Magician in Type-Moon

Page 514

He lightly touched the document with his fingertips, his gaze sliding across it until it landed on a prominent emblem.

That was the mark of the "Secret Bureau of Tribunals," signifying the document's origin. And this organization was located inside the Spirit Tomb of Albion—a place brimming with magic and mystery.

"It seems that facility is also connected to the deeper layers of the Spirit Tomb Albion," Matou Ike murmured again, his tone calm but concealing a profound meaning.

Then, his index finger moved across the document again and stopped at the author's name.

The pen paused slightly, and Matou Ike's gaze became even more focused.

“The inventor of the technique is… Emiya,” he said softly.

Upon hearing this name, a hint of doubt flashed in Yvette's eyes.

"Are you a participant in that Holy Grail War?" she asked.

After hearing this, Matou Ike nodded, then shook his head, his tone complicated.

"The surnames are the same, but that doesn't necessarily mean they are the same person."

The pen continued to scratch on the paper, the scratching sound accompanying his ever-flowing thoughts.

His deconstructive magic eye spun wildly in its socket, as if trying to deeply analyze every detail and every line of text before him.

"So that's what it is..." Matou Ike closed his eyes, his expression somewhat inscrutable.

Yvette noticed Matou Ike's strange behavior and couldn't help but ask, "What?"

Matouchi did not answer.

He simply looked around, his gaze sweeping across the entire workshop.

Predicting the future, like a guide in a game, helped him find what he wanted.

Matou Ike walked to a corner and squatted down.

He stuck his hand directly into the floor.

He took out a coin.

It was an antique coin.

This wasn't the first time Matouchi had seen this thing.

I last saw it in Van Fem's hands.

Alexander coin.

It was forged during the reign of Iskandar.

.........

The daylight slowly faded, as if resisting the approaching cold of winter.

The weather in the suburbs of London has become increasingly erratic, with sunlight sometimes piercing through the clouds and sometimes being swallowed up by dark clouds, as if nature were capriciously playing tricks on fate.

Throughout the day, the weather was unpredictable, with light rain falling at times and then suddenly stopping, and the air was filled with moisture.

The sound of raindrops falling is like a soft whisper, sometimes splashing water on the roof and walls, and sometimes disappearing into silence.

This kind of weather was not unfamiliar to the boy, although he always felt that the pattern of rain was somewhat different from his past memories.

In that mining city deep underground, similar phenomena existed, but the underground water droplets were different from the raindrops flying on the ground, and could never be called "rain".

But today, this sudden rain stirred up some vague memories deep within him.

The raindrops fell on the ground like fine needles, and the air was filled with the fragrance of earth.

This feeling involuntarily reminded the boy of the old movies he used to watch on a broken television—the thick rain curtains, the wet streets, and the melodious tunes that accompanied the sound of rain in the black and white images.

Once, when I hummed a song unintentionally, my teacher told me that the song was called "Singing in the Rain".

At that moment, he finally understood the song's name and finally touched upon those things he had once thought were unattainable.

The joy of that discovery has not faded to this day.

His thoughts drifted back to the street in front of him, and his pace quickened unconsciously as he walked past the almost deserted school buildings.

The shadows there stretched long, seemingly listless, as if blending into the surrounding silence and gloomy atmosphere.

He saw that person, standing in the rain, as if conversing with the rain.

The man had long, vibrant red hair, and his slightly drooping eyelashes obscured his eyes, making his gaze unfathomable.

Although the boy didn't make him wait for long during the break—perhaps only a few minutes—it felt as if the man had been standing there for hours.

That profile, with its distinct features, was cold and silent, as if isolated from everything around it, quietly blending into the rain.

The man was quite tall, and standing there, he seemed to fit in with the drizzle—a unique fit, as if he were destined to disappear in the sound of the rain.

Although his figure complemented the rain, for some reason, the boy sensed a feeling of loneliness, as if that figure was about to silently blend into the gloomy city and disappear into the embrace of the rain.

"Dr. Hartracey," the boy murmured the name to himself.

The current dean of the Modern Magic Department, "Norwich".

"teacher."

The boy called softly, but received no response. Hartres remained with his head down, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to the call.

The boy didn't call out again, but silently moved the umbrella closer, gently shielding him from the fine raindrops.

Hartres blinked twice, finally realizing the boy was beside him, and apologized softly, "Ah, sorry. I just thought of a new spell and got so engrossed in the calculations."

The boy pondered silently. Hartress's "calculation" was not merely about relying on the brain's thinking; it might also involve the operation of magical circuits.

