Magician in Type-Moon

Page 541

"Yes, my teacher is still the same as always, always playing with these troublesome illusions."

Furu frowned slightly, his tone irritated but not angry, as if he was tired of some kind of prank he was used to.

Yvette tilted her head. "You mean... the teacher you killed?"

Before the words were finished, a hoarse yet cheerful unfamiliar voice came from ahead:

"—Yes, yes, I died at the hands of this stupid disciple!"

The sound suddenly rang out from the end of the dark passage, accompanied by a peculiar aroma mixed with smoke and spices, carrying a hint of comicality and eeriness.

Furu wore a complex expression, a mixture of annoyance and reluctance, like someone who had just taken a bite of a moldy dessert. He quickened his pace, walked to the corner of the passage, and lifted the heavy curtain hanging there with one hand.

Behind the curtain was a small workshop that looked like it had been temporarily set up, huddled in the dead corner of the maze-like streets, like a vesicle parasitizing the capillaries of the city.

The interior is brightly colored, filled with Middle Eastern-style decorations and densely packed celestial maps. These maps even cover the floor and ceiling, making it appear both ancient and cluttered.

In the very center of the space, a short old man sat cross-legged on a tattered velvet carpet.

His head was bald, and his skin had an unnatural elasticity, like a dried corpse refilled with blood; his teeth were yellow and uneven, yet he wore an indescribable smile.

Beside him sat a hookah, his hand lazily gripping the pipe extending from it, puffing away and releasing a strange, sweet aroma.

Like osmanthus blossoms crawling out of rotten wood, its sweetness is strangely delightful.

"Oh, I thought some blind thief had broken in, but it turns out to be my stupid disciple whom I thought I would never see again, who even brought guests."

The old man glanced at the three of them, his gaze unfocused yet strangely penetrating.

"You are……"

Yvette hesitated.

"Just call me Graf. I threw all other names into the corpse pile decades ago."

The old man took a puff of his hookah, his tone carrying a deliberately maintained ease, as if he were treating his own death as the climax of a farce.

Yvette blinked. "So... Furu, you really didn't kill him?"

"Ha," Graf laughed, his chest thumping.

"As a magician, I was killed cleanly and efficiently by him long ago. My magic circuits were burned to ashes, my Mystic Code was sealed, my memories were erased, and my contract was severed—he did a very good job. Now I can't even control the magic of a brat of the eldest son rank."

"...You really aren't taking care of your health again."

Furu stared at the old man's hookah, his voice lowered by half a beat, his eye twitched, and he clicked his tongue softly.

"Oh, you even complain about an old geezer smoking a cigarette. No wonder you're a master killer. You really do speak differently."

Graf chuckled, his tone a mix of self-deprecation and teasing.

Furi, however, seemed completely uninterested in acknowledging him and turned to Yvette and Matou Ike, saying:

"As you've all seen, my teacher's talent for offending people is simply innate. Any other magician would have been attacked by a mob long ago. In fact, the line of people wanting to deliver the final blow could probably stretch from one end of the street to the carousel at the amusement park."

He covered his forehead, sighed helplessly, and looked at the old man who was happily smoking with a complicated expression.

"So, I killed him."

His voice was low, as if he were stating a contract that had already been sealed.

"To be precise, it was 'as if I killed him.' I took the workshop, the records of the divination ritual, the remaining fragments of the contract, and then sent him to Albion."

"Hahaha!"

Graf nearly choked on his cigarette.

"After all, while Albion's defenses are extremely strict about 'leaving,' they're very lenient about 'entering.' Nobody wants to come here anyway."

He put the cigarette holder in his mouth and continued indistinctly, "Besides, I was a seasoned veteran in Albion when I was young, and this kind of place actually makes me feel more comfortable."

Since magicians needed to excavate spirit tombs had to be recruited from all over the country, it was only natural that the checks upon entering the spirit tombs were lenient.

“But then, Mr. Furu would…” Yvette began hesitantly.

“That’s why I said it on the train.” Fu Liu’s voice carried a hint of impatience. “I lay low in Albion, the Tomb of the Dead, to prevent anyone from discovering my motives and state of mind at that time.”

He shrugged as he spoke, as if shaking off the dust of the past like old clothes, unwilling to discuss it in detail.

"Hehehe, thank me."

The old magician next to him let out a piercing laugh like a rooster crowing, bent over and stared at Furu with a mocking look.

"You, the clueless fool whom nobody cared about back then, only managed to make a glorious comeback and return to the magician's stage by playing the 'kill me' card, right?"

"...Indeed, quite a few people have complained that I acted too quickly," Furu replied coldly. "They're probably still in line, waiting for me to make a mistake."

"Treating resentment into new spells and refining regrets into experimental material—that's the duty of a magician."

Graf hummed softly, took the hookah from his mouth, and slowly exhaled the last puff of pale purple smoke. Then he turned his gaze to the three of them, and his voice suddenly turned deep.

