope Alexander VI would hold a public theological debate in Rome with the reformer Martin Luther struck Favia as odd.
By all accounts, that wasn't how the Church usually handled these things.
Ordinarily, they would first put the heretic on trial, then stage the "debate" afterward—if only to justify the excommunication that had already been decided. Yet this time, the Pope had simply skipped the process entirely and expelled Martin from the Church outright.
Which meant, from Alexander VI's standpoint, the debate itself was meaningless.
After all, the Pope was authority incarnate. Unless he was certain he could utterly crush Luther in open discourse, there was no reason to risk his dignity by appearing on the same stage.
Still, the debate had not yet been made public. Rumor had it that Luther was hesitating—understandably, since setting foot in Rome would put his life in serious danger. Negotiations between his camp and the Church were still ongoing.
As for how Leonardo da Vinci got wind of it, that was simple enough. He'd been living in Rome for some time; though never truly welcomed, his position and fame let him hear whispers the public could not. That must have been why he invited Favia to come. Paracelsus, on the other hand, had likely been left out because da Vinci knew he wouldn't care.
In any case, after giving it some thought, Favia decided he would go.
After all, he still remembered the man called Pope Alexander VI—hailed in later generations as the very embodiment of Church corruption and decadence during the Renaissance.
His family, too, was infamous: their scandals stretched from gossip and theft to rape, bribery, incest, murder, and poisonings. Yet modern historians have pointed out that many of those rumors came from his political enemies—especially his successor, Julius II, the so-called "Warrior Pope."
That said, one couldn't deny that the Papal States had grown stronger under Alexander VI's rule. His illegitimate children might have shared his moral looseness, but they were also remarkable generals and patrons of art. In their own twisted way, they had helped fuel the Renaissance.
Favia's main worry, though, was simpler.
Would Alexander VI just poison Luther?
The fear wasn't baseless. The Pope was infamous for his "Borgia poison," which he supposedly slipped into guests' wine at banquets to seize their fortunes afterward. By eliminating cardinals and dukes alike, he could claim their estates for the Church—or for himself—and sell their vacant positions for massive profit.
All of it to fund his luxurious excess, his vices, and his zeal for territorial conquest in the name of God.
If Luther really were to die by poison in Rome, who could say what path the Reformation would take after that?
It was precisely because of this unease that Favia chose to see things for himself.
After all, the Holy Church had been his creation in the distant past.
Even if Augustine later rebuilt it into the institution known today, Favia had once helped him conceive The City of God—the philosophical foundation of that reconstruction.
In truth, Favia had long foreseen what the Church would eventually become. He recalled a question he had once posed to Augustine in the cold winds of the North:
"Do you think this world is beautiful?
Do you believe mankind is beautiful—gentle, good?"
Humans are fickle. They cannot remain unchanged forever. Favia had always known that.
Even though Augustine's City of God described the physical Church as "the City of Man," those who later wielded its power inevitably turned it into a supposed "City of God" in itself—an institution claiming divine authority over humankind.
That outcome was unavoidable. Human desire only grows. And so came the Reformation of the sixteenth century—a movement that would finally and permanently end the papal theocracy's grip over Western Europe.
Having decided to go to Rome, Favia of course planned to bring Baobhan Sith along. She was his companion now, and he wanted to keep an eye on her.
As for the internal strife within the Clock Tower—sparked by the faction advocating to "abolish the Department of Law and Governance"—Favia frankly didn't care much. To be honest, most ordinary magi probably agreed with the idea anyway; that department was notorious for meddling in both politics and logistics, sticking its fingers everywhere.
---
"Pack your things. We're going to Rome."
Half a month after receiving da Vinci's letter, Favia said this at noon, reclining in his chair as sunlight streamed through the window.
Baobhan Sith, the red-haired fairy girl, immediately got up and—almost by reflex—wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his back.
"Okay!" she said brightly.
"Hey, Baobhan," he sighed.
"Mm?"
"If you think about it, there's really no need to do that, you know. You could just nod."
"It's totally necessary! You really don't understand, Favia."
She puffed up her cheeks, indignant.
"Is that so?"
"Of course! I only do this when I'm really happy."
"Well, if that's the case, then I guess I can't stop you."
"See? I told you so."
Her pout dissolved into a dazzling smile.
The noon sun poured in through the window, casting a single, long shadow across the floor. Because they were pressed together, it looked like one figure, not two.
Though Favia had told her to pack, in truth Baobhan Sith had little to bring.
