Magician in Type-Moon

Page 536

He countered with a question, his expression somewhere between innocent and cynical.

"of course?"

Inola's tone was slightly cold. "I know you have more than one wife, and I know you have far more daughters than that. As a monarch, such whims are certainly permitted. But the identity of 'a member of the Bureau of Secret Corpse Dissection'—that cannot be categorized as your usual domestic affairs."

"Then there's nothing I can do. Let me explain."

Magdana shrugged, as if shaking off some troubling little misunderstanding, but his tone still carried an inappropriate lightness:

“I briefly entered the Spirit Tomb Albion during a joint investigation with the Bureau of Unseen Excavations. It was in that mining city that I met her.”

His gaze softened instantly.

"Her appearance is certainly commendable—but what attracts me even more is that, in such harsh conditions, she still retains the courage and clarity to look things in the eye. I once tried to make a special application to bring her back to Earth, but she refused."

"Because if I leave there, I won't be able to help my dad anymore."

Ashira spoke softly, her tone gentle yet firm, before slowly walking toward Magdana and leaning against him, as if returning to a place of belonging.

He reached out and put his arm around her shoulder without any hesitation, his posture intimate and his eyes showing no trace of shyness.

Magdana's "romantic nature" is already well-known in the magic world.

His wife is capable of opening two dedicated branches for familiar contracts, and his children—if you really want to count them, the registered ones alone could probably form two complete baseball teams.

In the magic world, where political marriages are still the norm, this is not uncommon; it could even be considered a strategic maneuver. However, the fact that even Hartless's disciples have been incorporated into his family system is astounding…

Inole stared silently at the woman in front of him.

Ashira did not bow her head. In the light cast by the chandelier, she stood quietly with a calm expression, holding in her hand the document belonging to the Bureau of Dissection of the Corpses, which was theoretically confidential to outsiders.

"But..."

Magdana's voice was like a wildflower picked up on a walk, "Since Dr. Hartrace might even kill his own disciple... then of course I can't stand idly by. She's my precious daughter."

He straightened up, chuckled, and said, "You can call me a muddle-headed dad—that's fine with me."

He spread his arms as if to announce a private affair unrelated to politics or interests.

He and Ashira stood together like that.

From their appearance, they are a father and daughter who have forged a strong bond that transcends race, identity, and position.

However, this scene may not be seen as merely a symbol of family affection by some people present.

Inola silently stared at Magdana.

Her gaze initially held doubt, even a hint of undisguised weariness—the usual demeanor of the Clock Tower Monarch, the indifference of someone accustomed to watching fools play with fire and then cleaning up the mess themselves.

But a few seconds later, she seemed to have figured something out, and her originally straight back relaxed slightly as she leaned back in her chair.

She appeared even more relaxed now than before, yet also more dangerous—a state where she only allowed herself to slow down after confirming that her prey was in her grasp.

"You..."

Her voice was low and slow, but not frivolous, like a comment uttered after repeatedly pondering a certain thought.

Do you really know what you're doing?

Magdana smiled slightly, still in that rough tone, as if he had already prepared this answer.

“Of course I know,” he said.

"It's nothing more than making the already pitifully few magicians in this world even fewer."

Chapter 587 Another Corner (4.4k)

In a dark and gloomy room, the only thing that could be called "lighting" was a lonely candle—and it wasn't even a smokeless candle.

The flame flickered, sometimes dancing, sometimes nearly going out.

There were piles of waste paper and old books in the corner, and the air was filled with a greasy and waxy smell.

"Hey, hey, hey—I mean, is it really necessary to be so sneaky?"

The bald man sitting at the desk slammed the cheap fountain pen in his hand onto the table with a bang, and the gold tooth reflected a ridiculous luster in the firelight as he roared.

"I've been living without women and alcohol for almost a week now. Is this any way for a human being to live?"

Despite his coarse tone and impatient expression, there was no real tension in the room.

The man was simply venting his frustrations out of habit, like a caged beast roaring at its iron bars.

"These are extraordinary times."

The man in the trench coat standing next to him spoke in a low voice, his tone calm and expressionless.

"The entire underground magic world of Europe is sending out wanted posters for the two of us, Caster."

The flickering candlelight illuminated his profile, outlining his clean and sharp features; his shadow on the wall resembled a cold, aloof mask.

His eyes held no particular emotion, yet they seemed strangely quiet, almost unreal.

That calmness seemed to suppress something extreme—only his close followers could possibly perceive it.

"I'm saying,"

The bald man leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the table, and looked at his master with disdain.

"Aren't you being overly cautious? The focus is clearly on tomorrow's meeting... some international resolution or some mysterious freeze talks, it's definitely not you. A little mouse like you can hide in a rice bin and not be targeted by the cat."

His gold tooth flashed, and his words were full of contempt—but not mockery, more like the sarcastic banter between old friends.

