Night had fallen.
An old man stood atop a high hill not far from Rome, gazing quietly at the starlit sky stretching into the horizon.
He was Leonardo da Vinci—one of the great trinity of the Renaissance, the man celebrated across history as the Universal Genius.
"Universal" — that word had always seemed natural to him.
Science, mathematics, engineering, natural philosophy, music, architecture, sculpture, painting, invention, weapon design—and beyond all that, even the mystic art of magecraft.
For Leonardo, everything in the world existed as a possibility to be understood. His teacher Verrocchio, his friends Machiavelli and Botticelli, his patron Cesare Borgia, and even King Francis I of France—all hailed him as a man born of divine talent.
But that was a mistake.
Talent had never been the source of his brilliance. Everything he achieved, he believed, stemmed simply from learning.
Learning for the sake of understanding "the reasons behind all things."
In his youth, Leonardo would often think so, calm and detached.
And truly—there had never been anyone quite like him. The only man who might have rivaled him was Michelangelo, and even then, only in the realm of art. In the fields of science, mathematics, and invention, Leonardo stood alone.
If one were to ask him why, his answer would be simple:
"Learning is merely the correct grasp and organization of the information one acquires—storing that knowledge in the mind so it may always serve as reference.
It is not some divine gift that brings forth creation from nothing.
It is a process—developing and applying what one has learned until something new emerges.
The structure is clear, systematic. Anyone can do it. Can they not?"
Yet despite such humility, all who met him—friends and strangers alike—continued to call him unparalleled, universal, the man of all talents.
Leonardo would only smile, murmuring to himself:
"Ah… so that is what they call me. Universal, is it? I see… I see."
And from that day forward, the title Universal Man became part of his very identity—something he accepted as naturally as breathing.
When he discovered the hidden discipline of magecraft, Leonardo once again applied his intellect as he had in every other field—and of course, he excelled.
Though he possessed neither a hereditary magical lineage nor the inherited Magic Crest that centuries of magi had cultivated, his genius still manifested. His magic circuits—few in number—were of a quality so abnormally pure that no conventional measure could describe them. That anomaly alone allowed his "universality" to flourish even within the world of magic.
Thus, even after only a short period of training, he mastered numerous systems, manipulating multiple elemental attributes at once—an achievement unheard of for ordinary magi.
Once, the scholar Marzili had asked him:
"Why? How could you possess such prodigious talent? Is it due to that anomalous circuit of yours? Or perhaps some trace of divine blood, passed down since the Age of Gods?"
Leonardo had laughed and replied:
"Who knows? But you've heard the rumors, haven't you? They say I'm universal."
That smile—radiant, serene, and impossibly beautiful—had left all who saw it breathless. It was a smile worthy of a goddess descended to earth.
Male or female, it did not matter. In the realm of beauty, too, Leonardo was universally gifted.
There was even a rumor that the Statue of David had been modeled after Leonardo himself in his youth—testament to the kind of beauty that could make even marble blush.
But those were memories of a distant past.
Now, at sixty-three years of age, Leonardo's expression remained tranquil and kind. Gone was the youthful vigor, replaced by a calm, enduring warmth. Yet even so—his smile was still beautiful.
He sat beneath the pale moonlight, turning the pages of a worn notebook in his hands.
With a pencil worn nearly to a stub, he traced soft lines over the pristine white paper, each stroke a memory, a life captured in form.
He drew those who had left their mark upon him—
Giuliano, the devout believer who remained faithful within the Roman Church.
Michelangelo, the friend who rivaled him in artistic mastery.
Raphael, the genius whose synthesis of art surpassed all others.
And even Pope Alexander VI, whose depravity had been as infamous as his faith had been fervent, who bartered with Dead Apostles for the sake of immortality.
Everything Leonardo had witnessed, everything he had learned—he sketched it all, annotated with meticulous notes in the margins.
Even by the standards of magi, such dedication bordered on madness.
When at last he was satisfied, Leonardo examined the drawings carefully, nodded, and smiled faintly.
This ritual—this quiet communion between thought and creation—was his daily routine.
Then, he turned back to the first page.
It was blank. Untouched. A page of pure, white possibility.
He traced his fingertip gently across that emptiness, and in his mind, an image began to form.
"...Favia."
Those who knew Leonardo well understood that he was a man of reason, composed and magnanimous, yet quick to shine with excitement when something truly caught his interest.
He knew himself better than anyone—what he could and could not do, what others could and could not achieve. A single glance was enough for him to analyze, predict, and calculate.
He understood the world—and so, few things ever surprised him.
Even when the unexpected occurred, he would resolve it swiftly, almost effortlessly.
And yet—Favia was different.
That boy was a long-term anomaly, a variable that defied all calculation.
Whenever Leonardo observed him, something stirred deep within his chest—a feeling that blossomed softly, like a flower opening under moonlight.
A strange, inexplicable warmth that no theorem or experiment could ever define.
Neither color nor form—like the solitary stars that gleam within a night sky—he was the ultimate one.
And yet, there was something about him… something like the faintest fragrance, carrying a warmth that stirred the heart. Desire? Or perhaps joy.
It was inexplicable.
Even Da Vinci, whose eyes could see through the very essence of a person at a glance, found himself intrigued. He hadn't thought that at his age, he could still encounter someone so fascinating.
To a man of universal understanding, Favia seemed somewhat similar to Raphael—yet at the same time, utterly different. There was a vast gulf between them, one that could not be described in words.
If Favia knew Da Vinci's thoughts, he would likely guess the reason for that comparison.
After all, Raphael was born on Good Friday—and died on Good Friday as well.
Such coincidence... perhaps in the world of Type-Moon, Raphael had truly been a man beloved by the One God.
The night wind swept across the hills outside the Eternal City.
It brushed through Da Vinci's black hair as he stood there, silent, and passed on.
He touched once more the blank first page of his sketchbook. His expression remained as calm and unreadable as ever—but there was a subtle light of contentment within it.
"I hope this time, when you come to Rome, I can finally finish your portrait."
For a long time, Da Vinci had kept an image of Favia in his mind, yet no matter how he drew, he could never capture that elusive presence. So he left that first page untouched, waiting for the day when his hand could finally reproduce it perfectly.
Thus, when Pope Alexander VI announced a theological debate with Martin Luther to be held in Rome, Da Vinci immediately sent word to Favia. Though Favia had never shown any particular devotion to faith, Da Vinci felt he might still find it interesting—after all, even Da Vinci himself was eager to witness this clash that would draw the gaze of all Europe.
"...Already morning, huh."
He spread his arms wide, like the wings of an airplane, turned to face the dawn atop the hill, and murmured to himself.
The splendid city of Rome glowed faintly under the rising sun—brilliant, luxurious, yet touched with a hint of loneliness.
As though the entirety of human civilization was laid bare before him.
A month later, Favia and Baobhan Sith finally arrived in Rome. Around the same time, the news of the upcoming debate between the Pope and Martin Luther had swept across Europe, drawing countless people who wished to witness history in person.
From every corner of Western Europe they flooded into Rome, filling inns, streets, and churches, preparing to watch the debate with their own eyes.
Above the Eternal City, clouds shimmered with the color of evening silk. The first sight upon entering was a bustling street, lined with shops, taverns, and restaurants in endless rows.
This city, with its thousands of years of history, had only grown more dazzling with the progress of the ages.
Instead of going straight to Da Vinci's home, Favia and Baobhan Sith took their time wandering through Rome.
She lifted her gaze to the sky—vast, blue, eternal.
Even after a thousand years, it was still so familiar.
"This place is beautiful! And there's so much stuff here…"
Even Baobhan Sith couldn't help but exclaim in wonder amidst the crowd.
"Indeed. Even I feel tempted to buy something."
"It must be expensive though, right? Do you think my pay would cover it?"
"Have you finished paying off your debt yet?"
"Uh… I don't know. Wait, now that I think about it, Favia, you never told me how much I earn in a month! How long will it take me to pay it off then…?"
"Don't worry. I wouldn't deceive you. Once you've almost paid it all back, I'll let you know."
"Then… can I maybe borrow a little early?"
"Of course you can. But I must remind you of your lodging and meal expenses…"
At that, the fairy girl puffed up her cheeks, glaring at Favia with a pouty indignation, though her feelings were more flustered warmth than anger.
"No fair! You dragged me to London in the first place, so feeding and housing me is obviously your responsibility."
"In that case," he replied coolly, "shall we instead discuss the damage you caused to the Highland hunters in England…?"
"That was an accident! Totally an accident!"
"Accident or not, the damage still happened."
"Alright, alright, I'll pay them back!"
"I already did. So you can just pay me back… we're here."
As they chatted, they reached Da Vinci's residence in Rome.
The moment Baobhan Sith stepped inside alongside the silver-haired youth, she felt something strange—an almost tangible stillness.
To her sharp senses, the nature of it became clear at once.
A boundary field. One subtly imbued with a kind of psychological suggestion—magic that did not even rely on mana. Da Vinci's home, it seemed, was steeped in mystery.
"What kind of person is this Da Vinci, anyway?"
"Though most know him as a painter," Favia explained, "he's really the sort who does everything—crafts tools, builds weapons, designs cities, even ships. As long as someone offers him support, he'll always give something back in return."
He spoke plainly, hiding nothing from her.
"However, what Da Vinci truly pursues is the 'process of all things,' the perfection of beauty. Of course, that's just my view—"
"You're not wrong," came a voice from nowhere, resonant and warm as the strings of a harp. "Favia is right. I do seek absolute beauty—but I reached that goal long ago. After all, anyone incapable of loving humanity can never grow as a human being…"
The air itself seemed to ripple at the sudden voice—aged, yet harmonious, crystal-clear.
"Haha, it's been a while, hasn't it? I didn't expect you to bring a friend this time, Favia. Won't you introduce us?"
From within the room, Da Vinci emerged slowly, eyes gleaming with good humor as he studied the silver-haired youth's reaction.
"Hello! Da Vinci! I'm Baobhan Sith! It's nice to meet you!"
Before Favia could even introduce her, the fairy girl bowed energetically.
"Mm… yes, it's a pleasure to meet you too, Baobhan Sith."
Da Vinci instantly saw through her—she was no human, but something else entirely. Still, he didn't pry. He'd met Dead Apostles and Phantasmal Species before—what difference did one more make?
"Long time no see, Da Vinci. How's your research going?" Favia asked casually, studying the still-healthy old man before him.
"Hmm… troublesome. I doubt I'll ever succeed in this lifetime."
"Really?"
"Unless, of course, you agree to assist me, Favia. Then it might just work."
"I'm afraid not."
"Then it's hopeless," Da Vinci sighed, waving a hand, his face a picture of exaggerated misery.
Favia merely smiled. Beside him, Baobhan Sith stood there, completely lost, unable to follow their conversation at all.
The truth was, this topic dated back several years—to an idea Da Vinci had once shared with Favia:
"Anything to do with childbirth or reproduction is repulsive. A man who lacks a beautiful face and aesthetic grace is doomed to an early death…"
He had really said that. Later, Freud himself would cite those words to argue Da Vinci's lifelong sexual indifference.
But there had been a second half to that statement, one Da Vinci had only shared with Favia:
"I've decided—I'll create a child of my own. One of flesh, blood, and spirit, with a truly independent self. My own creation."
Now, standing before the old man once again, hearing him speak so earnestly, Favia couldn't help recalling that in Chaldea, Da Vinci would someday appear in the form of Mona Lisa herself.
No, he was really going to laugh if he thought about it any longer.
Suppressing the urge, he forced a calm sigh and said instead, in his usual composed tone:
"Good luck with that. If that day ever comes, I'll make sure to see it for myself."
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Read advanced chapter ahead of everyone else on my P@treon.
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