Magician in Type-Moon

Page 552

His gaze slowly fell to his armpits.

There lay his silver briefcase, which he had never parted with from the beginning.

Hartley raised his hand, his fingertips lightly tracing the surface of the box.

While activating the "Mystic Lock," he whispered softly, as if soothing a sleeping will.

"Next... I'll need 'you' to assist me."

With a soft click, the suitcase opened.

Hartles reached his hand into the crevice of the box. The movement was both practiced and careful, as if afraid of disturbing something still dormant.

He pulled out a heavy, large bottle.

The bottle is made of reinforced glass, and floating inside is some kind of object immersed in a preservation solution.

A damaged brain, tangled nerve bundles, magic circuits with traces of consciousness remaining... and even a complete eyeball quietly floating among them.

In the eyes of most magicians, this is a forbidden preservation method.

But for the designation of the seal, this is the most standard procedure—

The magician's "core" is extracted from his body and sealed in a plasma-state preservation fluid.

Discard most of the flesh and blood, leaving only the truly valuable structure.

This bottle is the one that was preserved as "The Magician".

"The Emiya family's inherited technique is essentially to forcibly push time to its limit within the body—or in a field like a Reality Marble that is not subject to interference from the world."

Hartres placed the jars and bottles steadily on the ground, like sacred objects laid out before a sacrifice.

"Although the inherent barrier cannot be imitated, Albion's interference power is extremely low. The connection between this spirit tomb and the world is very weak."

He spoke calmly, even so calmly that it sounded like he was recounting a historical fact rather than preparing an experiment to manipulate time and souls.

“Here, I can fully replicate the operating principle of that technique.”

This was a gamble he paid for with ten years of his life.

A magician who should have been imprisoned within the Sealed Execution Bureau has now been secretly transferred here and put back into service.

He then took out a second prop, a pocket watch that looked ordinary but contained a magical formula.

The pocket watch's case is engraved with antique patterns, while the interior contains a perpetual calendar and a high-precision magic sensor, which is an indispensable central node for activating and maintaining the ritual.

Hartress placed it beside the bottle and said softly:

“You once told me, ‘You’re going to kill me.’”

There was no blame in his voice, only a faint self-deprecation, and even a hint of belated intimacy.

"But I don't know if I can still make that promise come true."

He paused, then a slow smile curved his lips, a hint of helplessness in his expression.

"In the end, will you feel that it was a huge gamble?"

"That's it."

The response is not in words.

Hartres understood her answer simply by watching the imperceptible movement of the imposter's lips.

She has completed her task and needs no further explanation.

She is an indispensable piece of the puzzle in this plan, and now she has settled into her proper place.

Hartres stopped smiling and nodded slightly to her.

"...Next, we'll see if we can make it in time."

As he spoke, he slowly raised his hand, his fingertips landing near his chest.

Not the skin, not the fabric, but above the heart—that faintly beating place.

Will your wish come true?

Hartres whispered, his voice like a prayer, or a mournful lullaby.

Will my wish come true?

The sound was soft, yet it swayed in the quiet hall like ripples on a lake.

His gaze lingered on the imposter.

A beam of light poured down from the sky, engulfing her entirely.

That was the core stream of light connecting to the magic circuit of the deceased dragon, reflecting an almost divine outline.

The imposter stood silently among them, offering no resistance and no longer struggling.

The Macedonian female warrior, who had stained her face with blood on dozens of battlefields, now looked like a traveler taking a nap on a spring afternoon. Her brows were no longer alert, and her eyelashes were lowered, as if she had just taken a peaceful nap.

"...Goodnight, imposter."

Hartres said softly.

That was a farewell message for her.

It wasn't an order, nor an exclamation, but the only tenderness he could offer as a companion, or perhaps even as a friend.

And her lips—once as cold as iron—trembled slightly.

The lip-reading response, though silent, conveyed precisely to Hartres alone.

Goodnight, Hartres.

Her delicate, pitiful lips seemed to be saying goodbye, yet also making a promise.

The magic inscription within the pillar of light suddenly bloomed.

The patterns that emerged from the ground began to rotate, and the blood vessels, resembling those of a dragon, were reactivated, causing the heart to resonate.

The ritual connecting the past and the present, connecting God and man, has begun.

The still pocket watch ticked softly at that moment.

The pointer slid slowly.

The countdown has begun.

The countdown continues until she becomes a god.

Chapter 599 Meeting (4k)

The fall lasted for an unknown period of time.

It's like a time stripped of its meaning, quietly connecting in a vacuum, each second being silently extended.

The void reflected the void, and the world seemed to have been eliminated, leaving only this bottomless abyss that swallowed the three of them inch by inch.

Apart from the steep, slippery, moss-covered walls, the view was almost pitch black.

Apart from the cold wind brushing against my skin and the occasional howling wind that rips my eardrums, all my senses are gradually becoming blurred and fading away.

Even the last remaining wind pressure has long been relegated to the realm of hallucination by the nerves.

Only the sensation of "descending" remains calmly and cruelly etched into every nerve in the body, continuously awakening instinctive fear.

That premonition of the end, like countless fine needles, pierced between the skin and the soul.

If it were an ordinary person, they would probably lose control due to mental confusion or completely collapse within the first few minutes.

Of course, all of this... felt very unnatural.

Even though Albion's geographical rules are far removed from common sense, the Great Magic Circuit is indeed buried tens of kilometers deep beneath the Earth's crust—

Even so, from the moment they entered, the three of them have been falling for "several hours" in terms of physical sensation.

impossible.

To avoid hitting the ground too quickly, Yvette continuously activated her visual enhancement spell and used the "Wings of Icarus" to adjust her posture, keeping her descent speed stable and under control.

Within the bounds of common sense, it should have reached some kind of "bottom" long ago.

But there's no bottom here; even the inertia of gravity seems to come and go, like weightlessness, or perhaps the illusion of continuous acceleration—

Even more strangely, those "roads" did not descend in a straight line.

The void passage sometimes twists and turns like a living thing; at other times it narrows sharply, like some kind of wriggling blood vessel, repelling the intrusion of foreign objects.

In that situation, it's less about descending and more about being guided to "glide"—

Every turn, every sudden stop, and even every brush against the wall requires precise adjustments to the posture made by the formal attire.

This is not flying, but a form of torture inflicted on both mind and body with fine needles.

Perhaps it was noticing the faint shadow of fatigue appearing on Yvette's profile—

Don't waste your energy.

Matouchi's advice, which she had repeated countless times, rang in her ears once again, his tone calm and stern.

"Don't use your brain to judge the details. Leave all the reactions to the magic circuit and let your body do it automatically."

"Repeatedly calculating this path will only make you break down faster."

Even so, he knew that Yvette was nearing her limit.

Her lips had lost their color, and her breathing became increasingly shallow and rapid. These were signs of her spirit being continuously pushed to its limit.

In fact, all three of them were exhausted.

Even if it can be automatically controlled through magic circuits, even if consciousness can be forcibly maintained,

The cold—that unnatural chill emanating from the very bottom of the “layer of existence”—still clung to the nerve endings like a venomous snake, slowly eroding the vitality of life.

Worst of all, this was not caused by ordinary low temperatures.

This chill is Albion's poison. A magical aftershock flowing backward from the "ancient heart" continues to disrupt the magician's thoughts and physiological mechanisms.

In theory, one could use magic to maintain body temperature or even completely isolate oneself from its influence.

But all three understood one thing: