Magician in Type-Moon

Page 618

It wasn't a violent cough or wheezing; it was more like a tremor of utter exhaustion and helplessness that emanated from the depths of the soul.

This tiny movement seemed to have exhausted the last bit of strength he had just mustered, making his already weak breathing even more unsteady.

If this is fate, it's too ironic.

The young incarnation of the same soul, "Kuro," and the aged body, "Hartles."

They would feel that both were so special, and that it was their destiny.

For the now aged Hartles, the young Kuro was his past, which he had long lost in the river of time, yet which remained as vivid as yesterday's scars.

For the vivid young Kuro in his memory, the Hartres before him represents the end of his destiny, the inevitable and unavoidable future of decay.

"If you want to wallow in your emotions, go ahead."

The imposter sat down beside him, her movements swift and decisive. She no longer looked at him, but instead cast her gaze upon the inverted "galaxy" in the distance, sharing with Hartres the last glimpse of this illusory night.

“However,” her voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable warning.

"The moment you die, I will vanish immediately. This is the ironclad rule of the contract."

"...Yes, that's right."

Hartres responded with difficulty, each syllable accompanied by a broken breath.

"The spell of the god Iskandar... has been broken... I am once again... your only master. As the nexus that sustains our existence... if I perish... you can only... vanish with me."

"You are the worst owner."

The imposter uttered this comment without changing his expression, his tone as calm as if he were stating an objective fact.

"Getting caught up in this chaotic vortex that doesn't even qualify as a Holy Grail War, dragging me, the servant, around everywhere... saying things like 'I will grant your wish'..."

She paused, and a barely perceptible fluctuation finally appeared in her voice.

"But at the most crucial moment... you retreated. You dragged someone like me... straight out of the flood of destruction. I thought... you would at least seek revenge for that arrow, out of that grievance... but what happened? You fled to this place. Hartres..."

She turned her head, her heterochromatic eyes staring directly at him. "How...how are you going to explain this to me?"

“Hahaha…” Hartres let out a weak, hoarse laugh, his chapped lips moving.

"I... have nothing to say."

He nodded, and in just a few breaths, his profile, like a faded ancient painting, quickly lost its last trace of life.

This was the inevitable result of exhausting one's vital energy and then forcibly activating the forbidden technique, "Heart Crack."

His life force had almost died out.

Snapped.

A crisp, light sound.

It was the imposter's outstretched index finger that flicked lightly onto his cold forehead.

"I told you so," her voice remained flat, yet strangely dispelled the somber atmosphere of death.

“I don’t dislike that… listless look on your face. I want you to show it to me at the party where you’re drinking to your heart’s content.” As she spoke, her hand reached into Hartres’s pocket and pulled out the familiar flat bottle.

“So,” she held the bottle to his lips, “drink. We agreed.”

"...Since there's an agreement... there's nothing we can do about it."

Almost instinctively, Hartres obediently opened his mouth slightly, allowing the imposter to tilt the bottle.

The spicy liquid slid down his throat, and he only had time to swallow a small mouthful.

The imposter seemed quite satisfied. She put the bottle back, tilted her head back, her Adam's apple bobbing, and took a large gulp.

"Meeting you...the only good thing,"

She wiped her mouth and gripped the bottle in her hand.

"In the end... all that's left is the taste of this wine."

The night wind swept silently across the barren hills, carrying the unique coolness of the earth's depths, a mixture of minerals and dust. It brushed past the female warrior's loose black hair, then quietly drifted away.

She took another sip of her drink, her gaze still fixed on the distant lights, and suddenly spoke, her voice low:

"You even hid your relationship with Kuro from me... is it because... you can't trust me?"

She paused, a hint of probing in her voice.

"And such a clumsy act... You two are really two different people."

Hartres gasped for breath, and after a moment he managed to utter the words with difficulty:

"No...it's because...I truly...feel that way."

His gaze was somewhat unfocused, as if he were staring at some distant point.

“Kuro’s memories…are very vivid…but…it’s like my past life. Hahaha…I’m like a…ghost driven by my past life. This is such an absurd thing…I can’t…tell anyone.”

The last trace of color drained from his face, leaving it as pale as a crumpled piece of paper. Yet, a strange, slight curve appeared at the corner of his mouth, revealing a hint of relieved joy.