As long as Favia was with her, that was enough.
Fairies were sensitive to the flow of mana—especially his. When she held him like this, she could feel every fluctuation of his energy: whether he was comfortable, calm, or troubled. For her, that connection alone was bliss.
After a while, she reluctantly let go.
"What a pity, Favia."
Her tone suddenly shifted—cheerful yet oddly plaintive. She stepped in front of him, her expression soft and imploring.
"What's a pity?" he asked.
"I was just thinking," she said, "I've helped you for so long, and I still haven't gotten any reward. I mean, I haven't finished everything yet, but shouldn't I at least get something?"
With that, she pressed a slender finger against his lips. The touch made his reply slightly muffled.
"You're right," he said after a pause. "Once we get to Rome, I'll have someone make you a fine dress—and matching shoes."
...Wait, what? That wasn't how it went in the stories!
Wasn't he supposed to say something like 'That's impossible!' right now?
Why did he agree so easily? How was she supposed to continue the script now?!
"Ah—uh, right, I knew that… yeah..." she stammered, blinking in confusion.
Her mind blanked for a moment, then she instinctively mimicked what she'd read in a romance book once—she tapped the same finger that had touched his lips against her own.
Seeing this, Favia instantly understood what she was thinking. He managed to keep a perfectly calm expression, though.
At that moment, another thought crossed his mind.
Wasn't Baobhan Sith a blood-drinking fairy?
Hadn't it been quite a while since she'd last fed?
"Baobhan Sith," he asked gently, "you're a vampire-type fairy, right?"
"...Mm," she murmured, looking startled.
"I see."
He studied her face. Her clear eyes flickered with unease, but there wasn't the slightest hint of malice or defense in them—she just looked back at him, trusting.
"Sorry," he said with a faint smile. "I should've remembered sooner."
Then, without hesitation, he loosened his collar and tilted his head, baring his neck completely—silently telling her: If you need to drink, go ahead.
"Favia, you idiot! What are you doing?!"
Baobhan Sith's face flushed bright red. Her heart pounded as she squeezed her eyes shut and shouted at him, her voice trembling between embarrassment and panic.
"Since you're a blood-drinking fairy," Favia asked mildly, "don't you ever get hungry if you don't drink blood?"
"I… I've never drunk any before…"
"Come now, little Baobhan, think carefully."
"Think about what?"
"Humans," he began, "we're always breathing, right?"
"...Mm."
"And if a human stops breathing, they die, don't they?"
"Generally speaking, yes... though there are exceptions. I've heard of some humans who've lived for a very long time."
"Let's set aside the exceptions. By the same logic, then—a blood-drinking fairy that never drinks blood would eventually die, wouldn't she?"
"I don't think I'd die from that…" she murmured, uncertain.
"Who knows?" Favia said lightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. "So—will you drink from me?"
He looked at her with faint amusement. The red-haired fairy's face instantly went crimson.
"Of course not! If I did that, I'd regret it for the rest of my life!"
For Baobhan Sith, what she truly sought wasn't blood—it was a place in Favia's heart, a sense of belonging by his side. In that light, such an act meant little to her, no matter the gain or loss.
"Hmm… well, it could still count as something friends do," Favia joked with a small smile as he straightened his rumpled clothes.
"Stop joking like that! I have no interest in hugging your cold body forever!"
"Cold? So you mean… if I weren't cold, you would keep hugging me?"
"T-that's not what I meant!"
"Isn't it?"
"…"
Her mind short-circuited. Her heart pounded wildly, her cheeks burning scarlet. When she finally opened her eyes, Favia's teasing smile filled her vision—making her yelp softly before darting into her own room. She flopped face-first onto her bed, taking deep breaths to calm herself down.
In the end, Favia waited another hour before they set out for the harbor together. There, they boarded one of the Clock Tower's official ships bound first for France—and then onward to Rome.
A gentle, warm breeze swept across the bay, stirring the flags along the docks. Beneath a bright, cloudless sky, the port bustled with life—ships crowding the harbor, people shouting, gulls crying overhead. The rhythmic crash of waves against the seawall mixed with the shouts of sailors loading cargo, the chatter of merchants and travelers. The air itself seemed to vibrate with human energy.
Before boarding, Favia cast one last glance beneath London.
Far below the city streets—beyond both classical and modern understanding—lay the bodies of three colossal beasts that had once tried to devour the planet itself. Their remains had been used to fill the vast void left by Albion's corpse.
From what Favia had heard, another "Grand Council" was taking place that very day.
