Magician in Type-Moon

Page 532

"The food was good, but... it lacked composure."

Upon hearing her assessment, the burly man, Lord Magdana Trambergio, couldn't help but laugh.

That smile is like a key, instantly unlocking the beautiful expectations in everyone's heart.

Once you've seen it, you'll never forget it.

What's even more fascinating is that being the one who makes him laugh seems to grant one a supreme honor—one of the qualities of someone who stands above others.

But Enola was not swayed by Magdana's smile; the two were on equal footing.

“You’re really forgiving, Magdana.”

Her voice was completely unwavering. “It’s a matter of goals. You know, new things are always wonderful. In this era, what is accepted by the world is often art.”

She lowered her head, picked up her wine glass, and slowly swirled it.

"But these dishes are clearly too catering to the tastes of those who are used to eating gourmet food. Although the evolution of history often begins with the wealthy aristocracy, if we only cater to them, then even if the timeline is wide enough, we will not be able to reach the true depth."

Upon hearing this, Magdana immediately wore a bored expression. He shrugged dramatically, as if he were already used to Inola's profound reasoning.

“Oh, you’re right,” he replied casually. “What Lord Baruyeleta wants is entertainment that most people can accept and understand, isn’t it?”

His tone carried a relaxed provocation, as if he already knew all of Inole's thoughts.

Inole's expression remained unchanged, calm and profound.

“That’s certainly true of democrats.” She sighed softly, her tone becoming more serious.

“But I don’t intend to equate myself with this kind of majority mentality and pander to the ignorant masses. What really matters is getting them to accept things willingly, rather than simply catering to their demands. We should win more naturally than through pointless compromises.”

She raised her glass slightly, her gaze fixed on Magdana. "Who would want to follow a king who has no interest in even his own victories?"

Chapter 584 Arrival (4k)

“That’s really strict.” Magdana laughed heartily, his tone relaxed yet carrying a hint of deeper meaning. “Although I believe that what the public truly needs is not entertainment, but rather—guidance.”

These words were like a pebble gently falling into a still lake, yet they stirred up deep ripples. He concealed the sharpness of his next question with a smile as open and honest as sunshine.

"By the way, we were talking about the proper demeanor of a modern magician earlier—so, let's take a specific example. What are your thoughts on duels between magicians?"

“I don’t have any particular opinion,” Enolae replied without hesitation, her voice as calm as dust settling in the afternoon shadows.

“At the clock tower, that’s encouraged. But I think that practice is outdated.”

As soon as she finished speaking, she raised her glass, tilted her head back, and drank it down.

That's a peaty whisky—produced on Islay, the southernmost island of the Hebrides, west of Scotland.

The pungent and wild aroma of malt emanated from her dry lips, weaving a steady, vintage trail in the air.

This is the kind of wine she has always preferred—unassuming, unpretentious, yet complex and awe-inspiring.

In contrast, Magdana sat up straighter.

His cheerful face suddenly darkened, as if some kind of will buried beneath the rock was beginning to awaken.

"I believe that the duel still has its full significance," he said, his tone calm but firm.

"This significance becomes even more apparent when we include the new generation in our field of vision. The places that our generation has not yet reached may be hidden in the clashes and exchanges between us."

"So they have to kill each other?" Inola raised her eyes in surprise. "Magicians, who are already on the verge of extinction, have to rely on killing each other to improve their skills? What a genius way to exterminate himself."

She shook her head, her face showing an incomprehensible indifference.

Magdana, however, did not back down; instead, he laughed even more heartily.

He leaned forward abruptly, his rock-like body almost pressing down on the dining table.

"Want to have a fight? Judging from your expression, it's probably been forty years since you last dueled, hasn't it?"

"Why risk your life when it's clearly unnecessary?" Inore scoffed, retorting without hesitation. "You don't actually think the Grand Order is just to provide you with an undisturbed dueling stage, do you?"

"Hahahaha!"

Magdana burst into unrestrained laughter, as if he had just heard a brilliant satire.

His laughter vibrated the ceiling of the empty restaurant, slightly easing the tension in the air.

Inole seized the opportunity to change the subject.

"By the way—I heard that Dr. Hartres attacked Sla."

She had naturally known about this for a long time.

"In the end, he is sending a signal by doing this."

She spoke slowly, as if recounting the facts to the silent London night, "On the eve of the Grand Order decision, to put pressure on those old rivals who had once pressured him."

This is why Hartles made his move—a magician who has long lurked in the shadows suddenly and decisively strikes, his motives as clear as a sharp knife cutting through the surface of silence.

"You said he was once driven to the brink of despair?" Magdana asked softly.

"Indeed, he suddenly resigned from his position as dean of the academic department ten years ago and disappeared from the stage. At the time, I also felt it was strange, but... if he was really forced to that point, then this counterattack is not surprising."

“What a pity.” He shrugged, as if lamenting the lost decade.

"Does Lord Balyeleta leave any impression?"

“It’s hard to say,” Enolae replied casually, but there was a hint of reservation in her tone.

"But you probably also know, right? It is said that in the underground of Sla, Hartres entered the spirit tomb Albion through a crack."

