Magician in Type-Moon

Page 577

Or it could be called a curse.

This obscure rule of the underworld has become crucial. It's a double-edged sword, a twisted "blessing" that grants the decaying to gain passage through the underworld.

It is also a profound "curse" because it symbolizes decay and depravity.

But it doesn't matter, the goal has been achieved.

For Matouchi, the nature of this rule is irrelevant.

What he needed was for this gold coin to complete its transformation from "gold" to "rust" (the "silver" of the underworld).

The gold coins, now reduced to "rusty iron," were tossed into the crevice in front of Matouchi.

He picked up the coin, which had completely lost its golden luster, was covered in rust, and exuded an aura of decay, and then decisively threw it toward the dark spatial rift in front of him.

Plop.

The coin crossed the boundary and fell into the unseen beyond.

That was the sound of something falling into the water.

It is also an echo of falling into the River Styx.

A clear splash echoed through the silence. This sound was both the physical feedback of matter falling into a liquid and, more importantly, the tolling of a bell on a mysterious level—

It proclaims that this "silver coin," bearing corrupted divinity and distorted faith, has successfully fallen into the River Styx, the river that separates life and death and flows with the waters of oblivion.

The echo lingered on the edge of reality.

As the echo faded, Matouchi's figure slowly disappeared from the spot.

Chapter 614 The Conspirators (4k)

"That" opened its eyes at an extremely slow pace.

His eyelids, as if glued together by time, are separating at a speed beyond human comprehension.

Every tiny tremor seemed to have witnessed the vicissitudes of time.

Just by opening my eyelids, at least several years have passed.

This is not an exaggeration. On a human scale, it truly is only a fleeting moment;

But in the dimension perceived by "that," the mere act of raising one's eyelids is enough to span several years.

Humans and deities have different perceptions of time. Their understanding of time and dimensions also differs.

Human life is as fleeting as morning dew; their time flows swiftly and linearly.

The existence of gods is like a deep galaxy, with a timescale that is vast and boundless, and a dimension of perception that far exceeds the constraints of the three-dimensional world.

The gods either do not correctly perceive human actions, or they perceive them too correctly, which is why they deviate greatly from human behavior.

Because of this fundamental difference, the gods are either unable to truly understand human actions and emotions that are fleeting and based on finite lifespan;

Either their "understanding" is too thorough, revealing cause and effect and essence that even humans cannot perceive, thus creating an insurmountable cognitive gap.

The self-awareness of "that" is also different from that of humans.

The being that awakens at this moment has a core consciousness that has long transcended the framework of the human mind. Its "self" is something more ancient, more expansive, and more inhuman.

The phantom of the spirit origin has returned.

The spell, which Heartres called that, reconnects the Servant to the Throne of Heroes.

The forbidden technique Hartres had created, called "Spirit Origin Phantom Rebirth," was now in effect.

It forcefully penetrated the barrier between the present world and the throne, bringing back the concept of "Servant" that should have been returned to its original state.

They once again anchored and reconnected to the highest realm that records the original souls of all heroes—the Throne of Heroes.

The boundary record tape, which was originally bound to the Imposter class, was simultaneously inputted as both the Imposter's record and the Iskandar's record through this technique.

The "Ghost Liner" that was originally confined to the narrow class of "Faker"—

The very foundation of the Heroic Spirits' existence is currently being reshaped by the spell, and is being simultaneously infused with two vastly different streams of information:

One document contains all the history and records experienced and embodied by the identity of "the imposter"; the other is "Iskander."

The hero himself, a complete record of his glorious legends and true deeds.

The record far exceeds the original limit of Servants that only allowed to reproduce one aspect of heroes, expanding to the scale of phenomena as objects of worship—gods.

The sheer volume of this dual historical record input instantly shattered the inherent limit of the conventional Holy Grail War system, which stipulated that a Servant's Spirit Origin could only bear one aspect or one legend of a hero.

Its scale expanded wildly, reaching a size large enough to support a phenomenon, a widely worshipped idol, a true—divine spirit.

That is the actual history that Iskandar lived through, and the more than two thousand years that many people have worshipped Iskandar as a hero.

One of the foundations of this expansion is the footprints and epics left on earth by Iskandar, a real-life hero.

And the immense power of faith and reverence that has been built up by countless people throughout the more than two thousand years since then, through their praise of his deeds.

