Magician in Type-Moon

Page 668

Meo stubbornly, even with a hint of pleading, called her by her original name, as if trying to grasp at some trace of "humanity" that was rapidly disappearing.

"The princess..."

The maid Regina instinctively wanted to explain, but the Silver Princess—Estella—

He slightly raised a finger, stopping her with a tiny but absolute gesture.

Then, she spoke again herself, her flawless face revealing no emotional fluctuation, only an unfathomable calm:

"Could you... lend a hand?"

"…………!"

Mai and Islo exchanged a shocked look, and the air seemed to freeze.

She continued in that clear yet icy voice, each word like an ice bead falling to the ground:

“I believe…Lord Balyeleta…is the real murderer of my sister.”

"────Ugh!"

Maiu seemed to be choked, letting out a short, painful suffocating sound, his face instantly turning deathly pale.

"........."

Islo remained silent, but deep within his gloomy eyes, there seemed to be extremely complex undercurrents surging violently, and his fingers, which were braiding his hair, unconsciously tightened slightly.

Soon after, the apothecary, in place of the weaver who remained astonishingly silent, asked in a trembling and broken voice:

"Why...?" This was the question he managed to squeeze out, almost with all his strength.

“Izeruma… is ultimately just a branch of Balyereta.”

Princess Silver's explanation was calm to the point of cruelty, with clear yet cold logic.

“If a branch family becomes too ‘successful’ and even threatens the reputation and status of the main family, this… may not be in the best interest of the main family.”

The saying "merit surpasses the ruler" is an old trope that is frequently seen anywhere in the power structure, from the court to a family of magicians.

In reality, if the Golden Princess Tiadera had successfully "escaped," Lord Byron would have been brought down. However, the one who would ultimately be held accountable by the Clock Tower's higher-ups for his poor management of the branch family would be Lord Balyeleta, the monarch of the main family.

Princess Silver calmly stated this, which is why the seemingly detached old woman had the most compelling motive to become the real culprit.

This argument makes perfect sense. With the vast resources and secret techniques she wields under her rule over the Balyereta family, it might not be difficult for her to quietly breach the Golden Princess's defenses while she's confined in her workshop.

Perhaps she would also do something like kill the maid Karina who might have discovered some key clues, and frame Matou Ike for the crime.

……then.

Meo remained frozen like a statue for a long time, the immense shock and intense inner struggle almost tearing him apart.

Finally, he slowly and with great difficulty raised his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear, pain, and a faint resolve ignited by this cruel truth.

"What do you plan to do?" he asked, enunciating each word with an almost suicidal resolve.

.........

The setting sun, relentlessly pursued by thick rain clouds, finally sank completely below the horizon.

Affected by the constant dripping of cold raindrops, the already dimly lit interior of the forest gradually transformed into a thick, true darkness that could not be penetrated without the enhanced vision of a magician.

A young man with brown skin stood silently in the torrential rain and darkness, slowly surveying the surrounding battle, which was in a stalemate and even looked somewhat disheveled.

Rainwater slid down his sharply defined cheeks, but he didn't seem to care. He just stared blankly and let out a sigh filled with deep disappointment.

"According to the original plan, we should have already broken into the core of the Twin Towers by now... It seems that something unexpected has happened."

His voice wasn't loud, but it pierced clearly through the rain, carrying an undeniable authority.

"...I'm so sorry, Lord Atram!"

Upon hearing the sound, the hooded attackers immediately knelt down in the direction of the young man, bowing their heads deeply, not daring to look him in the eye.

However, the young man did not accept the apology. He slowly walked forward, his boots making a soft sound as they stepped into the mud.

His gaze passed over his kneeling subordinates and landed on the Moon Tower in the distance, which was faintly visible in the rainy night.

"Atram Gariasta".

He spoke, announcing his name. But his tone wasn't one of declaration; rather, it was as if he'd been forced to reveal his hand prematurely, carrying an obvious sense of humiliation. His beautifully shaped eyebrows furrowed deeply, as if he were chewing on some kind of resentment.

According to the young man's meticulous plan, the location he reported with this surname had to be Izeluma's headquarters—

It was one of the most magnificent halls in the Twin Towers, not this muddy, dimly lit battlefield that was completely out of his aesthetic sensibilities.

“This is my name—Bylongqing.”

Atram let out a sigh that seemed to be a mixture of regret and helplessness, and rainwater slid down his dark skin.

He deliberately feigned a perfectly measured expression of sadness, as if engaging in a painful but necessary negotiation, and then proposed, his voice piercing through the rain, carrying a deliberately crafted, almost businessman-like shrewdness:

"So, what do you think? I imagine my impolite subordinates have already 'asked' you... whether you would be willing to gracefully transfer that 'cursed body' to me?"

I've been discharged from the hospital. I'll resume updates tomorrow.

I had one-tenth of my lung removed because of a chronic inflammation. I don't know what to say. Everyone, please take care of your health.

Chapter 693 War (4k)

"...Even if you say that, I still don't understand what you mean."

Bai Longqing's answer was cold and resolute; naturally, he could not agree to such a request.

If he were willing to transfer the cursed body he obtained at great cost, there would have been no need to organize a large-scale counterattack from the beginning.

He could have remained safely in the sturdy workshop of the Moon Tower or the Sun Tower and simply expressed his intention to surrender.

