47 AD, the Roman Empire.
At the crossroads of Europe and Asia, Province of Anatolia, Diocese of Antioch.
"Novia, I don't agree with this."
The flickering torchlight inside the church gave off a dim glow. There was no heating, and the cold lent the space a heavier sense of solemnity.
Bishop Paul looked steadily at the boy before him. His gaze seemed capable of exposing darkness and sin alike.
"Why do you insist on preaching in Rome? You're only fourteen, still wet behind the ears. You'd be much better off staying here—you'd be happy."
Though it wasn't an accusation per se, it certainly felt like a rebuke—a belated but natural concern.
"Isn't it just that I want to spread the glory of God and the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, whom I've never met in person?"
The fourteen-year-old boy already showed hints of handsome features, and his sea-blue eyes were as clear as the Mediterranean.
"And besides, Rome's so far away. You're not as spry as you used to be, Paul. So this is when I should step up. Reviving the glory of the Son of God—this is my duty, my calling!"
With one hand raised solemnly, the silver-haired boy spoke with conviction. He didn't sound like he was lying—in fact, he looked as if he genuinely bore a sacred mission.
"You sure know how to talk the talk, even name-dropping the teacher to pressure me." A heavy, invisible weight filled the church at once. Paul's voice held a power that pinned Novia in place. "But I'm still here, so don't even think about running off, you little brat."
Leaving the 'intimidated' Novia behind, Paul opened the church doors and stepped out into the night.
"Damn kid, trying to act like a saint now. Last year I begged him to go with me to Jerusalem and he was dead set against it." Paul muttered to himself on the stone steps. "Whatever... If he really wants it that badly, I'll take him to Damascus in a few days. First trip that far, and alone? No way I can rest easy—"
"Paul?"
The sudden voice made Paul look up. It was the Apostle John, just back from Antioch proper.
"It's late. What are you doing out here?"
"That rascal Novia says he wants to preach in Rome, like he doesn't care about his life. Luckily I talked some sense into him—told him to stay inside and reflect. I'll take him to Damascus another day."
Paul clapped his hands as if to shake off the worry.
"Inside?" John glanced at the church and exhaled. "He's probably already halfway to the Bosporus. I saw him around noon. Looks like his skills have grown a lot—he even fooled you."
"...That brat really ran for it. And gave me all that self-righteous talk too. Guess he's growing up."
Paul didn't get angry—he just let out a long sigh, as if a thousand thoughts turned to dust in his mind.
Then, gazing at the starry sky, he raised a hand—not to reach out, but to wave farewell.
"In the end... I'm getting old."
---
At that very moment, the Bosporus Strait. As the date shifted, night sank even deeper into silence.
More dazzling than the stars, countless torches lit the city that would later be known as Constantinople—the Second Rome—and the dark sea filled with tireless fishermen still working.
"John's probably met Paul by now. Hope he doesn't get too mad."
Sitting on a fishing boat, Novia took a deep breath. He looked up at the sky, as if peering at the now-distant Paul, and his dignified face carried a hint of guilt.
After all, when he first arrived in this world, if Paul hadn't taken him in, he'd probably have died who-knows-where.
So, in order to stop Paul's future beheading in 67 AD—and to fulfill the purpose of his transmigration—fourteen-year-old Novia made a resolute decision:
To replace Roman polytheism with Christianity three hundred years ahead of schedule!
What choice did he have? He wasn't even religious, but in this era, hugging the pigeon prince's leg was clearly the safest bet!
And if possible, he could also preemptively consolidate the various local sects, call an "Ecumenical Council," and form the Holy Church early!
Even if it wasn't the Age of Gods anymore, with that level of achievement—and the inevitable rumors that would follow—he might just have enough clout to survive whatever future calamity hit human history.
In truth, Novia was a transmigrator—he didn't belong to this time or this world. And to be precise, ancient Rome wasn't even his first stop.
He'd originally transmigrated into a Type-Moon world—some battlefield-wandering freelance magus who, just before falling asleep one night, suddenly remembered his past life and realized just how dangerous his current situation was.
Why couldn't I be Waver's disciple or something? I can't even lie down in peace!
What if one day Gudao just showed up and said this was a Lostbelt and it had to be pruned?
But then Novia calmed down—maybe it wasn't that bad. He remembered his landlady, Fiore, who always pretended to be a normal person. If his memories hadn't returned, he never would've guessed she was a magus. No wonder she never questioned him going back to Romania—she just left him with warnings.