The trench coat-wearing man, whom he had mocked, merely turned his head slightly and glanced at Caster indifferently. His gaze was calm as still water, as if the other man's taunts were nothing more than a passing breeze.

Then, he replied slowly and deliberately:

"—Better safe than sorry. As a great writer, you should know this ancient Chinese saying, right? Dumas. After all, didn't you say that among the hundreds of women you've slept with, there was Yang Guifei from China?"

The tone was casual, almost mocking, yet subtly sarcastic.

Upon hearing this, bald Caster's eyes lit up, as if he had been struck on something that made him proud.

"Bro, if you want to talk about women, then I'll have to give you a serious answer."

He waved his hand, revealing his gleaming gold tooth, his tone as arrogant as an old conman recounting miracles.

"Don't even mention Yang Guifei, let me tell you—I've slept with that Egyptian whore, Cleopatra, more than once. Her skills in bed are no less than her political acumen, tsk tsk tsk."

He shook his head, as if he were really recalling some wonderful time, his face showing the intoxication of someone who had just tasted a sip of fine red wine.

Despite the man in the trench coat's earlier sarcasm, he showed no shame whatsoever. Instead, he went further, shamelessly recounting his absurd, fabricated, and completely unverifiable "glorious achievements."

Like someone who is immersed in their own mythology, so engrossed that it's both laughable and absurd.

"Hmph." The man in the trench coat snorted softly, as if swallowing his sarcasm and suppressing the urge to reply.

He knew very well that arguing with this "renowned" writer would only result in a pointless verbal battle.

It's pointless to try to correct Dumas's lies—that man doesn't even believe the word "lie" itself exists.

In his writing, truth and falsehood are merely part of the narrative structure.

So the man in the trench coat changed the subject, no longer getting bogged down in the verbal sparring.

"...Based on your observations, after that Grand Order decision, is it really possible that that thing will happen?"

His tone was heavy. Though his words were veiled, they clearly pointed to a turbulent event that was about to shake the very foundations of the magic world.

Upon hearing this, Alexandre Dumas rolled his eyes, shrugged dramatically, and spoke with obvious annoyance.

"Brother, how many times have you asked me today? Thirty-seven? Forty? No matter what, I'm not a printer that can just press a button and spit out a page of answers for you."

He tilted the chair back at a dangerous angle, rested the back of his head on the chair back, and complained like a sleepy artist.

"Even if it's just a minor skill, using it hundreds of times a day will still strain your brain, okay? Besides, this is an A-rank skill! It's A! It's not comparable to your lowly C-rank summoning technique!"

The man in the trench coat was silent for a moment, then said softly:

“But you also know this is no small matter. 'They' have already started setting up their formation, and even the Holy Church is involved…”

"I know, I know better than you do."

Alexandre Dumas waved his hand impatiently to interrupt, but a shadow flashed in his eyes.

—"Observation of the Times." That was one of the skills he retained after being recorded on the Throne of Heroes. It was not the observation of individuals, but the perception and capture of the entire tide of the times.

This is his talent, and also a reflection of his life.

The writer who vehemently opposed the Second Empire and advocated republicanism throughout his life was exiled by the authorities and wandered between countries in turmoil and war. In the end, he used his pen as a weapon to write his own epic.

For this reason, his "observations" are not directed at fate, but at history.

Even the slightest omens could detect the impending upheaval, and he would even begin to write about it as soon as the signs appeared.

but……

“I told you already, didn’t I? That thing will definitely happen.” He opened his eyes, his tone losing some of its cynicism. “And, not ‘if,’ but ‘certain.’”

The man in the trench coat frowned slightly.

"……you sure?"

"I'm so sure of it that I want to write a novel about it."

He grinned, revealing his dazzling gold tooth. "I've already come up with a name for it—'When the Crown Falls'."

After saying that, he stretched lazily, as if he had just foreseen the impending collapse of the entire magic world, and that he had simply found a good story to tell.

After hearing the answer he wanted, the man in the trench coat showed almost no change in expression, maintaining his calm and composed demeanor.

But his trembling hands betrayed him.

It wasn't fear, but a throbbing sensation called "confirmation."

It was as if a string that no one wanted to touch had finally been plucked, and with that jarring tone, the entire nerve chain tensed up.

He remained silent for a long time before finally speaking, his voice so low it seemed as if it were being slowly pulled from the depths of his throat—

However, the next second, a familiar taunt interrupted his rhythm:

"Hey bro, you don't actually think you can be the main character, do you?"

Alexandre Dumas tilted his head, revealing his enormous, gleaming gold tooth that made you want to rip it out, and spoke in a tone so flippant it was infuriating.

"If you ask me... a mouse is a mouse. Even if it sneaks into the king's bedroom, it will never become a cat."