Magician in Type-Moon

Page 544

The figure casually sheathed his sword, turned around, and a mocking smile appeared on his face.

"If someone like Callistini saw this, he would probably be moved to tears on the spot."

Her identity has been revealed—she is an imposter, an unnamed female warrior from ancient Macedonia who followed the conqueror king in his campaigns. Rather than a "follower," she is more like a living echo of war.

"You should be complaining by now, modern magician?"

"...That's not true, I can still manage."

Hartres's voice came from behind, with a hint of forced sarcasm, but his face was clearly haggard.

He has been continuously supplying magic, and since they entered Albion, the Od has been drained of their essence at a relentless rate by the imposters.

As a combat Servant, although she deliberately restrains herself, the amount of magic power she consumes with each swing of her sword and each step she takes is ridiculously high.

In particular, the sword she wields—the "sword" forged in the volcanic furnace of ancient Macedonia and enshrined in the Temple of the God of War—is itself a quasi-Noble Phantasm.

Furthermore, imposters of the extra class receive almost no support from the Holy Grail system, and all magical power must be borne by the Master personally.

An ordinary magician would have died from exhaustion more than five times over.

"You're surprisingly skilled. I thought you'd mess up the pace and break down halfway through."

"The imposter said, his tone neither too light nor too heavy. It wasn't sarcasm, but rather an acknowledgment of his unexpected resilience."

"Although I have been out of the job for a long time, being the head of the Clock Tower is not an easy job."

Hartres gave a wry smile, took the vial of elixir hanging from his waist, and drank it all in one gulp.

The clear liquid slid down my throat, carrying a slightly burning smell. It was a recipe left by alchemists in ancient secret texts, an addictive "expensive compensation."

Although this medicine is dangerous, it is one of the few ways to quickly restore vital energy and restore the natural cycle of magic power.

In fact, if the goal is simply to boost morale, stimulants or energy drinks manufactured with modern technology are more stable and have fewer side effects.

However, when the goal is to mobilize magic and awaken potential at the level of the soul, only magically created elixirs are a viable option.

The imposter shrugged and looked into the distance.

"It looks like we've covered about half the distance."

"...To be able to judge this without ever measuring the depth of the strata is truly instinctive."

Hartres also looked up at the distant Great Magic Circuit, at the labyrinth where light and shadow constantly tore and intertwined.

"Although I also think it's roughly this far."

"If we didn't have this intuition, we wouldn't have survived to the end. We had no idea where our king was going to conquer, or how long he planned to conquer.

The imposter smiled, a smile that belonged to the conquering army, hovering between madness and loyalty.

"So we learn that living people naturally develop the instinct to judge 'how much longer it will take'."

"It sounds... almost like being able to predict the future."

Hartres spoke softly, but her footsteps followed her out.

In the viscous air, as heavy as the seabed, breathing became slow and heavy. The pulse of the Great Magic Circuit emanated from the soles of my feet, as if the entire Spirit Tomb was quietly awakening.

The imposter stared into the darkness of the Grand Magic Circuit and silently began to walk.

She suddenly spoke again, her voice as low as foam rising from the bottom of a glass of wine:

"...Does that mean I'll die at your hands in about half a day?"

"That's right."

Hartres answered without hesitation. Neither cruel nor gentle, just a statement.

The imposter nodded, his expression as calm as if he were checking the weather.

"Well, after all, you're using me as a medium to bring that god—Iskandar—back to the world. From that moment on, my existence as a 'Heroic Spirit' will naturally come to an end. Ah... for such an ending, I should say—thank you for fulfilling my wish."

“A wish?” Hartres repeated, his voice slightly raised.

"I want to die for the king," she said decisively, as if she had said it a thousand times in her heart. "And you will fulfill this wish for me, won't you?"

The air seemed to freeze for a moment after he finished speaking.

Hartres's brow furrowed, as if some forbidden incantation had been pressed into his heart.

"……terribly sorry."

The imposter burst into laughter, waving his hand without hesitation as if to dispel some inappropriate emotion.

“Don’t apologize,” she said with a laugh, her tone cheerful, as if she didn’t care about her own death at all.

She took the flat bottle from her waist, unscrewed the cap, tilted her head back, and took a swig.

The rich aroma of wine permeated this space, a mixture of magic and silence, like a vintage wine so potent it could almost burn the soul.

This was the only item she insisted on carrying when preparing to infiltrate Albion, even at the cost of compromising her weaponry to make room for it.

“You’re a magician, aren’t you?” She turned to look at Hartress, her tone leisurely and slightly drunk.

"Even if it means going against modern ethics, you'll still kill me with your ideals and fastidiousness. Wouldn't that be great?"

She gently shook the bottle in her hand, the amber liquid swirling inside, reflecting a faint glow like the embers of a divine era.

“Use the ancient yet new flame of mythology to guide the modern magician.”

