Magician in Type-Moon

Page 652

"Bam—!"

A dull thud exploded within the silent tower, shattering the seemingly frozen stillness. The ancient oak doors sprang open, scattering fragments of locks and twisted metal components in all directions.

Matouchi dodged the flying debris and, without the slightest hesitation, quickly stepped into the room.

Arcueid followed silently like his shadow, his amber eyes sweeping across the entire space in an instant, like the most vigilant guard.

This is a fairly spacious room.

In contrast to the desolate feel of the tower's exterior, which is covered in cracks and thorns, the interior of the room is very tidy and can even be described as luxurious.

A canopy-covered bed occupied a corner, its heavy curtains draped with gold hooks. Around it were elegant pieces of furniture—a carved dressing table, a heavy armchair, and a small tea table inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

The air was filled with a cool, mixed scent, like night-blooming jasmine and old books.

His gaze unconsciously swept over a table lamp that had been quietly placed on a small table in the corner.

Its shape is extremely unique, like a jellyfish emitting a soft milky white halo. The lampshade is made of a semi-transparent material that resembles living tissue, and the light flows and pulsates slowly inside it.

"Is it a work by Emil Galle?" A thought flashed through Matou Ike's mind.

The Art Nouveau master was known for making glass artifacts in this naturalistic style, but the faint magical fluctuations emanating from this object clearly indicate that it is no ordinary thing, but more likely a magical device made by a magician with similar ideas.

At the same time, he keenly noticed a most unexpected detail—there were no mirrored pieces of furniture in the room.

The dressing table was empty, and there were no mirrors hanging on the walls.

While it's hard to imagine a woman's room without a mirror, considering the "ultimate beauty" they embody and the magical philosophy of Balyereta, there might be some inevitable reason for this—

Is it to avoid interference with self-perception? Or to prevent the power of "beauty" from producing uncontrollable refraction or resonance through the mirror?

However, all these observations and thoughts were completely shattered in the next second.

Matou Ike immediately abandoned all thought.

Because his vision, his entire perception, was brutally and completely dominated by one color—

red.

On the bed, on what should have been spotless, meticulously cleaned, snow-white fabric, a patch of red was spreading and seeping in a breathtaking manner.

Its shape is very similar to a rose. The edges show varying shades, like petals, while the central area is so rich that it is almost black.

An artist would likely be immensely grateful for the composition and arrangement of this red imagery, which possesses a cruel, intense, and destructive beauty. Even in this suffocating situation, everything about her—including this final "presentation"—remains beautiful.

The Golden Princess is right in the center of that red expanse.

She lay there quietly, still wearing that purple dress embroidered with delicate rose patterns, only now that purple was covered and swallowed by a deeper, viscous dark red.

Her perfect face was as pale as fresh snow, her eyes tightly closed, her long eyelashes casting fragile shadows beneath them. Her long hair, like molten gold intertwined with moonlight, was spread out on the snow-white pillow, a few strands tinged with a striking crimson.

Her posture even carried an eerie serenity.

It looks just like a flower.

A flower in full bloom, yet also fading away, forged with the last colors of its life... an exquisitely beautiful flower.

It is said that the vibrant colors, wide-open petals, and even the fleeting nature of flowers are all ecological strategies developed to attract insects and spread pollen—in order to capture the hearts of other creatures and achieve the goal of reproduction.

At this moment, is this "ultimate beauty" lying in a pool of blood also silently telling a story? Whose attention is it attracting? Is it attempting to complete some final "capture" or "transmission"?

Arcueid silently stepped forward, blocking Matou Ike slightly. His golden eyes were fixed on the figure on the bed and every corner of the room. His superhuman senses were fully activated, searching for any possible remaining danger or trace.

A deathly silence descended upon the room once more. Heavier and colder than before, it carried with it an overwhelming, pungent stench of blood and… the prelude to a colossal mystery.

.........

The news of the Golden Princess's death was like a boulder thrown into stagnant water; it didn't create ripples, but rather a silent yet swift undercurrent, spreading at an astonishing speed to every corner of the Twin Towers.

Not through loud shouting, but through some more covert and efficient means—

Perhaps it was the magical mechanism inherent in the tower itself, perhaps it was the silent transmission of thoughts among the servants, or perhaps it was the thick mixture of blood and magic permeating the air itself—it was a powerful declaration to all those present.

In order to protect the crime scene from damage as much as possible, Matou Ike did not leave.

He stood frozen at the doorway, his face as cold as the stone of the lake district, and he only briefly asked Arcueid beside him to deliver a message.

The blonde True Ancestor girl glanced at him, asked no further questions, and her figure silently disappeared into the shadows of the corridor like a ghost, leaving only a faint ripple in the air.

Due to the gravity of the situation, involving the treasures of the Izeruma family and even Balyeleta, the people who received the news immediately gathered together.

Bai Longqing was the first to arrive. When his figure appeared at the end of the corridor, leaning on his ebony cane, his steps were so fast that his leg disability was almost invisible. The usual mask on his face, which was a mixture of pride and control, was completely shattered, leaving only a stiff, incredulous paleness.

Following them were several figures who appeared to be butlers or high-ranking servants, with eyes as sharp as hawks, and a few magician guests who seemed to be temporarily staying in the tower for other matters and whose status was obviously not low.

They filed in and gathered in the Golden Princess's room, whereupon, without exception, they witnessed the shocking scene.

The corpse was in a truly gruesome state.

Large amounts of blood, now dark red, soaked through the luxurious bed, leaving irregular, chilling dark stains on the carpet.

The symbolic purple dress was torn and stained, like a work of art brutally destroyed. The marks of life being forcibly stripped away were displayed to everyone in a cruel and direct way.

