Magician in Type-Moon

Page 555

It's not simply "pollution".

This is a sense of oppression from "another history".

It's not the "human timeline" of modern magic theory, but another branch, another possibility—

A world that has never severed its connection with the gods, a world that has never achieved "rationalization," a history that still retains the "magic of the divine age."

This history has not disappeared.

It did not die, but lay dormant, continuing to breathe in the shadows unseen by common sense.

Like here.

—Albion, the Tomb of the Dead.

The trump card hidden deep within the clock tower.

To the outside world, it is the pride of the clock tower; to the inside, it is the spine of the clock tower.

This mysterious ruin lies beneath Great Britain, and self-proclaimed "orthodox" magicians use it as their foundation and a symbol of their lineage.

El-Melloi II was standing at the heart of that ruin.

—An ancient heart.

Does the term "heart" have any actual reference? No one can say for sure.

Legend has it that when the ancient being known as the "Dragon" fell deep into the earth, its enormous remains decayed, swelled, and wriggled, eventually transforming into this otherworldly landscape.

It is said that it is still "alive".

What you see in this corner may just be a rib, a vertebra, or even—a fossilized cell—of that corpse.

The perception of space completely collapses here.

Moving forward one meter feels like traversing a kilometer.

The ground beneath my feet seemed still, but the dome above my head was slowly rotating, as if I were inside the stomach of some giant beast.

He tried to understand the structure of the terrain, but even his sense of direction became blurred.

The walls, floors, and ceilings were all made of a black substance of indescribable material.

It resembles metal, or perhaps some kind of biological tissue.

Its surface is smooth with a subtle yet sturdy sheen, reflecting distorted human figures under the illumination of a magic light source.

Cooled magma?

The marrow of a giant beast?

Or perhaps it's some kind of substance from another planet, or even another conceptual domain?

--It is impossible to determine.

Here, even the definition of "problem" will be reconstructed.

In such places, reason can go astray, and logic can be corrupted.

Even the desire to "understand" itself will be gradually eroded.

But El-Melloi II did not back down.

As a modern magician, he knows better than anyone:

This tomb and this land cannot be treated with common sense.

The moment he confirmed his arrival—

A subtle stimulation, as faint as a mosquito's buzz, came from the magic circuit, yet it precisely struck the center of consciousness.

"...Weber."

"Hey, Matou, did you guys really make it in time?"

It was that familiar fluctuation of thought.

However, the Second Prince immediately suppressed his emotions and did not let any thoughts show on his face.

To be honest, he had already prepared himself mentally.

Statistically speaking, there's a 70% chance that Matou and the others won't be able to reach this place. He had already silently given up hope.

Earlier, the clock tower temporarily opened the "dike"—that is, opened a crack leading to the "ancient heart".

The problem is that the ancient heart itself is like a sealed seed, almost completely blocking external interference. Even with the cracks open, the range of magical communication remains significantly limited.

At this moment, the message entered his mind so clearly and directly.

This means that the older brother has arrived at an extremely close area.

"...Unfortunately, we didn't make it in time. Although, it seems we did reach the ancient heart."

"Oh dear, is it just wishful thinking? I think you already know, the meeting time has been moved up to about four hours."

"I expected this. I will push the limits to the limit."

Have you met with Mr. Graf?

"Yes, I have received his message."

That old magician was truly impressive.

His skills were superb, his words were measured, and his ability to conceal his presence was unparalleled.

King El-Melloi II once considered recruiting him as his personal intelligence agent, and even extended an invitation to him.

Unfortunately, the other party declined with a smile.

“Weber, next—”

"Okay, okay, I know what you're going to say."

A soft sigh came from the other end of my mind.

"Before you stop Hartres, you want me to buy as much time as possible in the championship decision, right? I'll try to stall for time."

Communication was cut off, and so were my thoughts.

He was left alone, walking alone on the straight passage extending from the crack, accompanied by the swaying of his shadow.

There is light in the passage.

That's why shadows are cast on the ground.

"...The magic circuit of the deceased dragon?"

The Second Prince murmured.

According to records, the great magic circuit that runs through the entire area deep within the Spirit Tomb is filled with "channels of light" that resemble blood vessels.

And the passageway right now is one of them.

But the light did not flow in a straight line; instead, it spiraled, constantly swirling and rotating in space, as if it had its own will.

That spiral even evokes images of the structure of life, the fabric of destiny, or some unknown law of the universe.

Soon after, he stepped into a bright and open space.

It was a spacious room.

The hemispherical dome ceiling stands tall, as if to support the weight of the entire tomb.

The rays of light converged at the dome, like stars gathering at the extreme point of the universe.

The different lights have different rhythms, some gentle, some rapid, intersecting with each other without conflict.

In some areas, even more intense brilliance suddenly erupted, resembling the tail of a comet burning in the night sky.

In the eternal darkness of this distant underground, those lights seemed to be the starry sky of some new world.

In the center of the room, there was a huge round table.

Its material is equally unidentifiable—it is neither metal nor stone, but rather gives people a sense of incongruity as if it "naturally exists here".

There is no doubt that it was not brought from the outside.

Since the clock tower was erected here, how many meetings, enough to rewrite history, have been witnessed by the starry sky above and this round table?

At this table, how many magicians have sighed in despair after their defeats, and how many have raised their glasses in celebration of their victories?

Chapter 601 Trap (4k)

"The dike has been breached..."

Hartres's whisper cut through the air, his voice deep and resonant, like an echo from the abyss.

He covered one eye with one hand, the light of the Command Seal shimmering on the pale back of his hand.

That was the symbol of the contract he made with the imposter—the agreement of three commands, the master's absolute control over the servant.

“He’s here too.” Hartres frowned slightly and muttered to himself, “As expected, things are going in this direction... I should have expected it.”

Nevertheless, he still felt a complex mix of emotions.

"No, I wish this prediction were wrong... After all, if he could understand me, things might be easier. But... if he could understand, nothing would reassure me more."

He didn't let go, still tightly gripping the Command Seal that was shimmering with a faint light, his single eye gazing into the distance, looking at the center of the pillar of light.

Inside that pillar of light, a ritual was quietly taking place.

Time is compressed here, as if it has been absorbed into an endless vortex.

The return, the return of the heroic spirits.

“The Spirit Origin Phantom has returned,” Hartres thought to himself. It was a unique technique he had improved upon after observing the battle of Guanbuzi City.

This technique doesn't simply push a Heroic Spirit to their limit; rather, it pulls a nonexistent being into reality, granting them transcendent power. All for the sake of making them a god.

A cold smile flickered in his heart, but it was so well hidden that almost no one could detect it.

“It would take hundreds or even thousands of years for enough faith to accumulate enough for it to become a god… but what I need is far more than that.”

Hartres's gaze was fixed on the depths of the pillar of light, where he saw the power and threat of the future.

He had prepared enough sacrifices and enough bargaining chips for this moment.