Magician in Type-Moon

Page 554

The sandwiches were served on plates with almost no decoration; they were just piled up there, looking rather dry and lacking even color.

Weber glanced down and casually bit off a piece.

-- Hmm, could this piece of meat have been mixed with some kind of experimental waste?

To mask the fishy smell, the seasonings were excessive, with layers upon layers of spices that almost completely submerged the main ingredient. He tried to find the answer in the gaps of his taste buds, and ended up feeling somewhat excited.

...He himself didn't even know what kind of meat it was.

That's quite in line with Albion's style.

He chuckled softly, as if using that barely audible laughter to wash away the heaviness from just now.

After swallowing the last bite of his sandwich, he put down his cutlery and turned his gaze back to the girl across from him.

The person in front of me was once the little princess who would only desperately follow her father's back as he ran.

Now, however, he can look directly at this old hunter in the forest of intrigue, and even set up a whole set of traps to counter him.

So he spoke, his tone neither too loud nor too soft, as if tinged with a hint of relief, yet also as if talking to himself:

"...I see, you've grown a lot."

Chapter 600 Contact (4k)

“I want to hear you say that you learned it from someone else.”

Olga Marie pouted slightly, looking somewhat displeased.

Her slightly coquettish tone was surprisingly adorable, much to the second generation's surprise.

However, a sense of helplessness suddenly arose in the heart of the Second Prince.

So he remained silent.

"...What? Are you saying I'm not good enough to be your partner?"

Olga Marie lowered her head, as if in a minor outburst of temper, yet with a hint of retaliation. The emotion hidden in her words was like a silent blade, sharp yet unassuming.

The Second Prince couldn't help but smile wryly: "No, I just heard you say that we should learn from others as role models, and it reminded me of things from the past."

He paused, his eyes becoming slightly deep.

"However, this is precisely what the Department of Law and Politics is worried about," he analyzed unhurriedly.

The aristocracy within the Department of Law and Politics has always been strong, but the entanglements and divisions between these factions often cause them to lose their true cohesion.

Each faction has its own distinct dignity and ideals, and the antagonism between nobles is not easily resolved—especially once these rifts are intensified under external pressure, the Department of Law and Politics will crumble as easily as broken glass.

At this point, the aristocratic banner will appear too rigid and difficult to restore.

As the leader of the aristocratic faction, Barthezmello was naturally most aware of this complex situation.

He didn't care about ten or twenty years—he had already made plans that spanned several generations, like a long game of chess awaiting the final move.

The Second Prince took a deep breath, pondered for a moment, then sighed and said softly, "I cannot give an answer at this moment. However, I will keep your words in mind."

Olga Marie nodded gently after hearing this, revealing a serene smile, as if she had everything under control.

"That's fine then." Her voice was gentle, yet carried an invisible firmness.

She dropped a bombshell, yet her expression remained remarkably composed. Her calm and confident demeanor suggested she wasn't merely teasing her opponent, but rather had the entire situation under control.

"I see," the Second Prince thought to himself, nodding in agreement.

She certainly possessed the qualities to be the next monarch. With her political acumen and control over the situation, Olga Marie was no longer the naive young girl she once was, but a queen capable of standing independently amidst this chaos.

The Second Prince took a sip of the tea of ​​unknown origin from the meal, but his heart was filled with unease.

That strange taste undoubtedly pulled him back to reality from his post-meal reverie.

He couldn't help but get up and leave his seat, walking out of the coffee shop.

—Well, this is really a headache.

The problem is that he still can't be sure if Olga Marie has some kind of secret relationship with Dr. Hartrace. Olga Marie, this enigmatic girl, what kind of scheme is she hiding?

He squinted, staring at the blinding light emanating from the dome.

Time limit – there's not much time left, half a day? No, it might not even last that long.

Now that he's arrived in the mining city, he's exhausted almost all the tricks he can use. Perhaps all he can do now is pray that his brother can safely reach the ancient heart and weather this crisis.

"...I have absolutely no channels for intelligence gathering in the mining city."

The Second Prince muttered to himself, his tone revealing a hint of weariness and a touch of self-mockery.