Those magicians who are powerful enough have their thoughts and magic circuits intertwined. When solving problems, they almost never just use their brains, but rather allow their magic circuits to participate unconsciously, forming an intuitive understanding of magic and instantaneous solutions.

It might sound simple, but the boy knew he was far from reaching that level.

"Did you find anything?" the boy couldn't help but ask.

“Yes.” Hartles gave a calm smile and looked back at him. “Just like when I first found you.”

It was a profound smile, as if it touched the edge of some memory.

The boy's face was no longer youthful; he was about to turn twenty, and his profile had become more refined, yet the innocence of his youth remained strong and undiminished.

The passage of time and the power of growth have undoubtedly left their mark on him—his physique has become more robust, and his skin has a healthier glow, revealing his underlying strength.

Hartres glanced at his pocket watch, then suddenly turned to the boy, a questioning look in his eyes:

"Speaking of which, today seems a bit unusual. You're a little later than usual, is something the matter?"

“No,” the boy replied softly, his eyes flickering slightly. “I just received a letter from Ashira. She wrote to tell me that she no longer needs to deal with her remaining personal belongings and that it doesn’t matter if she throws them away.”

Hartres nodded slightly, his gaze deepening. "Is that so?"

“Hmm,” the boy paused briefly.

"So I went to pack her things, and spent a long time tidying them up. Suddenly I realized that we had all gone our separate ways, and the time when we fought side by side seemed to be getting further and further away... I couldn't help but stare blankly for a while."

"Because you've spent so many years together."

Hartres's words were gentle, yet carried a profound understanding. His gaze fell on the boy, his expression complex yet calm.

At that time, the boy had ventured deep into the spirit tomb Albion with Hartres's disciples, experiencing trials of life and death and pushing the limits of their abilities.

However, they are now scattered, having lost the time when they shared life and death and were united against a common enemy.

Those comrades who once fought side by side have long since gone their separate ways—some have become famous magician successors, while others have joined the Bureau of Secret Reconstruction and made astonishing achievements.

Everyone has gone so far on their own paths, yet the boy's heart cannot shake off that emptiness, as if a huge gap has been torn open in his sense of belonging and connection, one that can never be healed.

"...So-called magicians will eventually betray their masters."

Hartres's voice was low, as if he had made up his mind to speak an unspeakable truth.

The boy looked up at him, his eyes flickering slightly.

Hartres's long, fiery red hair swayed gently in the damp wind, its flame-like strands contrasting sharply with the calmness in his eyes.

The rain soaked his clothes, but his demeanor remained unaffected.

Hartres lowered his gaze slightly and continued:

"A magician is essentially a self-existing being. Although there is a bond between us as disciple and teacher, this relationship is never absolute."

We cherish each other simply because we can still extract some value from each other.

"I impart knowledge and magic to you, and you cherish me because you are a bridge to even greater knowledge and power. Once that value is lost... you can easily be discarded at any time."

Those words didn't seem to be meant for the boy, but rather for himself.

It falls like rain on the damp ground, carrying a chill, yet revealing an inescapable truth.

"Magicians... these kinds of creatures exist with this kind of mentality."

Hartres continued speaking, pausing for a second or two before turning to look at the boy to one side:

"However, before they officially became my disciples, they did share their future plans with me and discuss their respective paths. I must say, their actions were full of sincerity, which is rare in the magic world."

The boy pouted slightly, a hint of dissatisfaction appearing on his face: "That's true..."

His mind was in turmoil as he recalled the times he had discussed the future with his friends.

Back then, they were always full of hope, talking about how they would realize their dreams on the ground and leave their mark on the road of life.

Now, just as Hartress said, they have all gone their separate ways and achieved the future they desired.

The boy should have been happy for them, so he naturally didn't have much dissatisfaction—probably not.

Hartres saw through the boy's thoughts, smiled slightly, gently patted his shoulder, and continued:

"First of all, you survived. To come out of that great labyrinth alive is a miracle in itself."

That labyrinth, that perilous place full of dangers and mysteries, was once a forbidden zone that they all desperately wanted to escape.

Today, being able to survive from that place and stand in this different world is already a huge achievement.

"That's why you might think you can continue to work together side by side, just like you did in the maze, but it's different here. The terrain has changed, the environment has changed, and the way you fight will change accordingly."

Hartres's voice gradually grew softer.

"But despite all this, you are still under the same sky. If you have the will, you can meet again at any time."

The boy looked down, his gaze falling on the puddles at his feet, where rainwater splashed on the surface, creating tiny ripples.

He didn't respond immediately, but simply looked up, his gaze piercing through the drizzle, towards the gray sky.