The air between the two instantly tightened, as if an invisible string had been stretched to its limit.

The young man—Atram Gariasta—immediately sensed this silent rejection, and without hesitation, almost flippantly, he took the initiative to change the form of negotiation.

He stepped forward, his boots making a soft thud on the damp, humus-covered forest floor, and spread his arms out dramatically, like an actor about to announce the opening of a play.

"So, this is war."

He announced it in a pretentious, theatrical tone.

“War, war, war… ah, how barbaric it sounds,”

He shook his head with deep regret, raindrops falling from his hair, his tone filled with affected sighs.

"How tragic that the world-renowned Izeruma, a pursuer of elegant beauty, ultimately made such an... aesthetically unappealing choice."

However, the despicable and twisted smile that he couldn't completely suppress and that quietly appeared at the corner of his mouth revealed his true state of mind.

That smile clearly showed that, no matter how much he lamented and sighed, deep down he regarded this barbaric, blood-soaked mutual slaughter as a form of entertainment and a hobby that could bring him great pleasure.

Indeed, almost every sorcerer who embarks on the path of demonic arts is aware of the dangers of fighting to the death.

Because they deeply understand that although the power of magic does not originate directly from combat.

But it is precisely this kind of behavior, driven by a strong fighting spirit and survival instinct, and constantly challenging the boundaries of one's own life and magic, that has repeatedly promoted the intense development and transformation of magic itself throughout history.

However, magicians who are truly "fond" of struggle by nature are surprisingly few in number.

For the vast majority of them, struggle is ultimately just a "means" rather than an "end" to achieve a higher goal.

They also understood that unless absolutely necessary, there was no reason to expose the precious secrets and unique magical imprints passed down from their ancestors to unpredictable dangers; that would be putting the cart before the horse.

Atram's words and actions at this moment clearly do not fall into any of the categories of calm and restraint mentioned above.

For him, struggle was neither a last resort nor a catalyst for development, but rather a performance that should strive for ultimate efficiency.

His true passion and enjoyment lies in his pure and refined handling of the game, and in the decisive, one-sided victory.

"But since you insist on this, there's nothing we can do about it."

Atram sighed dramatically, but there was no real regret in his voice. Instead, it sounded like a wild beast finally being allowed to pounce on its prey.

“Although I, Atram Gariasta, am still young, I have no choice but to obey orders and accompany Lord Baron... to have a good 'sparring'.”

"Under orders?" Byron keenly caught the key point of doubt in the blond youth's words, the smoke rising from his pipe distorting before his sharp gaze. He immediately pressed on, his voice carrying an unyielding pressure:

“You magicians from the Middle East, though your skills may not be as ancient as ours, are by no means ordinary. How have you fallen to the point where you need to be ‘ordered’ by others?”

The Gariasta family.

They are indeed a race that inherited the blood of the ancient Middle East.

Despite having joined the Clock Tower only in the last two generations due to his immense wealth, and because the magic system he uses largely falls into the realm of sorcery, which is considered heretical, he has been treated with disdain within the Clock Tower that is disproportionate to his strength.

But it was precisely by relying on that unique and powerful magic that they not only subdued several neighboring magic organizations, but also firmly grasped the real-world oil extraction rights.

If we only consider the wealth and power they possess in the "surface society," they are among the very few within the Clock Tower.

How could such a person be willing to be subordinate to others?

Faced with Byron's pointed question, Atram merely shrugged slightly, his gesture nonchalant, a stark contrast to the oppressive downpour behind him and his men on high alert. The feigned regret on his face had vanished, replaced by a calculated composure.

“Of course, it’s because there are substantial ‘benefits’ driving it.” Atram’s tone was tinged with sarcasm.

"On this matter, Lord Byron... shouldn't you know better than me? After all, you were willing to cooperate with those 'things' that even we have to treat with caution, all for the sake of that 'goal'."

His words were like the spitting of a venomous snake, precisely piercing the most hidden and untouched corner of Byron's heart.

The implication couldn't be clearer—the "methods" and "resources" that Byron used to accomplish the great deeds of the Golden Princess and the Silver Princess were so dark that even a family like the Gariasta might take notice.

"How much more do you actually know?" Byron's brows furrowed tightly, his voice coming from behind his tightly clenched pipe, carrying a chilling undertone that seemed to have been crossed.

"Stop digging so deep, okay?" Atram's tone was somewhat impatient, as if he were dismissing a persistent child. "Time has already been wasted, and I have no intention of dealing with these trivial matters any further."

As he spoke, Gariasta elegantly took a small item from the inner pocket of his finely crafted suit.

Placed in his palm was an object with a simple and ancient shape, resembling a miniature pottery pot, with ancient patterns etched on its surface that were difficult to discern.

"The Primitive Cell...you must have heard of it, right?"

The world's oldest battery was discovered at the Kujrab ruins, a site in the Middle East.

Most later scholars believe that the inhabitants at the time should not have understood its complete structure and principle as a battery, and that it was probably a tool developed through a series of coincidences and mainly used for gilding.

However, the same structure was not completely buried by the dust of history. Instead, it was secretly passed down through magicians and developed unique magical uses along a path completely different from secular science.

When a magical family that had once deeply researched the Primal Battery unfortunately fell into decline, the Gariasta family used their astonishing wealth to acquire this ancient "Primal Battery" along with the hidden history it carried.