And from the way Fiore acted, it seemed her brother was the head of the family now. That meant this world wasn't Fate/Apocrypha, but more like Case Files—still dangerous, but survivable.
Just as long as it wasn't FGO. Those god-tier beings sneeze and your whole village gets obliterated...
And I'm not some chosen one like Gudao. Can I still go to Japan and become his disciple?
Wait no—there's the Human Order Incineration, and then a gap year, and then blank paperization... it's disaster after disaster!
Forget it. The commission's done. I'm going back to Romania and living a peaceful civilian life!
No more magecraft—only lunatics would keep doing that!
Just as Novia sighed in relief, his partner Sigma said something that made him shiver.
Wait—Sigma? Strange Fake? Okay, no biggie—I'm not going to America to fight over some Holy Grail—
"I already agreed to join the Holy Grail War with Francois. How about you? Are you going to accept Gordes Musik's offer to be his guardian?"
...The pig director?! Don't tell me I'm just some extra who gets mowed down in the Russian Lostbelt…
Panicking, Novia immediately searched for Chaldea's existence. And when he saw the cheerful face of a green-hatted man on their website...
Laurel, I beg you—for the sake of the world, kill yourself, okay?
After piecing it all together, Novia figured this world was likely a blend—Case Files' Waver, FGO's Chaldea, Strange Fake's Sigma, and rumors of the French Incident (Tsukihime)...
Mixing worldlines like this—has Kinoko Nasu signed off on this mess?
Maybe I should go to Japan and become Gudao's adopted sibling. That might be the only way to survive.
But what if I get killed by Chaldeas—the yandere Gudao-fan AI—right after entering Chaldea? That'd be so unfair…
Still, at least now, as a transmigrator finally awakened, I'm not some broke nobody who can't even enter the Clock Tower.
I've got a golden finger now!
Novia's cheat was simple: it let him travel to key moments in history and perform great feats—just like legendary heroes. In return, he'd gain power.
Time to put that golden finger to work!
Except—why are all the places I transmigrate to literal death flags?
Including, but not limited to—
"His Majesty commands: let the Grand Tutor remain in the Palace of the Dunes!"
"So many prisoners defy orders—what law are we even upholding?"
"General! We've chased them to the Wood Gate!"
"My lord, my son and I are loyal to the country—why plot rebellion against us?"
"Your Highness! Xuanwu Gate is just ahead!"
"Milord, we've arrived at Tumu Fortress!"
"You may not carry weapons inside. Even you, Admiral, are no exception. Apologies—Marshal's orders."
What even is this? And who writes these scenarios?
And let's not even talk about "Report, Commander—we've arrived at Huanggutun."
Eventually, Novia realized the only safe starting point was ancient Rome—specifically, the literal middle of nowhere, also known as a "high-altitude toilet," err, backwater wasteland.
He didn't get to transmigrate to the Age of Gods, Greece, Norse, or Japan—so his best bet was to stick close to the Pigeon Prince.
After all, that pigeon's dad is basically a cosmic Outer God. Good luck Earth gods trying to top that.
He lucked out too—he got adopted by Paul! That's basically one step away from heaven.
Paul wasn't one of the original Twelve Apostles, but historically, he's second only to Jesus Christ in importance. Without his efforts, Christianity might not have survived persecution from Judaism.
As Paul's adopted son, inheriting everything after Paul's beheading would be the most stable route—maybe even start some "Archangel" legend...
But how could he just sit back and do nothing? Paul had saved his life—he owed him.
Currently, the Roman Emperor was Claudius I, who only became emperor by accident in middle age. Because of his disability, he relied on family to run the government—making him ripe to be converted before Constantine.
And then there's that evil little Nero with the Takeuchi face—just wait. I'll personally teach you the meaning of respect for your elders.
---
"I say, young man—it's the middle of the night. What brings you across this strait?"
Just as Novia was plotting how to meet Claudius I safely, a voice called out.
The salty sea breeze wafted past. Around the fishing boat, the air shimmered like a mirage—a sign of magical manipulation, altering air density.
The man who spoke was a fisherman with what looked like a crucifix-shaped scar on his face, paddling a two-meter wooden oar.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that? All the other boats refused to take me. Only you agreed."
Sitting at the prow, Novia looked up at the moonlit sky. There wasn't a single star—only empty darkness.
"So tell me—what exactly do you want with me?"
He turned, straightening his back slightly and offering a gentle smile that didn't match the mood. His blue eyes seemed to pierce the fisherman's very soul.
"Lucius Longinus."