He stood at the end of a seemingly endless passageway, deep within the "heart" of the spirit tomb Albion, even his magical crest throbbed with pain. More frustrating than the ineffectiveness of his strategic deployment was the lack of intelligence.

However, the next moment, a deep voice quietly tore through his thoughts.

"You are Lord El-Melloi II, aren't you?"

The voice was hoarse, but without hostility, like rusty iron gently scraping against a stone wall, carrying a weight that went straight to the heart.

The Second Prince was startled and stopped in his tracks.

He couldn't hear footsteps, nor could he sense any magical fluctuations.

If the other party is an enemy... in this confined, oppressive space where there is no way to escape, he would probably already be a corpse.

The air seemed to freeze.

He didn't even have time to warn Grey, who was waiting in the distance.

But the body had already instinctively tensed up, the magic circuits activated instantly, and defensive techniques surged along the nerves like an undercurrent.

—It had been a long time since he had been so truly prepared for death.

Just before he was about to retaliate, the voice rang out again, but this time the tone was much gentler.

"Don't worry, I'm not the enemy."

The hoarse voice softened, mixed with a hint of laughter, like a gentle breeze that lightly bypassed the heart's defenses.

The Second Prince narrowed his eyes, observing the other person's aura. The person was almost blending into the background, as if maintaining a delicate balance between "existence" and "non-existence".

That wasn't an ordinary covert operation.

It's a skill that even "contains" its own sense of existence—no, it's a habit.

“…A veteran.” He judged to himself, his mind racing to piece together possible identities and intentions. “This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered someone like this. Looks like my intuition has been right again.”

The other person, however, remained unhurried and gently turned to the side, making a guiding gesture, indicating that he should head towards a dimly lit alley to the side.

It was a passage like a crack, as dark as a crevice in ruins that would never see the dawn.

El-Melloi II hesitated for a moment, glanced in the direction of the exit, and finally followed.

He wasn't without suspicion.

On the contrary, it was precisely because of this distrust that he had to go in.

The unknown is the source of intelligence.

At the end of the alley was a mottled stone wall, resembling the remnants of organs formed after dragon scales had peeled off. It was damp, sticky, and lifeless.

He finally stopped and turned to look at the man.

An old man in a gray cloak stood there, his face covered with wrinkles, his white hair hanging down like tangled vines from the brim of his hat, but his eyes were unusually clear.

"……Who are you?"

The man smiled. It wasn't a flattering smile, nor was it a feigned hostility.

It was an expression of having "seen through" everything.

"My name is Graf."

The voice was no longer hoarse, but had a reassuring depth, like the gentle tapping of a xylophone, carrying a sense of quiet age.

He slowly raised the corners of his mouth and smiled as he said:

"An old geezer who can't even be considered a magician."

.........

Crossing the rift once more and returning to the mining city, El-Melloi II's heart began to pound.

Of course, it wasn't the courage of "finally facing the meeting" that made him excited—he wasn't that naive.

This palpitation is more like an alarm bell, a distress signal from an instinctive sense of alertness.

Mining cities are bad enough, but the oppressive atmosphere there is enough to drive an ordinary magician to the brink of collapse.

But the sense of oppression "here" is even greater.

It's not a stinging sensation on the skin, not blood stagnation, and not even the illusion of being torn apart in the brain.

It is—bones.

The bones were creaking.

It was as if an invisible hand reached out from the cracks in space, pressing down on his limbs and bones, trying to peel him out of reality and drag him into a place that did not belong to "human reason".

This is not wind pressure, not gravity, not anything that can be explained by any natural phenomenon.

Rather, it was because some kind of "other entity" had mixed into the air.

A quality that cannot be detected by modern instruments.

A certain "weight" that makes logic itself tremble.

Science knows nothing about it, and civilization remains silent about it.

But the human body is more honest than reason.

If it weren't him standing here right now, but an ordinary person—

That person had probably already collapsed instantly, like a canary in a mine. Not from fainting, but from organ atrophy and a sudden drop in body temperature—the ultimate warning signal that was death itself.

El-Melloi II – He traveled to many magical disaster zones around the world and witnessed several large-scale ritual collapses.

Even so, the sense of oppression was enough to force him to concentrate fully, and every step felt like walking on the edge of the world.

This is not simply "ancient".