Magician in Type-Moon

Page 597

"--War is about to break out."

The Lancer whispered, and all the Masters and Servants present expressed their silent agreement.

Something was stirring within them, telling them that war was about to begin.

It shouldn't be long before a truly full-scale war breaks out.

.........

After the brief gathering of the Thousand World Tree Clan dispersed, a solemn silence once again enveloped the depths of the castle.

Danic Preston Yggdomirenia sat in the shadows at the workshop entrance, deep red tea steaming from a bone china teacup.

He took a small sip, his deep gaze piercing through the swirling steam and landing on the heart of the bustling workshop before him.

That being said, those who move about busily in the cold, stone space are not human beings of flesh and blood.

It's a golem.

They constitute the lifeblood and nerves of the workshop.

Some of them have human-like appearances, while others have many legs like spiders. These golems are busy cleaning the workshop and tidying up the equipment.

"...Your Excellency Danic."

A calm, almost inorganic voice rang out from the shadows behind him, interrupting Danic's observation of the steel jungle.

It was Caster, Avisbro. His figure, shrouded in a dark robe, seemed to be an integral part of the workshop itself.

"When will all the materials I asked you to find be delivered?" His question was direct and to the point, without any unnecessary pleasantries.

Danic put down his teacup, a signature smile, seemingly calculated in its curve, appearing on his face.

“It should be on its way.” His voice was steady, with just the right amount of apology. “As you know, we can’t take the ‘Clock Tower’ route now, and it’s become much more complicated than we expected. I have to apologize for that.”

Caster needs something extraordinary—gems to be used as the golem's "internal organs," parchment to cover the "skin," each of which must be at least eight hundred years old, and the demand is enormous.

Even for the Yggdrasil family, whose roots are spread across the entire globe, finding them is like searching for a needle in a haystack in the ruins of time.

The Magic Association headquarters, "The Clock Tower," was once a veritable marketplace for magic materials.

There, as long as you have enough money and connections, you can easily get your hands on things that are 800 years old, or even 1,000 years old, let alone 800 years old.

But since Yggdrasil rebelled, this path has been completely cut off.

Now the only options are other methods: anonymously spending money on the black market, finding shady channels, or trading in collectibles that have been scattered abroad. Acquiring large quantities without attracting attention will take a considerable amount of time.

"Alright, what we've got now is barely enough." Caster's voice remained flat, as if he were talking about someone else. "The key is what's left—"

The rest are Noble Phantasms.

His proudest A-rank anti-military Noble Phantasm is "Crown: Light of Wisdom [Golem-Kether Malkuth]".

“Once that thing is summoned, it’s a bottomless pit that can never be filled,” Caster’s tone revealed for the first time a cold, obsessive quality belonging to a creator.

"It devours magic relentlessly, with an astonishingly large appetite. Therefore, the 'heart of the furnace'—a core capable of withstanding such consumption—is absolutely indispensable."

“I understand its importance,” Danick nodded slightly, his gaze behind his glasses sharp as a probe, “but precisely because it is important, the ‘core’ cannot be chosen casually. It’s not something you can just pick up a stone from the roadside and use; it concerns the success or failure of our entire plan, even our lives. We must be extremely careful.”

Caster paused for a moment, then nodded.

“You’re right. I… was a little too hasty,” he admitted, the rationality of a misanthropist temporarily overriding the impulse of a creator. “Here’s what I’ll do: finish what I have on hand first, prepare everything except the ‘core,’ and get it ready to connect to the core at any time.”

"How long will it take?" Danic pressed.

“If the magic supply is not a problem and the materials can keep up,” Caster thought for a moment, “it will probably take three days.”

“…Alright, that’s enough time. Thank you for your hard work.” Danic stood up, his figure silently disappearing into the shadows of the passage, like a ghost who had made his decision and was quietly leaving.

Just as Danic disappeared, a boy carrying a parchment and a jewel box that almost drowned his small body entered the workshop.

Roger Freyne, the Thousand-Year Tree, is only thirteen years old.

“Teacher,” the boy’s voice was filled with pure, unadulterated respect, “the things have all been delivered.”

“Very good.” Caster turned around, his gaze sweeping over the pile of precious materials beneath his mask. “Don’t delay, start immediately and prepare for mass production.”

"Yes!" Roger's voice was crisp and energetic, his eyes sparkling as he stared intently at his follower like a sunflower chasing the sun.

This is by no means an ordinary master-servant scenario.

If the Servant was a high-ranking king in life, the Master might lower their stance and serve them with the courtesy due to a subject, so as not to offend the other party's pride.

But Caster Avisbro – in his lifetime, he was neither a king nor a knight. He was simply a philosopher, a sickly, and ordinary magician who disliked crowds.

However, looking at the paths they have taken, this "reversed" relationship seems perfectly "reasonable".

Roger Freyne, from the Freyne family, a family with a small reputation in the field of doll engineering but known for its unpredictable behavior.

This family practices a twisted way of inheritance: as soon as a baby is born, it is handed over to a golem to take care of.

Before they grow old enough to undergo an imprint transplant, they are like babies locked in a steel nursery, never seeing their parents' faces or experiencing the warmth or coldness of human relationships.

What taught them about the world was the clicking sound of joints turning, the hum of magic circuits, and the tireless, cold arms of the golem.

As a result, the Freyne children's concept of "common sense" became completely distorted.

They believe that a golem that looks like a human, can talk and move, and works 24 hours a day is what the world should be like.

What do my parents look like? I can't remember.