"But speaking of which—why did you come to me so nonchalantly? Judging from your appearance, you don't seem like a team preparing to mine resources again in Albion and make another fortune. Right?"

Before he finished speaking, his eyes darted over like snakes, staring intently at Yvette and Matou Ike in a brief moment, his pupils flashing with an indescribable alertness and pressure.

A brief silence fell over the air. It was as if some long-unused seal had been suddenly broken, and even the star chart on the closet seemed to dim a few degrees.

Finally, Matou Ike shrugged, his tone calm and polite:

"Even though you're underground, you're very sensitive to the wind direction above ground."

"Giggle."

The old magician chuckled like a cat, leaning against a pile of pillows on a plush blanket, and shook his pipe.

“My magic circuits are broken, so I have to fix them somewhere else. Otherwise, how am I supposed to survive among this bunch of lunatics? Intelligence, tricks, clues—these are much more reliable than magic. But I still don’t understand, what are you three, along with this annoying, stupid disciple, doing coming all this way to find me?”

Upon hearing this, Furu suddenly straightened his upper body.

"My teacher."

His voice was solemn, his tone unusually serious, like a request, yet also carrying the burden and preparation of a long-awaited reunion.

“We want to reach the ancient heart of Albion, the Tomb of the Dead, in twenty-three hours—now, in twenty-two hours.”

Graf blinked, his face contorting with surprise, like the bark of an old tree suddenly cracking from frost.

He stood there stunned for a while, his lips twitched, revealing a set of crooked, yellow teeth.

"……what?"

After a long pause, as if he finally understood what the other person was saying, he let out a heavy, slow, mocking laugh from his chest.

He slowly raised his right hand, and with his short, seemingly burnt index finger, he touched his temple and swirled it twice, as if diagnosing his disciple.

"what."

Graf's eyes widened, and he let out a mocking sigh.

"How much suffering have you endured on earth? Have you finally gone mad? If you're cursed, out of respect for our past relationship as master and disciple, I can introduce you to my old friend from the 'Curse Department'—Gigumare. He's a specialist in treating brain damage."

"If we just want to move forward, there are ways to do it."

Furu ignored his sarcasm and spoke slowly and deliberately, as if trying to confirm whether the words he had spoken back then still had any meaning.

“You said before… if it’s just a regular team going down to mine, there’s no point in going below the hundredth floor. The inability to return to the surface—that’s the real problem. But if you just want to go down, there are several ways to do it. That’s what you told me.”

"……call."

The old magician pulled the pipe back to his lips, took a slow puff, as if he was stalling for time to think, or as if he was feeling helpless about his disciple's "foolishness".

He finally exhaled a puff of white mist, shook his head, and laughed:

"Do not make jokes."

"Those words were just nonsense I rambled on when I was drunk, or just scary stories I made up for you. You actually believed them? Tsk, if you really have suicidal thoughts, I advise you to choose a more dignified method and not drag others down with you."

He slowly blew the smoke toward the roof, then tapped the pipe with his knuckles, his movements languid, but his expression gradually cooling.

That indifferent attitude was just like that of a hermit who had long since let go of the world, with only a lingering warmth left for the bond between master and disciple.

However, his gaze suddenly fell from the ceiling and sharply fixed on Matou Ike.

The latter quietly stepped forward and said without any inflection:

"Tomorrow, the Grand Role decision will be held in the ancient heart of Albion, the Tomb of Spirits."

The air seemed to freeze.

"……ha."

Graf gave a cold laugh, followed by a dry cough. He raised his sleeve to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were much clearer than before.

"Oh, it was one of those parties."

"Those guys who claim to have reached the mysterious limit but can't even touch the threshold of the root, get together and have a class meeting... Anyone who pays attention to them is either discussing self-destruction, rebellion, or going crazy together."

"I've already said it, no matter how much you modern magic department, clock tower, or remnants of the divine era try to bite each other, I don't want to know."

He paused, his voice lowering as if he were muttering a spell.

"The reason I came to hide in Albion is because I was utterly fed up with that kind of empty and boring struggle."

"What if I said that this Grand Order decision was not the usual 'following the rules' scenario?"

Matou Ike spoke slowly, his tone devoid of emotion, yet exceptionally clear.

"……What did you say?"

Graf released his hookah mouthpiece slowly, but his eyes were sharp. He stared at the young stranger in front of him, his withered eyelids narrowed.

What I mean is—

Matouchi took a half-step forward unhurriedly, as if bringing some indescribable gravity into this already dull little house.

"This Grand Role decision is the very one that was originally designed, the true 'Grand Role.' It's not a nominal succession battle, not a power reshuffle within the Clock Tower, not a resource allocation meeting between the Mage Department—"

"—So, would you like to see it for yourself?"

Chapter 591 The Vein Corridor (4k)

"Have a vision."

A strange light flickered in Graf's eyes. He did not directly answer Yvette's question, but instead continued to stare at Matou Ike.

"vision?"