On an old street in centuries-past London, Mary, a girl from a middle-class family, was leading her best friend, Tirian, by the hand.
"Oh, Mary, don't hold my hand like that..."
"Hehe, why are you so shy? We're both girls, after all."
Tirian wasn't actually that shy; it was mostly because whenever Mary held her hand, she had a habit of stroking Tirian's knuckles, which made her feel incredibly uneasy and ticklish.
"Mary...!"
Mary seemed oblivious to her friend's protest. She pointed toward a large, ancient-looking building.
"We're here, Tirian. Let's go in."
Without waiting for Tirian's consent, Mary pulled her inside.
Ding-ling, the door chime rang as the two girls entered. Inside were rows upon rows of massive bookshelves, and tucked behind them was a rather elegant lounge area. Mary led the way, navigating the aisles with familiar ease until she found the person she was looking for.
"Mr. Marsvell, hello!"
Marsvell was an elderly man with snow-white hair and a beard. His clothes were somewhat worn and dusty from cleaning the books that few people ever touched. He looked at the two polite young girls with gentle eyes.
"Is it the same old fairy tale today, Miss Mary?"
Mary scratched her head, smiling bashfully as she corrected him.
"I'm no 'lady,' sir. Just Mary is fine. I even brought the best friend I told you about the other day!"
Marsvell glanced at Tirian, who was hovering timidly behind Mary. His smile softened further.
"Ah, a girl just as charming as you? Would you two like some biscuits?"
Mary's eyes lit up. She turned to Tirian and whispered in her ear, "Tirian, let's have some! Last time I was here, Mr. Marsvell gave me some of his homemade biscuits—they are absolutely delicious!"
Tirian stole a glance at Marsvell. Seeing his faint, kind smile, she felt a sudden sense of peace and relaxation.
"Y-yes, I'm curious too."
Mary beamed and turned back to Marsvell. "Mr. Marsvell, please bring us some biscuits and the book 'The Witches of Gradol'."
Marsvell nodded. "Do you need directions to the lounge, Miss Mary?"
"I told you, don't call me Miss! Just Mary. I remember the way to the seats and where the books are; I'll get it myself. You just focus on the biscuits—I can't wait!"
With that, Mary led Tirian away to find the book. As Marsvell watched the two children disappear into the aisles, his brow suddenly furrowed. In the palm of his hand, a mark shaped like the mythical Chimera began to glow. From the shadows behind him, another elderly man appeared. He wore a long white robe and carried a staff carved from oak, his face a map of deep wrinkles. This was Marsvell's old friend, Rudeus Veldawine.
"My old friend, have you come seeking me for something?"
Marsvell turned around, his usual smile returning. Rudeus frowned, speaking in a deep, raspy voice.
"Marsvell, I understood your refusal to become an Enforcer, but to spend forty years of your life just opening a bookstore... do you think the Council will keep honoring my name and not drag you back?"
Marsvell let out a bright, hearty laugh.
"Haha! I didn't realize that after forty years, the Council still wanted me back. Truly terrifying, isn't it? Haha!"
Rudeus's expression grew darker by the second.
"Marsvell Von Berigurence, stop laughing. Right now, Enforcers and freelance mages have completely surrounded this place. Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"
The smile remained on Marsvell's lips, but his eyes betrayed a hint of helplessness. He gently rubbed his palms together. From thin air, a plate of dainty biscuits appeared in one hand, while the other held two cups of black tea.
"Rudeus, could you give me a moment? I still have two lovely guests in my shop waiting to be served."
Rudeus looked at the biscuits and the tea, a look of profound exasperation crossing his aged face.
"Fine, fine... there's just no dealing with you. I'll go outside and talk to them."
With a wave of his hand, Rudeus slowly faded into the air.
Outside, spanning a hundred meters from the building, an invisible barrier had been erected. Ordinary people without mana could pass through it normally, but for mages—those with mana—the barrier allowed them to move freely and cast spells without affecting the outside world or the non-magical people wandering in.
Several mages in white robes stood ready. On their left chest was the emblem of two crossed wands set against a brilliant sun—the symbol of the Magic Council. These robes were impossible to forge; each emblem carried the unique mana signature of its wearer.
An elderly mage in a purple robe stood at the head of the formation, motionless as a statue, waiting.
The Magic Council was divided into three distinct departments: Law, Administration, and Crime Management. Each had its own color: blue for Law, white for Administration, and purple for Crime Management. Rank was denoted by gold bands on the wide cuffs. One band was for initiates, while five bands signified a Grand Mage. Currently, only three Grand Mages were recognized within the Council; while they might not be the strongest, their administrative authority was absolute. Above them sat the Archmages—powerful beings who had shaped human history, whose identities remained secret until war forced them to intervene.
The purple-robed mage from Crime Management had three bands on his cuff—a High Mage. He hadn't wanted to come today; when the higher-ups realized the target was Marsvell, they had all dodged the responsibility until it fell into his lap.
Everyone in the magical world had heard the name Marsvell. He was the creator of the famous magical theory, "Fairy Tale Magic." Initially dismissed by many, a young Marsvell had displayed its true power during the war against Dark Magic, stunning the Council and catching the eye of several Archmages. But when the war ended, he vanished for nearly seventy years, leaving the magical world in a state of loss.
Though some had tried to copy his Fairy Tale Magic, their results were mere trash. While the "floor" of this magic was safe, its "ceiling" was virtually infinite. This made other mages green with envy, yet no one dared to rob him—the "Reapers" of the past served as a grim example of why.
The High Mage felt a headache coming on. He didn't know what to do next. Even standing at the front, he felt that if he took one more step, his old life might end right there. So, he waited in total silence.
But the person who stepped out was not Marsvell. It was an old mage whose face was a staple of the magical newspapers: Rudeus Veldawine, Headmaster of the British Academy of Magic and former Grand Mage of Administration.
"Oh? Is that a familiar face I see?"
The High Mage blinked, then let out a curse.
"Rudeus? You old dog! I know exactly what you're about to say, so step aside!"
The High Mage's beard curled with rage. He knew the thick-skinned Rudeus was about to stall for time. Rudeus, however, replied nonchalantly:
"Now, now... out of respect for this old face of mine, why don't we just stop this here? It won't end well for either side."
"To hell with your 'old face'!"
The High Mage's eyes rolled back in sheer fury.