The imposter's voice flickered like a campfire in the wind, its light dimming and dimming, and he paused for a few seconds.

Then, as if suddenly snapping out of some self-absorption, she squinted and stared directly at Hartles.

"...No, your motives were never like that from the beginning."

Chapter 593 I'll Kill You Properly (4k)

Hartres held his breath almost imperceptibly.

The changes were so subtle that almost no one could detect them unless the other party was a follower.

"Did you see it?"

“You,” the imposter chuckled, his tone laced with disdain and smugness.

“We’ve known each other for over two months now. Even though I’m not very good at understanding the nuances of human nature, I can still get a general idea of ​​what kind of person you are.”

She swirled the bottle, her gaze sweeping across Hartres's face with a mixture of scrutiny and mockery.

"By the standards of a modern magician, you are completely unqualified. Although you are good at intrigue and strategy, you don't like that kind of thing. For you, doing these things is not instinct, but forced, a responsibility that you have to do. You are the kind of good-for-nothing who, if no one forces you, will just sit in a daze all day watching the clouds, and even your breathing seems lazy."

She took a sip of wine, smacked her lips with a smile, as if she had delivered a verdict.

"Ah, and another one. People who can ignore even the King's summons are all such fools."

“This is the first time someone has said that to me,” Hartres chuckled softly.

"That just shows that everyone around you is blind." The imposter snorted, as if giving a score to some foolish past.

She paused for a moment, then suddenly took a half-step closer, scrutinizing Hartles' face. She blinked, her voice becoming light and sarcastic:

"Hey, you can still make that kind of face? Did you eat something wrong? Or did the elixir burn your brain?"

"Hahaha. Well...maybe." Hartres's smile softened, and a nostalgic line even appeared at the corner of his eye.

"However, I just felt that what you just said reminded me of some things from the past."

His tone was like the low, resonant tolling of an ancient bell, understated yet powerful enough to evoke long-forgotten memories deep within people's hearts.

"Is it because of your disciples?" the imposter asked softly.

"Jorek, Karg, Gesells, Ashira, Kuro."

Hartres slowly recited these names, each one like a spell, retrieved from the depths of memory, carrying a heavy and distant echo.

"Kuro loves to talk about Albion's past. He especially likes to talk about those almost forgotten old stories. I heard that the brothers Karg and Jorek were in charge of dealing with the fantasy creatures. Whenever they encountered an enemy they couldn't defeat, they would use sachets and flute music to lure the monsters away, so that Gesells and Kuro could mine as much of the ore buried between the magic circuits as possible."

"As for the judgment of whether we can defeat the opponent, let Asila draw the map of the maze and be responsible for activating the alert spell. Although... drawing a map of this hellish place is probably harder than finding the Holy Grail."

“Although they were almost all spies that the Clock Tower had planted in Albion beforehand,” the imposter interjected, raising his eyebrows.

For her, espionage and conspiracy were not unfamiliar concepts.

But the practice of "spanning decades and two generations of disciples, just to frame others" was beyond the common sense of her time.

That's not a conspiracy, that's fanaticism, that's madness, that's a disease of civilization.

"Leaving aside Gesells," Hartres sighed, "the whole thing about Kalger and Jorek switching identities has been giving me a headache for a long time."

His term "exchanging identities" sounds casual, but it is actually a precise and ruthless intelligence game.

Their objective was fairly clear: to steal intelligence from the Bureau of Unearthed Remains.

"Thanks to this, Gesells was able to continue operating in the shadows, but to capture 'Kalger-Jorek' hiding in the Department of Anatomy, he had to launch a direct attack. In the end, he had no choice but to kill him."

He spoke calmly, but every word he uttered was as heavy as a hammer striking bone.

“After that, my involvement was completely exposed. Despite trying to cover up the traces of the body, the Grand Magician saw through it easily. She immediately understood that the ‘damage’ on the body was evidence of the ‘concealment’.”

The imposter remained silent, only taking a small sip of his drink.

Hartres didn't look at her again, but slowly raised the large silver briefcase in his hand.

That thing didn't fit the description of "maze exploration" at all, yet it felt like a heavy wish that had never been put down.

The imposter stared at it for a few seconds, then called out to him:

"Owner."

There was no respect in his voice, only a calm confirmation.

“You are my master. Since that’s the case, you can stop here and give up my wish.”

Her tone was low but firm, like a final plea before a sacrifice.

“I can still take you away from Albion. Wherever you want to go, whether you want to find the doctor who once cared for you, or wander to the ends of the earth where no one knows your name—I can send you there. Although my magic is almost depleted, I will stay with you... until the Holy Grail War ends, until I can no longer reappear in the world.”

At that moment, her voice was almost gentle.

Hartres was silent for a moment.

"...Would you want to live like that?"

His response was so soft it was like talking to himself, tinged with an indescribable bitter smile.