Magdana's brow twitched slightly upon hearing this. Inole continued:

"And the venue for the Grand Order Decision is deep beneath the Spirit Tomb of Albion, that... ancient heart."

"Hmm." Magdana hummed softly, his fingers slowly stroking his chin, his expression turning serious.

--exactly.

The Grand Council is no longer a simple Clock Tower operations meeting. No, perhaps it has indeed degenerated into that kind of mundane occasion, but its original essence is completely different.

It was originally a grand magic ceremony where the heads of the twelve noble families gathered, around the depths of the Spirit Tomb Albion, on the edge of the Inner Sea of ​​Stars.

It's not a parliament, but a ritual.

It's not a vote, it's casting.

This presents an opportunity to forge the system of "magic" into something more profound and substantial.

Today, it has become an exquisite but empty invitation, inviting only those who are already tired of the essence of the ritual to come and drink, confront, and vie for the right to the afterglow.

“Little brother Magdana,” Enolae tapped the empty glass with his fingertips, his tone gentle yet firm.

"You once said that the redevelopment plan for Albion is of practical significance, and that the democrats should uphold this claim. Well—it's about time you showed me the materials that support this claim, isn't it?"

His tone seemed casual, but it was like a blade lightly gliding across the table, leaving a silent sharpness.

“I see.” Magdana showed no surprise, but rather a satisfied smile, as if this step had been expected. “This request is very reasonable.”

He slowly raised his right hand and flicked his fingertips lightly.

An angel figurine placed by the restaurant window responded to the sound and moved.

Originally just an ornament, it now seems to have a soul, taking flight and drawing two elegant arcs in the air, as if tracing the trajectory of a divine oracle between the night sky and the glass reflection.

With a soft sound like burning paper, it slowly descended onto the table, a wisp of mist escaping from its wings—which then condensed into a stack of documents, landing heavily between the silver cutlery.

The performance itself was highly dramatic, but Inole had no interest in it.

She calmly reached out and picked up the document, flipping through it quickly and precisely, as if she were verifying a problem whose answer she already knew.

However, her expression quickly changed.

The initial indifference slowly turned into solemnity, as if the information pouring out of the documents was more intense than the peaty liquor of Islay, making one almost hold their breath.

"Little brother Magdana."

When she spoke again, her tone carried an unusual weight, like low-pressure clouds drifting over London.

"This isn't ordinary information. It must be an internal document from the Bureau of Secret Remains Dissection."

“Hahaha.” Magdana rested his chin on his hand, his expression like that of a little boy whose prank had been exposed. “Even though I cut out the more explicit parts, I didn’t expect you to see through it at a glance.”

"Stop playing dumb." Inole raised her eyes and stared at him coldly, her tone sharp as a blade. "Where did you get your hands on this? Even if the Transpelio clan used their influence in the surface world, this thing wouldn't be so easy to obtain."

The Secret Corpse Dissection Bureau—that is a secret chamber inside the clock tower, a dark domain that is almost unregulated and cannot be easily touched even by the three major noble families.

Even within this magical regime rife with intrigue and self-interest, they maintain an astonishing level of independence and intelligence protection.

The information is not only rare, but also dangerous. It is not "information" that can be easily accessed, but rather a "bomb" that could potentially affect the situation.

"Regardless of how you obtained it," Inolei's tone was like a cold wind sweeping across a lake, sharp yet calm, "this information does indeed corroborate what you said earlier."

She lightly touched a few numbers on the document with her fingertips, then closed her eyes. In that instant, the magic circuit quietly activated, and the information flowing through her body was like radio waves penetrating the paper, analyzing, calculating, constructing, and then disintegrating and reassembling.

“…Hmm.” She opened her eyes, her tone becoming more serious.

"The report details the excavation site that the clock tower on the ground could not access. For example, while the amount of excavation in the mining city area decreased significantly, the data from the middle layer of the Great Magic Circuit remained almost unchanged. In other words—"

She looked up and met Magdana's gaze.

"If we can re-establish the mining route to the Grand Magic Circuit through the redevelopment plan of the Spirit Tomb Albion, is there any hope of reaching that place?"

This statement alone is enough to shake any monarch who cares about the fate of the Spirit Tomb.

"...You've prepared quite well." Inole continued turning the page, her expression calm and focused.

As the head of the Creative Department, I am already accustomed to examining the meaning between the process and numbers of magic.

With skillful operation, even without relying on any external devices, the magic circuit itself can make accurate judgments on this structured data.

This is why, even as science and technology continue to advance, a considerable number of magicians still scoff at so-called "progress"—their own bodies are the oldest and most advanced computing machines.

Of course, this arrogance comes with a threshold. Without an innate magical talent and overwhelming ability, you can't even get to the starting point.

“However,” she said, closing the file, her tone suddenly shifting to a barb, “how do you intend to make information obtained in an unknown manner persuasive?”

"You want me to reinvestigate? If we mobilize manpower now, by the time we get our results, the Grand Order decision will have already been completed."

Magdana smiled.

A bitter smile slowly appeared on his rugged, rock-like face. He leaned back slightly in his chair, as if trying to extricate himself from a suffocating atmosphere.

"Aren't you willing to turn a blind eye?"