Magician in Type-Moon

Page 545

"Don't talk nonsense!"

The imposter suddenly shouted, the alcohol gushing out of his throat.

But she herself was startled by this sudden excitement, and her voice stopped abruptly.

Her silence lasted only a few seconds, but it was a period of contemplation that seemed to have been frozen for years, or even two thousand years.

"……Maybe."

Her whispers swept through the air like a gentle breeze through the circuits of a grand magic spell. The coral-like crystals shimmered, quietly listening to this confessional recollection.

“Except for my childhood, I never stayed in one place for long in my life,” she said softly, as if talking to herself, or as if gently unearthing a story that had been sealed away for too long.

“Our king was always moving with his people. His mother, Olympias… to make me a priestess of Dionysius, she imprisoned me deep within the temple, subjecting me to constant rituals and trials. That kind of life, though called nurturing, was more like an elegant yet cruel imprisonment.”

Did you see the clouds back then?

"Of course I've seen it." She gave a smile that was almost dreamlike.

"I can see the sky outside through the crack in the window. Those floating cloud shadows are what I long for most. Unfortunately, time is always too short. There is so much to learn."

She lowered her head, her tone becoming slightly harsh, like soft silk wrapped with fine thorns.

"Though I am a substitute, I am a substitute in the magical sense, and I cannot always be by the king's side. I can only attend half of Aristotle's lectures; the rest of the time, I either wait on the altar or meditate in a secluded room. Eumenes and Cretus, those loyal subjects who are skeptical of magic... they never even look at me directly."

The air froze for a moment.

At this moment, if Hartlees were to speak carelessly, his fate might be as irreversible as the lion she had recently slain.

"So... that's why you can't forgive the betrayal during the War of the Successors?"

His voice was as soft as a needle falling on a stone slab, almost inaudible, yet it pierced precisely through the deepest ashes of her memory.

That's not a test, it's an adventure; it's using a problem as a key to knock on a door that might lead to death.

"...It's hard to say."

Her answer was a beat late, as if it had to be slowly dug out from a long stretch of ruins.

The imposter's voice trembled slightly, not out of fear, but as if some sealed emotion was struggling to emerge from his flesh and blood—an unresolved war still burning deep within his soul.

The war broke out on the third night after Iskandar's death.

He left behind the words: "The empire shall be inherited by the strongest."

Those words were like a thunderbolt, shattering the already precarious balance.

The loyal ministers went mad. Queen Mother Olympias, former brothers, generals from all over the country... everyone who claimed to "understand the king's will" ignited the flames of blood and fire.

The War of the Successors is not merely a struggle for territory, but an attempt to tear apart the shadow left behind by a great king's name.

"That's what I thought when I was first summoned."

She continued, her tone calm, yet it was as if she were plunging a long sword into her own chest, the blade not drawing blood, but already piercing to the bone.

"Even now—just thinking back to those days still brings a surge of almost unbearable hatred to my body. It's not an emotion, but a raging fire that burns through my nerves and mind, like my soul screaming."

Her fingers clenched tightly for a moment, causing even the light of the Grand Magic Circuit to dim briefly. Then, she loosened her fist, whispering as if extinguishing a flame:

"...But I think that even if my brother and I were still alive then, we would probably have been inevitably drawn into it. No—maybe we would have been among the first to claim orthodoxy and the most stubborn to prove our qualifications as successors."

Hartres looked at her silently, as if observing how history itself had devoured heroes. His answer offered no comfort, but rather an unspoken acceptance:

"That's probably how it will be. I always feel that you look more like yourself when you're covered in blood than you do now."

"...Hey, shouldn't you at least deny it first?"

She wrinkled her nose and pouted, feigning annoyance and barely concealing softness, her tone like that of a sulking girl, yet unable to truly express her anger. She didn't deny his assessment, nor did his words offend her. Quite the opposite—she accepted them.

Hartres merely shrugged his thin shoulders, the movement nonchalant. The next moment, the imposter changed the subject and posed a different question:

"So, how did you feel when you discovered your disciple had betrayed you?"

This time, Hartres was silent for a few seconds. His voice was like a falling leaf brushing against the stone steps:

"...If I really knew how I felt—I probably wouldn't be standing here."

His tone was soft, yet it carried a weight that seemed to come from the depths of the earth.

"If I could just put aside what I don't understand and pretend it never happened... I might have left long ago. In the end, that's the choice a 'human' would make."

To endure, to forget, to let emotions dry—even magicians often live like this. But I… I think it's precisely because I can't do these things that I summoned you, and that's why I embarked on this journey here.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the massive magic circuits around him trembled slightly.

The light projected onto the imposter's face flickered, sometimes pale, sometimes dark red, like the memories and emotions churning in her eyes.

"Yes," she echoed softly, her tone low but firm.

“Me too. I can’t forgive them… If it were me, I would have taken the same step. Not for justice, not for duty, but simply… out of selfishness, I cannot accept this ending. I cannot give up the possibility of my king reappearing.”

A smile slowly rose to the corners of her mouth, a smile with a childlike expression.

