Prologue: The Fool, Upright and Reversed

The vibrant artistic capital, the free city of Milano.

There, for the first time in decades, the Magic Festival was being held, drawing tourists from all over the world to the city.

The grand plaza in front of the Celica-Elliot Grand Arena, where the Magic Festival was taking place, and the major avenues leading to it were bustling with unparalleled energy.

But—in a certain corner of this lively city.

The spot where a boy had spread a mat and set up his station.

It was as if that single corner had been cut off from the vibrant world, utterly deserted.

“This is tough. Nobody’s even looking.”

Gazing at the crowd as if they belonged to another world, the boy showed no trace of despair or loneliness.

Rather, as if finding amusement in his own absurdity, the boy silently continued some kind of manual task.

He was a teenage boy, clad in a robe embroidered with ethnic patterns.

The hood pulled low over his face and his silver hair concealed his features, but there was an air about him that suggested he had strikingly beautiful features.

This boy, Felord Belif, sat on a chair, and beside him was a box-like platform.

It was a set for a puppet show.

Apparently, the boy was trying to make a living with a puppet show… though it was pitifully quiet, with only the metaphorical sound of a cuckoo crying overhead, if one could even call that “making a living.”

“I was pretty confident this time, though. I prepared a story perfect for this place.”

Muttering with a wry smile, the boy paused his task for a moment.

In his hand was a puppet.

A handmade marionette modeled after a blue-haired knight and a golden-haired black magician.

Inside the wooden box beside him were other puppets, each crafted for various roles.

It seemed the boy was adjusting the puppets used for his show.

“Hmm…”

The boy let the strings dangle from the crossbar, moving the puppets with small tugs.

Honestly, their movements were awkward. Even accounting for the limitations of stringed puppets, they only managed stiff, comical jerks.

Unable to move as intended, the boy gave a faint wry smile.

“Haha, why does it always end up like this? Is it this joint… or maybe this string…?”

As the boy, looking a bit embarrassed, began tinkering with the oddly moving puppets again.

A shadow suddenly fell over the puppet.

“If I may be so bold as to say…”

The source of the shadow—an elderly man had, at some point, stopped in front of the boy.

He was a sturdy old man dressed in simple monk robes.

The strong backlight cast his face in shadow, making it impossible for the boy to discern his features.

“Ho ho ho… as always, your craft isn’t exactly in vogue, is it? Not a single soul is watching.”

“Haha… you don’t have to put it so sadly.”

The two seemed to be old acquaintances, as the boy only let out a wry chuckle at the old man’s blunt teasing.

“Why not just control them with magic instead of strings, Grandmaster?”

The old man offered the suggestion calmly.

“If you, yourself, were to directly manipulate the puppets with your magical prowess, it would surely result in an artistic and breathtaking performance that would captivate all. Everything would bend to your will.”

To the old man’s suggestive proposal, the boy responded with a mischievous grin.

“The strings are what make it fun, don’t you think? Magic lacks playfulness.”

“Oh?”

“Moreover, being bound by strings means that, while things may not go precisely as desired, you are, after all, merely a puppet… ultimately bound to move according to the script. So, doesn’t that constraint serve as a fine stimulus to heighten the excitement of the predestined finale?”

“…I see. A protagonist in a play always faces trials and hardships… indeed, that’s the essence of entertainment.”

“Heh, maybe you should try adding a bit of playfulness to your work, too? Enjoyment is like a cleansing of the soul. The longer and grander our ambitions, the more important it becomes, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, there’s some truth to that… but in that sense, there’s one thing I’m personally looking forward to in this affair.”

“Oh? You, the workaholic?”

“Yes. There’s a certain stage actor I’ve been keeping an eye on.”

The old man squinted, gazing into the distance as he spoke.

“I’m quite eager to see what role he’ll play on this stage after eight years apart.”

“Well, well, that sounds exciting. You must be feeling the pull of fate, then.”

Chuckling softly, the boy picked up another crossbar, pulling it to retrieve a new puppet from the box.

It was a puppet of an angel, with white wings on its back and a silver key clasped in its hands.

Manipulating it jerkily with the strings, the Grandmaster spoke.

“Our beloved angel is nearing completion. Only a little longer until full awakening. The grand finale that will bring the audience to their feet is close… and with this event, history will shift dramatically. Just as we plotted long ago.”

“It’s been a long journey. Our grand ambition, thrown into disarray by that witch, is finally coming to fruition.”

The old man said, casting a fleeting glance at the puppet of the black magician.

But the boy issued a warning to the old man.

“…Still, we can’t let our guard down just yet. Whether by chance or inevitability… there’s someone following our footsteps. Someone drawing closer to the ‘truth.’ To think such a thing could happen at this stage… it seems fate truly has a gravitational pull.”

It’s a rather unmagical notion, the boy muttered, to which the old man responded.

“Oh? Are you referring to that ‘Justice’?”

“Sadly… he’s not quite living up to expectations, is he?”

The boy shrugged regretfully.

“He’s nothing but a complete madman. Not a mage. He’ll never reach the truth. The one I’m concerned about is ‘The Fool.’ And—”

After a brief pause, the boy’s expression hardened slightly as he continued.

“—that bloodline.”

“Indeed. Throughout this long history, that bloodline has, for some reason, always lingered closest to the truth… I thought we’d eradicated it.”

“They must have been born under such a star.”

“But, Grandmaster, the manuscript that serves as a guide to the truth has already been ‘censored’ by your hand, has it not? In other words, neither The Fool nor those of that bloodline could ever reach the truth—”

“Who knows?”

With a playful exhale, the boy tugged the crossbar, pulling another puppet from the box.

This one was peculiar, dressed in a worn shirt, cravat, and slacks—a modern outfit compared to the other, more old-fashioned puppets.

He moved it jerkily, placing it beside the black magician’s puppet.

“Will he remain the sleeping Fool—the ‘Reversed’—until the end? Or will he awaken, carving out new possibilities as the ‘Upright’ Fool, becoming a mage? …Now, what kind of performance will you, bound by strings, show us on this stage?”

Muttering as much.

The boy gazed up at the Celica-Elliot Grand Arena, quietly heating up in the distance—