But he remembered clearly the scratches on the golem that took care of him and the sound of its gears turning.

Roger is a fruit that grew out of this twisted and unhealthy environment.

He has a way of dealing with humans—whether you're a Grand Magician or a street vendor—

He had absolutely no interest in it. Speaking, trading, and even fighting to the death for materials were all just cold, impersonal procedures to him, devoid of any human emotion or the mutual respect between magicians.

He's not the kind of person who would want to be friends with cats and dogs just because they talk.

But Caster before us is the only exception; it is the moment when the iron rule is broken.

Aviblon—also known as Solomon ibn Qabirull—was an 11th-century poet and philosopher.

Born in Malaga, Spain, he was the one who brought the knowledge and wisdom of ancient Greece, Arabia, Judaism and other regions into the European cultural sphere.

He did not have the illustrious achievements of a swordsman or a king, nor did he create any works of art that have been passed down for thousands of years and remain popular.

However, he is hailed as one of the key figures in the European Renaissance at the end of the Middle Ages, establishing the Kabbalah concept derived from the Hebrew word for "reception"—

He is one of the fundamentals of magic and is undoubtedly a "hero" who has had a tremendous impact on world history and the history of magicians both on and off stage.

The Kabbalah spells that were inscribed by the Imperial Magic Guilds in the Far East were modified by him.

He was in terrible health and extremely misanthropic, hypersensitive to the warmth and emotional connection of living people. His rationality allowed him to speak, but his words were utterly devoid of warmth. As a magician, he had pushed the path of "golems" to its limit, pouring his entire life's blood into those inhuman creations, and incidentally shutting out the mundane world.

Roger's eyes sparkled when he willingly called him "teacher"—

Because Avisbro stands higher on the path of the "golem" than any mountain Roger Frain has ever seen!

For Roger, who has been with golems since he was a baby and considers steel and runes as his family, there is only one hard standard for judging whether a person is worthy of respect or trust: how good you are at making golems!

“Teacher,” Roger carefully picked up a roll of parchment, his eyes focused, “where on these parchments would be best to paste large golems?”

“…For large individuals, structural strength is key,” Caster’s voice flowed smoothly.

"Conceptually, think of it as a reinforcement band for the joint. When using mercury to treat the adhesive, be extremely careful to isolate the magical pathways; there must be absolutely no penetration."

"Understood!" the boy replied readily, immediately burying himself in his work with quick and precise movements.

But his eyes were always glued to Caster, capturing every subtle movement and every pause in thought of his mentor, his adoration burning so intensely it was almost scorching.

For Roger, Caster was the ideal teacher.

For Caster, Roger is also the most ideal Master—at least for now.

Chapter 631 Outside the Clock Tower "2"

Dead Apostle Rubare.

The name itself is a curse steeped in five hundred years of Norwegian fog and congealed blood.

He lurks in this land, forever shrouded in dampness and shadow, like an ancient, venomous spider coiled in the cracks of time. His sole purpose is to seize that supreme crown—to inherit the vacant tenth seat of the "Twenty-Seven Ancestors."

For this ambition, he had long since crushed his conscience and humanity into dust.

Five thousand vibrant lives—this is merely the number that can be clearly counted and directly sacrificed.

Their blood was extracted, their souls were defiled, and they became a trickle of the Rubale River of Power.

If we include the secondary victims who wail in the darkness and are corrupted and distorted by its "gifts," their sins are so grave that they would make the River Styx itself boil!

Rubare is by no means a lone demon. His kin are a tangled, deformed tree, nurtured by pure evil and forbidden demonic paths.

Whether it's the purity of power among individual members of their ethnic group, their chilling sheer numbers, or the nauseating intensity of their symbiotic bond forged through blood and curses, all perfectly attest to Rubare's despair-inducing title—

"The transcendent among transcendents." He is a living, breathing "immortal" nightmare walking among humans.

And the central hub of all this dark power is the Rubare Castle, which, under the eerie red moonlight, lies prostrate on the earth like a blood-soaked behemoth.

Following the ironclad rules of the Dead Apostles, such dens of demons should have been forever isolated from the world of men.

Human conscience cannot comprehend it, and its instincts will tremble wildly when taboos are touched.

Only those completely enveloped in shadow and darkness, only "distinguished guests" personally "invited" by the master, are qualified to step into this eternal nightmare corridor.

The castle itself is a manifestation of magical power. It is tightly enveloped by layers of ancient barriers, each layer flowing with immense magical power capable of distorting reality.

It is a hidden sanctuary, its existence rooted in the cracks of the laws of reality.

That near-perfect "invisible" protection could even fool the forces of nature itself, making the entire castle's presence infinitely close to the elusive and elusive otherworldly realm inhabited by fairies!

Admittedly, Rubare's castle may not be comparable to the "Ancestors'" demon castles that stand at the pinnacle of the Dead Apostles.

However, it is also a phantom city that has endured countless baptisms of the holy fire of the "heretic extermination army" and has stood stubbornly like the curse itself in countless desperate situations where it has been declared "purified"!

The fact that it has stood firm for five hundred years is itself proof of its absolute inviolability, its eternal existence, and its forging of corpses and despair!

Five hundred years of arrogance, five hundred years of conviction.

The castle's master, the Dead Apostle Rubalé, firmly believed this. His reign, like the fortified castle and its long life, would continue to prosper until the end of time.

...What a ridiculous and fragile confidence.

This arrogance that has flowed for five centuries, this conviction rooted in an undying illusion—