No doubt, another clash between the three noble families and the El-Melloi faction.
"...Well, whatever. At least Paracelsus has joined your side now," he muttered, looking down at the depths below. "If you win, maybe that guy won't end up being executed after all... Guess I'll wish you luck this time."
Sunlight gleamed off the water. The blue of the sea seemed born from the reflection of the radiant sky itself.
And beneath that light, Favia and Baobhan Sith's ship departed for the continent.
---
Meanwhile, deep beneath London—
In the labyrinthine depths that hid the Clock Tower's greatest secret, lay the Catacombs of Mysteries, steeped in forbidden rites and saturated with the scent of heresy.
There, among the sealed graves of long-dead magi, the Twelve Lords and their representatives were in heated debate.
"El-Melloi… so you've truly made this decision?"
The head of House Barthomeloi, one of the Three Great Noble Families, spoke in an almost disinterested tone.
"This proposal," replied the blonde girl from El-Melloi, brushing aside a strand of her hair, "comes from both the interests of the Clock Tower and the wishes of countless magi."
Her voice carried no hint of respect for the Lord of the Department of Law and Governance. Her gaze swept coldly across the assembly—the Barthomeloi of the Department of Law, the Valuayreta of Creation, and the Trambellio of the Department of Fundamental Studies.
The Barthomeloi patriarch, though plainly dressed, radiated an undeniable sense of authority. Every member of his lineage carried an almost pathological elitism—despising all who stood outside their bloodline. Their family stood at the pinnacle of the Clock Tower's hierarchy.
"Oh? Is that so," the old man murmured, narrowing his eyes until they nearly vanished within the folds of his wrinkles.
This was a meeting that could determine the fate of countless magi—a council whose discussions were said to shape the very course of magical history.
Each night, their voices whispered like stars beyond mortal hearing.
Each morning, they retreated into realms unseen by human eyes.
And the "fruits" of their discussions—were they truly the culmination of the dream called magic?
Yet in truth—
"In the end," the old man said quietly, "all this is nothing but self-interest. You've done so much… for nothing more than factional pride."
He meant that these conferences were unsolvable by nature—their outcomes decided long before the first word was spoken.
"The Clock Tower has stood for centuries," he said with a dry chuckle. "And since the beginning, House Barthomeloi has stood with it."
His tone darkened.
"As for you, the so-called rising star of El-Melloi… how much do you really understand about any of this?"
But the blonde girl didn't answer. She simply lifted her wine glass.
"Let's vote," she said.
"Then let us make war," the old man declared.
At those words, every gaze in the chamber turned toward him—
—and at once, the catacombs trembled.
A monstrous surge of magical energy rippled through the depths, rising from the tombs below like a tidal wave.
Had Barthomeloi triggered this? Was it an outright declaration of war against El-Melloi?
Yet even as the others thought so, they saw shock flash across the old man's face.
Meaning—this power wasn't his doing.
In the next instant, a pale, spiraling light erupted from the center of the chamber.
Time itself seemed to sway like a cradle.
Endless… distant… eternal.
A breath older than humanity itself swept through the catacombs, dissolving like a dream upon the tide, erasing every trace of glory that had once been.
For beneath the Clock Tower, the essence that formed its foundation—the fragments of stars, the undying dream of magic—still pulsed within the tomb.
Above ground, London quaked. The tremor caused widespread alarm.
Later, the official announcement from the Clock Tower stated that there had been a sudden "explosion" within the catacombs.
And, by the unanimous decision of the El-Melloi faction, the Three Great Families, and the Department of Mysticism, it was agreed that—
"nothing had happened."
For once, the Tower stood in perfect unity.
Repair crews and magi were dispatched, and within days the damage was "fixed."
They quietly left afterward.
But of course, it was all a façade.
The Clock Tower had chosen to erase the entire Grand Council from existence.
Every number in the reports was fabricated. And though the documents were false, they were inspected with extreme precision—because forgeries, above all, must be flawless.
Thus, what should have been the spark of a civil war within the Clock Tower was officially recorded as follows:
The Department of Law and Governance has been deemed problematic and is no longer recognized as an academic discipline. Henceforth, it shall function as the Bureau of Law and Politics. The Twelve Departments are hereby reduced to Eleven.
And just like that, the potential Clock Tower civil war was quietly buried in the flow of time.
At the very moment it vanished, those present swore they saw a fleeting vision—
The Lord of Barthomeloi being swallowed whole by the catacombs themselves.