Magician in Type-Moon

Page 619

Matouchi's posture appears even more languid, even carrying a hint of casual unrestraint.

His long, slender legs stretched forward without any hesitation, resting directly on the gleaming coffee table, the tips of his shoes almost touching the opposite side.

His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of amusement in his scrutiny, his gaze like an invisible probe, lightly sweeping over the Start gold coin in El-Melloi II's hand, which was being repeatedly caressed.

It was precisely this key moment in which Hatres personally inscribed his unique technique during the massive ritual of constructing the "god" Iskandar.

It is itself a manifestation of a contract, a certificate containing coercive power and a mysterious link—its holder, at that moment, naturally possesses the identity of "master" of that deity.

"Are you satisfied just because you saw it?" Matou Ike's tone, tinged with a barely perceptible, almost mocking inquiry, broke the brief silence.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze refocusing on El-Melloi II's face. "I thought... you would use that identity to directly seize control of 'He'."

He deliberately emphasized the words "that identity," and his gaze once again drifted almost imperceptibly over the gold coin.

“Otherwise,” he said, a cryptic smile playing on his lips, “I wouldn’t have wasted so much time with that guy Hartles.

Faced with this almost provocative and blunt question, the relieved smile on El-Melloi II's face did not disappear, but rather deepened, carrying a sense of weariness and understanding of the ways of the world.

He slowly shook his head, his fingertips stopped moving, and gently held the gold coin, which carried complex contracts and past events, in his palm.

“That ‘He’…” His voice was deep and clear, each word carrying a heavy weight, “not the pure He.”

His gaze seemed to pierce through the wall before him, landing on something that had already vanished.

"That is a 'god' forcibly forged from three records... a distorted illusion that does not originate from the source."

There was no anger in his tone, only a profound sense of alienation and denial: "That... is not the king I know, nor the king I want to follow."

He paused, then his gaze returned to Matou Ike, his eyes calm and resolute.

"Moreover..." El-Melloi II's smile carried a hint of his own modesty, "I also don't have... the perverse pleasure of stealing other people's 'Servants'."

"is it?"

Matou Ike smacked his lips, his tongue seemingly savoring the lingering aftertaste of the other's words. A hint of undisguised, almost insightful, playful glint flashed deep within his amber-colored demonic eyes.

Of course he didn't believe it.

The monarch before us is far more profound in his thoughts and burdened with more weight than can be summed up by a simple statement like "he has no bad taste."

Every turn of that gold coin in his palm was like a silent riddle, a foreshadowing deliberately left unsaid.

but--

Matou Ike shifted her ankle slightly, which was resting on the coffee table, and moved to a more comfortable position, sinking her body deeper into the soft sofa.

This matter no longer matters to him.

He, Matouchi, was never the kind of controller who demanded that his allies be completely open and transparent in everything they did.

Allies are travelers who temporarily travel together based on common goals or interests, not conjoined twins who must share all secrets.

Therefore, El-Melloi II had his own plans, his own considerations, and even his own unspoken "intentions".

This is perfectly normal.

Just like himself, doesn't he also harbor many thoughts and methods that are not to be told to outsiders?

In this magician's world filled with scheming and betrayal, the bottom line between allies is never unreserved honesty.

It's a tacit understanding where neither side betrays the other.

As long as what they do and what goals they achieve do not cross the invisible boundary that defines their core interests.

As long as El-Melloi II's "plans" ultimately did not disrupt his layout and desired outcome at Matou Pond.

So, where will the other party's inner turmoil, their obsession and regret about the "King," and that gold coin containing the power of the contract ultimately end up...?

He can turn a blind eye to one thing and a blind eye to the other.

but......

Matouchi's previous languid stretch vanished instantly, like a cheetah waking from a slumber.

He silently withdrew his legs from the coffee table, leaned forward slightly, and his amber-colored demonic eyes, sharp as knives, pierced straight at El-Melloi II opposite him.

The relaxed atmosphere vanished, replaced by an invisible, oppressive pressure.

"but……"

The playfulness in his voice vanished completely, leaving only a cold interrogation.

"What exactly is going on?" Matou Ike's fingertips unconsciously tapped on the armrest of the sofa, making a soft knocking sound, like the drumbeats of a countdown.

"I thought... that you Clock Tower people, especially those in charge of cleaning up the mess, had already prepared a comprehensive contingency plan?"

He was referring, of course, to the colossal wave that swept the globe, starkly exposing the "mystery" to billions of ordinary people—

The complete collapse of the principle of concealment. This was the ultimate catastrophe that the Clock Tower should have prevented at all costs.

Faced with this sudden and pointed question, the relieved bitter smile on El-Melloi II's face froze instantly, then transformed into a deeper, more complex expression, a mixture of helplessness and a hint of resentment.

He took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress some surging emotions.

“This matter…” he began, his voice low and strained, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth.

“From what I understand… inside information,” he emphasized the word “inside,” implying that this was not a public conclusion.

"The driving force behind its eventual explosion... or rather, the key decision-makers who tacitly allowed it to reach its final destructive scale..."

El-Melloi II paused, as if uttering that name itself required immense strength.

He raised his head, his gaze meeting Matou Ike's all-seeing eyes, and clearly uttered the name that symbolized supreme authority and cold, ironclad rules within the clock tower:

"—It should be led by that 'King' from the Department of Law and Politics."

"Barthemello?!"

Matou Ike's fingers, which were stroking his chin, suddenly stopped, and his entire posture froze for a moment.

For the first time, a very strange expression appeared on his face, which always carried a hint of mockery or languor.

It was a mixture of unbelievable absurdity, a momentary realization, and a chilling resentment at being fooled by a grand scheme of things.

This is simply the biggest irony in the world of magic!

That guy who upholds the "principle of secrecy" with an iron fist and ruthless methods, regarding any individual or organization that dares to reveal secrets as a pest that must be eliminated!

And now, the one who personally shattered this ironclad rule, turning it into a trigger for a global catastrophe... is none other than the highest-ranking official in the Department of Law and Politics—

The "Grand Marshal of the Demonic Path" himself?!

“Ha…” Matou Ike let out a short, cold, and unfunny gasp.

He leaned back, sinking back into the sofa, as if trying to burn a hole through this absurd reality.

"Interesting... This is absolutely fascinating."

His voice carried a dangerous calm, "Then... our esteemed 'Marshal of the Demonic Path'..."

He deliberately drew out his words, each one sounding as if it had been chilled to the bone.

"What... exactly does she want to do?"

El-Melloi II fell silent.

That silence wasn't one of being speechless, but rather one carrying an immense, almost suffocating pressure. His eyelids were lowered, his gaze seemingly fixed on his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles slightly white.

Of course he knows.

I know it better than anyone else.

What exactly does the colossal wave unleashed by Barthezmello, the King of Law and Politics, in his near-betrayal of his millennia-old duty, signify?

It wasn't just the panic of mystery being exposed to the light of day; it was the uprooting of the very foundation upon which the entire world of magic depended for survival!

The order that the Magic Association had built up over a thousand years collapsed in an instant! Countless organizations, individuals, and even outcasts that depended on the principle of "concealment" were forcibly dragged into a sudden and global storm of chaos!

Its wide reach and profound impact are enough to send chills and despair through anyone who knows the inside story.

but……

El-Melloi II took a slow, deep breath, as if trying to inhale the heavy reality along with the cold air into his lungs. The breath carried an almost tangible weariness, so heavy that his shoulders slumped slightly.

happened.

That catastrophe, a disaster forged by Albion's awakening, Hartrace's madness, and ultimately the inexplicable acquiescence (or even encouragement) of the Forensic Science Department...

It has already happened.

This is not an exercise, not a simulation, not any contingency plan that can be withdrawn and restarted.

It's like a planetary bomb that's already detonated, and the shockwave is sweeping across every corner of the world at the speed of light.

Ruins have piled up, order has collapsed, panic is spreading, and new, more brutal rules are quietly brewing in the chaotic bloodshed.

It was as if a concrete action was needed to break the suffocating silence and to steady his trembling fingers and turbulent emotions.

El-Melloi II reached somewhat stiffly into the inside pocket of his signature, slightly worn leather jacket.

Fumble for a moment.

He took something out.

It wasn't a document, nor a communicator, but a flat, dark wood-grained cigar box.

The edges of the box had been worn smooth, giving it a sense of age and wear.

He silently opened the box, revealing several dark brown cigars neatly arranged inside. The rich aroma of tobacco instantly filled the oppressive air with a faint warmth.

He did not light it immediately.

I simply picked one up with my fingertips and felt that familiar, resilient texture.

“Actually…” He paused, as if sorting through a jumble of thoughts spanning eight years, “Ever since eight years ago… after that 'Holy Grail War'… you should know…”

His gaze became distant, as if penetrating the wall and seeing the scars left by that disaster, scars that still ache faintly to this day.

“Mysterious phenomena around the world are no longer sporadic whispers. Like dormant seeds, they are growing wildly in the cracks of the old order, becoming more and more frequent, increasingly difficult to suppress, and increasingly...approaching the realm of ordinary people.”

"And at the same time..." El-Melloi II's voice suddenly turned somber, carrying a cold, suffocating sense of reality, "We magicians... compared to the vast, ocean-like population of humanity..."

He paused for a moment, a pause filled with a heavy sense of powerlessness.

"...The quantity is far too small."

Matouike quickly grasped the meaning behind El-Melloi II's words.