It is the history that the imposter experienced behind the scenes.

Another foundation lies in the little-known yet equally weighty journey that "imposter" traversed alone in the shadows of history, silently replacing, playing, and ultimately bearing the name "Iskandar."

It was the only time the magician believed in the imposter.

This even included Hartres himself, the sole and fervent believer, whose unique and intense light of faith emanated from pouring all his beliefs and prayers into the "Impersonator" within a few short hours.

And so, "that" took notice of the world.

Seemingly sensing something amiss, Hartres's gaze returned to the imposter.

An indescribable, subtle sense of unease pierced Hartres's concentration, pulling him away from the complex deductions of the technique.

His sharp gaze, like a probe, once again focused on the being entrenched in the core of power, who had already entered a non-human state—the imposter.

"What's wrong? Why did you wake up early?"

Hartres's voice was low and carried a hint of barely perceptible tension.

According to the established ritual process and the divine sense of time, this was far from the time when "that" should be fully awakened. This unusual disturbance made him instinctively wary.

"Some things make me feel uncomfortable, but I don't know what the source of this discomfort is..."

The response he received was a voice coming from the direction of the imposter. It was extremely slow, each syllable drawn out, as if it had crossed a vast chasm of time and space to reach him.

The timbre was indistinct, neither purely male nor female, carrying a hollow echo, spreading throughout this strange space permeated with magic.

The content of those words made Hartres' heart sink even further.

Hartres frowned slightly.

A trace of worry was clearly etched between his usually calm and composed brows.

This allows the imposter—whether it's the cautious and shrewd Faker from his past as a Heroic Spirit, or the being who has now entered the realm of deification, whose perception far surpasses that of humans—

Clearly expressing feelings of "discomfort" indicates that the situation has taken an unexpected and unusual turn.

Hartres's mind raced. This "discomfort" was far from a physiological or simple emotional fluctuation; it was more like a disturbance originating from the very essence of existence, a harbinger of a threat to the vast spiritual foundation or an ongoing ritual.

Its seriousness is self-evident.

"Has something gone wrong with the Grand Order decision? Or has Matou Ike escaped from the trap?"

He quickly screened for possible sources of interference.

Has a coronary resolution, located on the other side of the ancient heart, undergone a dramatic change that could affect this place?

Or perhaps the variable that was thrown into the trap and should have been eliminated—Matouike—unexpectedly broke free from its constraints.

Every possibility points to a crisis that could disrupt his meticulously planned scheme.

None of this was known.

However, the isolation of information is like a heavy curtain.

Being at the heart of this meticulously constructed ritual, he was unable to obtain accurate information from the outside world in a timely manner and could only rely on experience and intuition to make inferences.

Hartres shook his head.

He temporarily suppressed his doubts. Whatever the source of the interference, the immediate priority was to ensure that the core aspects of the ceremony remained unaffected.

He looked at the imposter again.

His gaze became firm and scrutinizing once again.

"How is the World Egg being constructed?"

This is the cornerstone of the plan, the key to the “new world.”

The current state of the imposter is directly related to the stability and formation progress of the "world egg".

"Almost there..."

It was still that slow, layered, and magnificent response, as if it came from the depths of the universe.

The sound echoed and trembled briefly in the space, as if it contained the power of the birth and death of stars.

However, after uttering just those two words, the voice quickly faded away like the receding tide.

The imposter had closed his eyes again at some point.

It was as if that brief exchange had consumed a tremendous amount of energy, or perhaps His consciousness had once again sunk into the river of time and divine constructs that transcended human comprehension.

He returned to his initial, almost frozen posture, his eyelids closed, suppressing all emotions and perceptions.

Hartles shifted his gaze away from Him.

His gaze was cast into the void of this space, yet it seemed to penetrate the barriers of space, looking towards the distant places where his fate was intertwined.

"My accomplices, I hope you won't let me down...."

A whisper, so soft it almost vanished into thin air.

..........

In Albion, the Tomb of the Dead.

Deep underground, where endless ages and magic have accumulated, in the heart of the Spirit Tomb Albion, far from the clamor of the Clock Tower, in a corner shrouded in ancient rock and dust.

The monarch of Meastia—the one who should have appeared at the Grand Council—was in a sorry state.

His long brown hair was matted together with thick dust, almost completely obscuring his eyes.