"Whether it's you or me, we're all the same—we're both people who can't stand it."

"Yes."

Suddenly, the imposter stretched out his finger and flicked the magician's forehead without mercy, making a crisp sound.

"You always make my mind a mess. Stop making that disappearing look on your face."

She looked down at Hartles, who was covering his forehead, and chuckled softly. The laughter was like the sea breeze blowing across the deck at night, somewhat flippant, yet tinged with a hint of pity.

"But I didn't say I disliked that expression. If there's a chance to have a banquet and drink freely, you can show it to me again without any problem."

Hartres rubbed his temples and replied helplessly, "I can't hold my liquor well enough to drink with you to the end."

“Who cares about that? Ah, speaking of which—even my king can’t. The only thing he can’t beat is me, the priestess of Dionysius.”

The imposter grinned smugly, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. She tilted her head back and swallowed a mouthful of wine from the weathered, flat metal bottle.

"However, now is probably not the time for us to have a leisurely drink together."

"Do not."

Hartres suddenly reached for the bottle, tilted his head back, and drank it down. His thin throat rose and fell rhythmically, which was particularly clear in the dim light of the Great Magic Circuit.

The imposter watched him silently, his gaze carrying a mixture of relief and dangerous satisfaction.

After a brief silence, she asked another question:

"...The Grand Order Decision is about to begin, isn't it? Do you think the meeting will go as you predict?"

“Who knows?” Hartres put down the bottle, his tone casual yet resolute. “But whatever the outcome, what I’m doing… will not change.”

“That’s right.” She nodded.

Her gaze shifted forward, to a corridor resembling an underwater world. The passageway, woven from coral-like crystals, slowly deformed in the distance, leading to unknown depths.

The maze awaits—

It was a sacred place that was both glorious and twisted. At times it was as dazzling as a dream, and at other times it was like hell.

Countless monsters lurk within, awaiting the blood and bones of the next intruder.

However, Hartres's voice remained steady and unwavering:

"Go. I'll kill you properly."

"Hmm... my Master."

She narrowed her eyes, her smile like a dappled silver blade under the moonlight, as if she could already hear the distant horns of death.

"Of course I'm waiting. I've been waiting for that moment for two thousand years."

So the two walked side by side into the labyrinth, which was as twisted as a dream and as solemn as a temple.

That was a long road leading to destiny.

It's like the last step on the execution platform.

It's also like the red carpet leading to the gods before a wedding ceremony.

Black and white, light and shadow, they walked in side by side.

Chapter 594 Shortcut (4k)

Each movement was accompanied by a rustling sound—not the clanging of metal, but the soft rustling of dense leaves rubbing against each other, like waves constantly approaching the ear.

The group was traversing a strange and eerie tropical rainforest.

Although I have only seen similar landscapes in documentaries or on television, my intuition tells me that this terrain is closer to the primeval jungles of Southeast Asia—even older, wilder, and more like a non-human world inhabited by creatures forgotten by history.

Ferns covered the ground, their branches and leaves towering high, like layers of feathered curtains, obscuring more than 70% of the view.

The group could only proceed by relying on faint traces of the path and the watchful eyes of their familiars.

The air was filled with a humid heat—not the warmth emanating from the sun, but rather the high concentration of spiritual pressure released from the mixture of magic and plant decay.

Although the ground was still covered with the frost of midwinter when they set off, sweat had already soaked through their clothes from their backs, and their chests were sticky with sweat.

Occasionally, strange creatures dart through the vegetation, resembling insects, apes, or even aggregates of some conceptual remnants.

They move silently, yet with a chilling hostility. Whenever a particularly dangerous individual approaches, Matouike is always the first to warn them:

"...Two water-attribute and one wind-attribute reactions detected at the eight o'clock position. Change course to the five o'clock position to avoid them."

His tone was so steady it was almost mechanical, yet without the slightest hesitation. Furu had become accustomed to cooperating with him, completing tactical adjustments with just a glance.

At this moment, five flies of different colors were swarming around Matou Pond—

Those were attribute-based familiars he had concocted, each corresponding to one of the five elements. Their eyes were like refined gemstones, and their bodies were made of compressed magic. Once they detected abnormal fluctuations, they would vibrate their wings at a specific frequency to sound an alarm.

Graf's "optimal tactical path for Albion" now appears to be effective. Even though the terrain is almost fraught with danger, the group managed to avoid several potential battle points.

No—to be precise, it's not even possible to confirm whether a "near-battle" actually occurred.

Because Albion is not a place "where danger lurks," but danger itself.

The group had been inside the massive ruins for less than half an hour, and the knowledge the old man had taught them had already been put to use countless times. If it weren't for the meticulously drawn map in their hands, coupled with the judgment that Furu had cultivated along the way, they would probably already be stuck in the quagmire.

The landscape of Albion has changed dramatically multiple times in a short period of time; it's almost as if one is entering a different ecozone every blink of an eye. Despite this, two commonalities have remained constant:

First, there was the almost numbing concentration of magic power—

As soon as you take a deep breath, your lungs feel as if they are filled with something thick and viscous, and the blood flow is stinging.