However, amidst this extreme misery, something even more bizarre and chilling emerges—

Only that extraordinary "beauty" seems to remain unchanged, or even... become more terrifying.

Her skin remained as white and flawless as fresh snow, as if the filth of blood could not truly taint it in the slightest.

The contours of the face are still the most perfect masterpiece of the Creator, and every line contains a breathtaking rhythm.

Death did not take away this "beauty"; instead, it infused it with a cold, eternal, and otherworldly quality, like a perfectly preserved specimen in a museum glass case, breathtakingly beautiful, yet terrifyingly beautiful.

What is most incomprehensible and even challenges our understanding is that head.

Princess Tiadea's face rested peacefully on the pillow, her eyes closed. But strangely, she simultaneously displayed two contradictory states: "alive" and "dead."

On the one hand, all vital signs had disappeared, and the skin was pale and bloodless, which was undoubtedly death.

On the other hand, there seemed to be a faint glow, like the first light of dawn, remaining on that perfect face.

It is not a physical radiance, but a deeper illusion that lingers in visual and even spiritual perception, stemming from its "ultimate beauty" essence.

Especially beneath those perfectly shaped eyelids, even when closed, there seemed to be a cosmic vortex of molten gold and solidified silver, ready to open again at any moment and look down upon all living beings.

This blurring and overlapping of the boundaries between life and death on the same surface creates an indescribable cognitive dissonance and a chilling sensation on the soul. This is far beyond what a normal death could present!

The first to arrive, panting heavily, was a pharmacist named Maiou.

He looked paler than usual, with the appearance of a frail scholar, and seemed to be out of breath from running all the way.

When he staggered into the room and witnessed the scene, his eyes widened immediately, his mouth involuntarily opening as if a scream was stuck in his throat. He already looked weak, and now he seemed likely to faint on the spot.

Rather, perhaps we should see that he actually has some backbone, which is evident from the fact that he didn't faint on the spot.

His hands trembled as he gripped the doorframe, as if even standing still required immense effort.

then--

"Hey, this is really... a big deal."

A slightly frivolous yet heavy voice rang out. Matou Ike remembered this face; it was that of a dark-skinned man she had met briefly at the banquet the previous night.

He scratched his head, a seemingly casual gesture, but his shrewd eyes gleamed with assessment and vigilance. He surveyed the horrific scene in the room, his brow furrowed.

"Who are you?" Matou Ike asked calmly, his gaze sweeping over the other person like a recorder.

“Mick Gragillier,” the dark-skinned man introduced himself, his tone relatively calm, “is under the care of the Cursed Department.”

He indicated his affiliation—the Curse Department, and like Mayastia, to which Matouchi belongs, he belongs to the Clock Tower's neutral faction.

His hair was shaved very short, close to his scalp, and his well-fitting suit revealed exceptionally strong muscles, suggesting a long history of exercise or combat.

Chapter 677 Suspicion (4k)

"Ha, hahaha. What... what's going on?!"

The third person's intrusion was even more outrageous. As soon as he entered the room, he let out a dry, almost out-of-control laugh and shouts, and then, as if all the strength had left his legs, he collapsed to the floor, staring blankly at the bed.

"...Impossible...my clothes...how could they be ruined like this..."

This was a man with a particularly striking hairstyle. Matou Ike remembered that hairstyle with many braids was called thin braids.

While this is often stereotyped as being associated with Black culture, the man's hair was braided in a more intricate and overlapping manner, so finely detailed it resembled a textile made entirely of hair, clearly the result of countless hours of painstaking work. Yet, at this moment, his focus was strangely distorted—as if he cared more about the magnificent suit he had made himself, now ruined by blood, than about the life lost.

"Who are you?" Matou Ike asked again, his voice devoid of emotion.

“My name is Islo… Sebnay. I was in charge of making the gowns for the Golden Princess and the Silver Princess.” The man answered listlessly, his eyes still fixed on the tattered purple gown, his face filled with the pain of a masterpiece being destroyed.

Upon closer observation, these people who arrived one after another had one thing in common: they all belonged to the neutral faction. But this was not a close alliance.

Unlike the relatively clear programs of the aristocratic or democratic factions, the neutral faction was riddled with internal cliques and lacked a unified vision.

They were loosely gathered together because they wanted to prioritize research over principles and positions, and were collectively known as Meastia, the most powerful of the groups.

Simply put, they are only temporarily "remaining neutral," and their relationship is so fragile that it wouldn't be surprising if infighting broke out at any time. Their gathering here at this moment is more out of an instinctive concern for a significant event than out of solidarity.

at this time--

Ka--

A heavy, clear sound of a cane striking the stone floor echoed, like a death knell striking everyone's heart.

Immediately following was a groan as if the world were ending, which fell heavily onto the room floor.

“How could this be…Tiadra…” A trembling, broken voice, filled with endless pain and disbelief, rang out.

“…Sister.” Another, even softer voice, yet equally trembling, followed closely behind, like a mournful echo.

The fact that these two people came to this blood-stained, death-filled room was perhaps the cruelest thing.

Byron Balyeleta Izeruma stood at the door, leaning on his ebony cane.

His previous composure and dignity as the head of the family and a master magician had vanished. He seemed to have aged twenty years in an instant, his face filled with a blank expression of immense grief and a precarious collapse.

His hands gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles turning white from the excessive force, and his body trembled slightly.

Beside him stood the Silver Princess Estella.

Just like when we first met, her face was covered by that thin veil.

Beneath the veil, the outline of a flawless face almost identical to that of the Golden Princess Tiades was vaguely visible, but as if through a layer of mist, her specific expression was not discernible.

However, her posture seemed to freeze.

She seemed to be staring through the veil—staring at the horribly gruesome pool of crimson blood that had spread across the still-white sheets…her sister’s head.