"Hmm," the imposter responded softly, his gaze never leaving the fake starry sky.

"So... in your presence, my mood... isn't bad. I feel... that my existence as an undead... has received... some kind of affirmation."

"Yes..." The imposter nodded slightly, his voice low.

"Not bad."

She feigned indifference to her master's dying agony, focusing all her attention on the strange "end of the world" scene before her, composed of artificial lights.

"This place... is also the end of the world."

She spoke in a low voice, as if stating something, or perhaps confirming it.

"You and I... shared this... scene at the end of the world, a sight even our king has never seen. Though... it only lasted a moment... before it was shattered... I also dreamed... of elevating our king to godhood..."

Her voice trailed off, carrying a hint of barely perceptible melancholy.

"Next time... when I am summoned... I'm afraid... I won't be able to retain these memories..."

The imposter suddenly turned his head.

Those heterochromatic eyes clearly reflected Hartres's pale, serene profile in the dim light.

“However,” her voice was unusually clear, with a resolute certainty.

Even if you and I are both destined to be forgotten spirits... our journey together... was meaningful. It was meaningful... Hartles.

"...I'm so happy."

Hartres's response was as light as a breeze brushing the ground. Perhaps, he had completely lost the strength to even raise the corners of his mouth.

despite this--

"...However...there's a slight difference."

He lowered his head, like an ordinary teacher ending his last lesson on the podium, and softly denied it in an unusually calm yet extremely weak tone:

“It is you now… who are saying this to me… who have given meaning. It is you who will disappear here… who have given… me who will die here… meaning. They have given… me who is already dead… meaning…”

"...!"

The imposter suddenly held his breath, his throat bobbing, as if he wanted to say something urgently.

However, that voice was ultimately not uttered.

"........."

Because Hartles—will never speak again.

A fair yet strong hand reached out, with an almost compassionate tenderness, and gently covered his empty eyelids, closing his eyes for him.

“Goodnight…” The imposter’s voice was low and clear, like a final eulogy, “The one who forgot his dreams… ‘Hartles’.”

She picked up the flat bottle and put the last remaining amber liquid inside into her mouth.

Then, she leaned down and gently pressed her cold lips against Hartress's already cold lips.

Her throat moved only once.

The night fog spread silently, like a soft shroud, slowly enveloping the entire hill.

Soon after, the figure of the man leaning against the rock and the figure of the female warrior kneeling beside him, like phantoms dissolved by the mist, completely melted into the eternal and false night deep beneath Albion.

Chapter 648 Meeting (4k)

The next day.

Matouchi sank into the soft sofa, her posture almost languidly relaxed.

He crossed his arms and casually rested his head on them. His deep, piercing blue eyes, which seemed to see right through people, now held a feline ease as they looked at the man opposite him.

Sitting opposite him was El-Melloi II.

The clock tower monarch, known for his strictness, rigidity, and furrowed brows, was now showing a rare sign of relaxation.

The brow that had been so tightly furrowed over the years, as if bearing the weight of the entire clock tower, had now quietly relaxed, like the first crack appearing on a frozen river in early spring.

The gloom and weariness that had long shrouded his brows seemed to have been gently swept away by some invisible force, leaving only a calm aftermath and a hint of barely perceptible relief.

"Has your wish been fulfilled?"

Matou Ike's voice, with its unique tone that was somewhere between concern and playfulness, broke the silence of the room.

Upon hearing this, El-Melloi II turned his gaze from the void and onto the person who had asked the question.

The corners of his mouth slowly curved upwards into a peaceful and genuine smile.

"More or less," he replied, his voice low but no longer tense, carrying a sense of calm that came after everything had settled.

Unconsciously, his fingertips caressed the Stat coin in his palm, a coin that bore witness to the past and heavy vows.

The cool touch of the gold coin felt like a silent comfort at that moment.

“Although…” he paused, a complex emotion flashing across his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper calm, “he still hasn’t grown to the point where he can truly share the king’s burdens.”

This self-deprecating humor carries a deep sense of regret, yet also an acceptance of one's own limitations.

He nodded slightly, his gaze seemingly piercing through time and space, landing on a distant figure.

"But thankfully... I did see him."